The party of which Ellen Ferguson was a member did not leave Sherry's
until a comparatively late hour, and, while she was in no mood for
gayety, anything which could fill the hours pending news of Steadman was
a relief. She had found pleasure in talking to Jim Scott, that
good-natured, immature, and loyal son of old Harvard, who had hardly
opened his mouth the entire evening save in eulogy of his new chief.
From the time they had left the house in the omnibus to the moment she
had been deposited at her apartments he had not ceased his pæan of
praise. Ralston was a "corker," a "crackajack," it was a great thing to
be going to work with a man like that--a fellow who had done things, not
one of your sit-in-the-club-window-and-have-a-little-drink style of
chappies (this with a significant glance at a certain Mr. Teadle who
made one of the party), but one who could use a rifle or write a book
with equal skill.
Mr. Teadle saw no particular reason for Ralston's appointment? Jim
supposed sarcastically that the only proper candidate _would_ have been
an absinthe-drinking scribbler of anæmic little poems. For a short time
it looked as if Jim were going to utilize Mr. Teadle as a mop, until
Ellen came to the rescue by entering into a violent flirtation with the
new secretary, who furtively wondered if she really cared for that
Steadman fellow, after all. Miss Ferguson, on her side, like the boy
immensely, but did not stop to analyze her reasons. His freshness and
enthusiasm were enough to account for the attraction.
The Moonshine Theater had suggested a ludicrous parody of Brussels on
the eve of Waterloo, and Scott had loudly regretted that his job did not
carry a uniform with it. There were whole rows of them in the orchestra
and the gallery. For a finale the chorus sang the "Star-Spangled
Banner"--all up, of course, with the whole house cheering and waving
hats and handkerchiefs. Tears were in Ellen's eyes as the party made
their way out of the box, along the side of the house, to the entrance
where the omnibus was waiting. They had piled in, and then, just as they
had started--_Ralston!_
How strange that she should cross him in this fashion at such an hour!
Could he have received her message? Perhaps, even now, a yellow slip was
lying beneath her door marked: "Party not found." But if not on her
mission, what was he doing at the stage entrance of the Moonshine?
All through the supper at Sherry's, with its martial airs, its patriotic
ices and confections, its wine and laughter, she was tormented by
uncertainty. If he had not received the message! Time was flying,
Steadman was not being sought for, Ralston was--dallying.
Her maid removed her cloak and helped her undo her dress.
"Has anything come for me?"
"No, miss."
"Telephone to the Western Union office and ask if my telegram was
delivered."
The maid disappeared, returning presently with the information that it
had been receipted for at nine-thirty o'clock. With a warm wave of
relief flooding her heart Ellen slipped on a light wrapper, and threw
herself into an armchair before the sea-coal fire.
[Illustration: "She studied the faces alternately."]
"You need not wait, Elise. I shall sit up and read."
"Very well, miss. Good night."
"Good night," answered her mistress dreamily.
Outside the rain swept steadily against the glass with a soft, silting
sound. From time to time drops fell down the chimney and hissed for a
moment ere they vanished black splotches upon the vermilion coals.
Behind her an electric lamp of bronze, with an opaque shade, threw a dim
light over her shoulder and lit up the masses of her loosened hair.
Presently she arose slowly and went into an adjoining room, returning
with a large photograph in either hand. They were framed alike. Placing
them side by side upon the rug before her, she locked her hands across
her knee, and studied the faces alternately. One was of a young
man--almost a boy--with a narrow, high-bred face, dark eyes, sallow,
with a mouth curved like a woman's. The other was Dick Ralston, taken
about five years before, although the high cheekbones, the gaunt energy,
the mature thoughtfulness suggested a man much older. That she cared for
Steadman there was no doubt in her own mind. Had she refused to admit it
definitely heