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The dual alliance
Marjorie Benton Cooke
The Dual Alliance
BOOKS BY
THE SAME AUTHOR
* * * * *
_Bambi_
_David_
_The Girl Who Lived in the Woods_
[Illustration: "But I--I hardly know you"]
THE DUAL
ALLIANCE
BY
MARJORIE
BENTON COOKE
ILLUSTRATED
BY
MARY GREENE
BLUMENSCHEIN
GARDEN CITY
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1915
_Copyright, 1915,_
INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE CO.
_Copyright, 1915, by_
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.
ILLUSTRATIONS
"But I--I hardly know you" _Frontispiece in color_
"He tended the fire that was between them" 88
"Every night at midnight Paul called her on the 'phone" 132
"Bob and Paul stood bowing and smiling" 160
PROLOGUE
Barbara Garratry was thirty and Irish. To the casual observer the world
was a bright coloured ball for her tossing. When she was a tiny mite her
father had dubbed her "Bob, Son of Battle," because of certain obvious,
warlike traits of character, and "Bob" Garratry she had been ever since.
She had literally fought her way to the top, handicapped by poverty,
very little education, the responsibility of an invalid and dependent
father. She had been forced to make all her own opportunities, but at
thirty she was riding the shoulders of the witch success.
Her mother, having endowed her only child with the gift of a happy
heart, went on her singing way into Paradise when Bob was three. Her
father, handsome ne'er-do-well that he was, made a poor and intermittent
living for them until the girl was fifteen. Then poor health overtook
him, and Bob took the helm.
At fifteen she worked on a newspaper, and discovered she had a
picturesque talent for words. Literary ambition gripped her, a desire to
make permanent use of the dramatic elements which she uncovered in her
rounds of assignments. She had a nose for news and made a fair success,
until she took to sitting up at night to write "real stuff" as she
called it. Her nervous, high-strung temperament would not stand the
strain, so, true to her Irish blood, she gave up the newspaper job, with
its Saturday night pay envelope, and threw herself headlong into the
uncharted sea of authorship.
She began with short stories for magazines. Editors admitted her,
responded to her personality--returned her tales. "If you could write
the way you talk," they all said. Now Daddy Garratry had to eat, no
matter how light she could go on rations, so she abandoned literature
shortly for a position in a decorator's shop. Here, too, she found charm
an asset. She worked eight hours a day, cooked for two of them, washed,
sewed, took care of her invalid, lavished herself upon him, then wrote
at night, undaunted by her first failure.
She used her brain on the problem of success. When the manager of the
shop put her in charge of their booth at the Arts and Crafts Exhibition,
because, as he said, "you can attract people," she recalled the
consensus of editorial opinion, and made up her mind that personality
was her real gift. The stage was the show window for that possession, so
thither she turned her face at eighteen, and in due course of time
joined the great army which follows the mirage of stage success.
But Bob proved to be one of the god's anointed, and from the first the
charm of her, her queer, haunting face, which some found ugly and some
proclaimed beautiful, marked her for advance. She was radiantly happy in
the work, and happier still that she was able to provide more comforts
and luxuries for daddy, who was her idol. The real crux of her ambition
was the day when she could give him everything his luxury-loving heart
desired.
She worked hard, she learned the trade of the theatre. She studied her
audiences, noted their likes and dislikes, what they laughed at, and
when they wept. Then once again she took up her abandoned pen and began
to work on a play. She and daddy talked it, played it, mulled it over
every waking hour for months. Then one historic day Bob read it to an
audience of daddy and a manager--that was the beginning of the last lap
of the race. The manager accepted it and left father and daughter in a
state of ecstasy.
"Well, dad, it looks like the real thing this time."
"It does, Bobsie. Ye're not only the prettiest Garratry, but ye're the
smartest of the clan!"
"Blarney!"
"I wish yer mither could see ye the day. Ye were such a queer mite, but
smart--ye were always smart----"
"What'll I buy ye with our fortune, daddy? A farm in the ould counthry
and little pigs----"
"No pigs for me! I'd like me a body servant in brass buttons to wait on
me noight an' day. Whin I come down our marble stairs, I want to see him
sthandin' there, attintion, so I can say, 'Jimmy--there's yer valley.'"
"You funny old dad! What else? We'll get us a motor car----"
"Shure, an' a counthry place--but no pigs----"
"How about a yacht?"
"We'll sthay on land, mavourneen, 'tis safer."
"But we must go to Europe, cabin de luxe----"
"I don't care if it's de luxe, if it's D-comfortable," he laughed.
This was the beginning of a wonderful game of make-believe, which they
played for months. Bob's comedy went into rehearsal at once, and every
day when she came home, after hours spent in the theatre, she found
daddy laughing over some new scheme he had devised for spending their
fortune, when it came. They planned like magii with the magic carpet in
their hands, ready to spread before them.
They worked out tours of Europe, they built and rebuilt their country
house. They endowed charities for newspaper writers and interior
decorators--they planned a retreat for indigent magazine writers and an
asylum for editors. Life was a joyous thing, stretching out ahead of
them, full of colour and success, and then, on the very eve of the
production of Bob's play, daddy died. Bob went through it all, the first
night and what came after, like a wraith. The adulation and the praise
that came to her were ashes instead of fire.
Six years followed of success. Money, travel, friends, the love and
admiration of great audiences came to her, but Bob found life stale.
Lovers came a-plenty; she made them friends and kept them, or sent them
on their way. Bob had everything the world's wife wants, and in her own
heart she knew she had nothing. Generosity was her vice. Anybody in her
profession, or out of it, who was in trouble, had only to go to Bob
Garratry for comfort or for cash. There was usually a tired, discouraged
girl recuperating out at Bob's bungalow, and in the summertime all the
stage children she could find came to pay her visits and live on real
milk and eggs.
She interested herself in the girl student colonies in New York, and
became their patron saint. She found that the girls in the Three Arts
Club, and kindred student places--getting their musical and dramatic
education with great sacrifice usually, either to their parents or
themselves--had only such opportunities to hear the great artists of the
day as the top galleries afforded. The dramatic students fared better
than the others, she found, for they could get seats for twenty-five or
fifty cents in the lofts of theatres, but the music students had to
stand in line sometimes for two or three hours to buy a place in the
gallery of the Metropolitan. As it was impossible to see anything from
there, seated, they were accustomed to stand through the entire opera.
For this privilege they paid one dollar. Bob learned what that dollar
meant to most of them, an actual sacrifice, even privation. While rich
patrons yawned below, these young idealists, the musical and dramatic
hope of our future, leaned over the railing, up under the roof, trying
to grasp the fine shades of expression which mark the finished artist.
All this Bob Garratry learned, and raged at. She herself donated
twenty-five student seats for every opera, and a lesser number for each
good play. She interested some of her friends in the idea--with
characteristic fervour she adopted all the students in New York, but
even this large family did not fill the nooks and crannies of her empty
heart. You felt it in her work--"the Celtic minor" as one critic said.
Possibly Paul Trent expressed it best when he said: "Behind her every
laugh you feel her dreein' her weird!"
PART I
"Mr. Trent, Miss Garratry is on the wire," said the stenographer to
Trent, who sat at his desk making inroads on the piles of
correspondence, official documents, and typewritten evidence which
heaped his desk.
"I told you I couldn't be interrupted," he replied sharply.
"I explained that to her, when she called the first time. She says that
if you don't speak to her she will come down here."
He smiled reluctantly as he took up the receiver. "Good morning," he
said.
"What is the use of having a lawyer, if he acts like a Broadway
manager?" she asked.
"I wish you could see the pile of papers completely surrounding me," he
answered.
"I'm not interested in your troubles, I want mine attended to."
"Entirely feminine."
"Yes, it is selfish----"
"I said feminine."
"I heard you. I want you to lunch with me at two."
"I cannot possibly do it," he interrupted her.
"It isn't social, it is business, and it must be attended to to-day."
"I'm sorry, but----"
"Mr. Trent, I assure you it is a matter of serious importance. I feel
justified in insisting upon your professional attention for one hour
to-day. If you prefer, I will come to you."
Trent's face showed his annoyance.
"I cannot take time for lunch. I'll be there at three."
"Thank you."
He hung up the receiver impatiently and returned to his work. A few
minutes before three he set out for the hotel where Barbara Garratry
lived. He was annoyed at himself for coming--probably some foolishness
which could just as well be attended to over the telephone. He knew the
actress only slightly.
He had acted as her attorney in one or two minor cases when she needed
legal help. He had found her sensible and intelligent--for a woman.
Susceptible to beauty, he had felt her charm, and even promised himself
that some day he would take time to know her. She interested him,
because all successful people interested him. It was his only measure.
At forty he found himself envied by men, his seniors in his profession.
He had served as State's attorney, he was on the eve of trying for a
bigger prize, but to-day, as he made his way along the crowded street,
in answer to Barbara Garratry's summons, his mood was a bit cynical.
Life held no locked doors for him--he had peered behind them all, as
Father Confessor. Men he found open books, women, thin volumes not worth
the reading. To-day he had a sense of isolation from his fellows, a wave
of loneliness, almost futility. This "average man," who passed him on
the street, had his home, his wife, and children to match with Trent's
"bigger issues."
He was invited to Miss Garratry's sitting-room at once. Her maid
admitted him, and she came to greet him. He was struck again with a
certain poignant quality in her, although her smile was merry.
"I know how furious you are at having to come."
"On the contrary, I am honoured."
"You are unremittingly courteous, considering that you are you."
"Which means?"
"I know in what poor esteem you hold women," she smiled.
"You do me a great injustice," he began.
"You do yourself one," she interrupted. "We're not so bad. However, the
fact that we interest you so little makes it possible for you to do me a
service."
"I am glad."
She waved him to a seat, and as she crossed the room he found himself
wondering whether her floating gown was blue or violet or both. The
primroses at her belt gave him pleasure. She gathered up some papers and
laid them before him.
"I wish to make my will. This is a list of my possessions and the
distribution I wish made of them."
He looked over the list, his eye appraising with surprise her
investments.
"You have been very successful."
"Yes."
"You wish me to have this typed, signed, witnessed, and filed with your
other papers?"
"If you please. I wish my body cremated and the ashes thrown into the
sea," she added quietly.
He glanced at her quickly.
"You are ill? You are afraid of death?"
"Afraid of death? No, I am seeking it."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I do not wish to live any more-- I'm tired."
He looked about him at the charming, flower-scented room, at the vibrant
figure of the girl.
"You mean you intend to end it--deliberately?"
"Yes. Why not? There is not a living soul dependent on me to be
affected by my going."
"You don't think it's cowardice?"
"I'm brave enough to be a coward. I've fought my way through and over
every obstacle--even you say I've been successful. Now I'm tired-- I've
got nothing to fight for, I'm Irish, and I'm lonesome."
"But you're just at the top, ready to enjoy what you've fought for."
"There's nothing in that. It's only the fight that counts."
He understood that.
"Why don't you marry, or have you?"
"No, I have not. I don't want money or position. I can't marry a man who
loves me when I'm only fond of him. I'd rather marry a stranger."
"What made you begin the fight?"
"I wanted things for daddy, and he died just before I won out."
"Why don't you interest yourself in some cause? Women nowadays are----"
"Suffrage or charity? The Irish are never satisfied with causes,
man----"
"There's Home Rule," he smiled.
"The women have it," she retorted.
"But it's ridiculous! Why, you've got everything in the world."
"Do you think that?" she challenged him directly.
He walked over to the window and looked out at the early winter sunset.
Presently he came back and faced her.
"No," he answered.
She nodded.
"I've thought it all out. I think I have the right. I'm at the top of
my wave now, I don't want to sink slowly down into the trough of old age
and mediocrity. I'm going."
"When?"
She laughed.
"Oh, the day of execution isn't set. I want to get my house in order."
"How are you going?"
"I don't know. They're all rather ugly. I wanted you to have directions.
I want you sent for."
"Why did you select me?" curiously.
"Because I thought you would understand."
He walked up and down the room, his tall head bent, his eyes on the
floor. She watched him absently, her mind far away. He roused her by
stopping before her.
"I do understand. I offer no opposition. You're of age, you know what
you want. I make you a counter proposition. We will call a taxi, go to
the courthouse, get a license and be married. We will spend six months
together, as partners only. We each go on with our own work, but we
share our problems and our pleasures. At the end of the six months, if
you still want to go, I'll help you."
She stared at him, utterly aghast.
"But I--I hardly know you!"
"You said you'd rather marry a stranger than a man you were merely fond
of--so would I. I've felt this loneliness you speak of. I'd like to make
this experiment. We are neither of us handicapped by sentiment--we start
even."
"But you don't like me--much."
"Enough. As well as you like me. You're a good gambler. Get your hat and
come along."
"Six months! What difference will it make in a thousand years?" she
questioned.
"None."
She stood on tiptoe, her two hands on his shoulders, and looked long
into his eyes. He looked into hers frankly. In the end she nodded, went
into the other room, came back at once, in hat and furs.
"It's a new kind of suicide," she smiled, "come on."
II
In the cab a sort of terror of this madness came upon Bob. She glanced
at this strange man beside her as if she had never seen him before. His
handsome, aquiline profile was toward her as he gazed at the crowds
passing. What was in his mind? Was he, too, longing to run?
"It's getting colder. People are scurrying," he said casually. She
steadied at his calm tone. A new courage, a new sense of adventure began
to stir in her.
They said very little on the drive; in fact, except for necessary
questions they were almost entirely silent until they walked out of the
courthouse, man and wife. Trent put her into the cab, gave an order, and
got in after her. She looked at him intently: so much depended on these
first few minutes.
"Well, partner," he smiled, and took her gloved hand in a firm clasp for
a minute. Her sigh of relief made him smile again, and then they both
laughed. "I told him to go to my apartment. We'll make some tea and I'll
pack a bag. I'd better join you at the hotel."
"Your apartment is too----"
"You couldn't be comfortable there with your maid."
They disembarked at his quarters, and Bob made a tour of inspection.
She hoped for an intimate glance into the man's personality, but the
rooms were as impersonal as he was. Just books and pipes and man-litter.
She made the tea while he packed his things.
"Aren't you sorry to leave this?" she asked him.
"Well, you can't have your cake and eat it. Every experiment has some
disadvantages," he laughed.
"When my season closes I'll keep house for you. I'm good at it."
"Thank the Lord for that!"
"No, I won't drag you over the 'well-known continent of Europe' for
three months," she laughed, and he nodded gratefully. "I have a little
place up in the hills where I go in the summer."
"So have I."
"Well, how will we manage it?"
"Fifty-fifty," said he. "Half at yours and half at mine."
They drank their tea and put away the things. When they were ready to
go, Bob said, "I like this man-place."
"We'll come here when you're tired of your girly-girly garden."
They went to the hotel and announced their marriage to the manager and
the clerk. Trent looked at a suite adjoining Barbara's.
"It's all right. I'll send my things up to-morrow. Now you go and rest.
What am I to call you?"
"Everybody calls me Bob."
"Then I'll say Barbara. Do you want to dine upstairs or in the
restaurant?"
"Restaurant," quickly.
His swift glance brought explanation.
"You embarrass me a little--yet. I have to get used to you, and the
restaurant seems less--intimate."
He nodded, smiling.
"When do you go to the theatre?"
"Seven o'clock. Are you coming?"
"Certainly."
"Dinner at six-fifteen. You'll hate that, won't you?"
"There may be compensations," dryly. He held the door open for her,
between the two suites. "Oh, bother that boy, he carried off the key to
this door," he added.
"We don't need it," she said.
"Thank you," he bowed.
Dinner was hurried and unsatisfactory. For the most part they were
silent. Bob needed her reserves for the night's work, and deliberately
set herself against the impulse to entertain him. He talked to her, as
they drove to the theatre, so quietly and casually, that she knew she
had dreamed it all--that he would go out of her life at the stage door.
"Coming around later?" she asked.
"Yes."
She nodded and disappeared. When half an hour later she darted out on
the stage before an enraptured audience, he found himself a part of the
mob spirit which acclaimed her. Her charm was irresistible. He felt her
as an artist, not as a woman, but she moved him keenly by her masterly
performance. As the audience filed out he went into a nearby florist and
bought the entire stock of Killarney roses. He carried them to her
dressing-room, and when the maid admitted him, he dropped the mass in
her lap.
"For a wild Irish rose," said he.
"Faith, little sisters, he's an Irishman himself," she laughed, burying
her face in the bloom.
They were interrupted by the manager, people to see her on various
pretexts. Trent was driven into the ugly corridor. He was for the first
time somewhat irritated by the situation. Appendage to a star! Had he
for once in his carefully planned life completely lost his head, and
risked everything on a wild gamble? When she came toward him, ready for
the street, he pulled himself together.
"Where shall we go? Do you mind the cafes?"
"People stare so, I seldom go. But it is all right to-night, if you do
not mind that."
"Let's go to the Persian Garden and dance."
"All right."
Trent had never been in any public place with her, and he was totally
unprepared for the effect she produced. As they followed the head waiter
to a table, a noticeable whisper ran round the room, then silence. Then
a youth, who had courage as well as champagne aboard, rose and lifted
his glass.
"On your feet, all of you! To Bob, God bless her!"
With laughter everybody responded. Trent, slightly amused, secretly
annoyed, watched Bob's expression. First astonishment, then concern for
him, then genuine pleasure. They were not yet seated, so she lifted an
imaginary glass to them.
"Thank you, friends. Here's to a short life and a merry one for us
all!"
Applause greeted her, and as they took their seats she turned to Trent
impulsively.
"I'm so sorry," she said; "you hate it, of course, but don't. It's only
because they really love me."
"Suppose we don't try to explain things to each other, my lady."
The music began, and he rose and held out his hand to her. She had not
danced with him before, so when he swung her away with the ease of a
master, she had a sense of surprised pleasure before she gave herself up
to the joy of it.
"I'd never have thought it of you, Paul," she said, as they took their
seats. He laughed and lifted his glass.
"To the partnership!"
They drank to it gravely. Later when Paul unlocked her door for her,
and turned to go on to his, she said: "Come in and talk over the party."
"Aren't you tired?"
"No. I feel as if I'd never sleep. I wish I were going on this minute,
to play a new part before a Boston audience, on a rainy first night."
"That would call forth all your powers," he laughed, and followed her
in. As she pulled the cord of the last lamp, she felt his eyes on her.
"Well, what do you think of me?" she challenged him.
"I think you are an inspired artist and a beautiful woman," he evaded.
She laughed at that.
"That must be an old joke," he objected.
"The whole thing is exquisitely funny: a strange man in my rooms at two
in the morning compliments me on my art.... What do you want of life?"
she added disconcertingly.
His tongue shaped itself in an evasive reply, but the frank, boyish
interest in her face changed his mind.
"I want several things: One of them is to be governor of New York."
"Good! I like people to know what they want and go after it."
"It isn't so easy, you know."
"All the better."
"Do you know anything about politics?"
"Lord, man, I'm Irish."
She led him on to talk of the situation in the political game, to line
up for her his allies and enemies; to outline his campaign policy. His
candidacy was to be announced in a few days. She leapt at the points in
advance of him, questioned this and that--he talked to her as to a
lieutenant. The clock chimed and caught his attention.
"Good heavens! why didn't you send me home?"
"What's the use of sleeping when there's something to talk about--when
there's a fight to plan for."
"But my work must not interfere with your work." He came to shake hands
with her. "It looks as if this partnership might prove a success."
"I'm no prophet!" she defied him.
Just before he closed the door he spoke:
"But the election would not be until next fall----"
"We could extend our contract," she retorted, and the door closed on his
laugh.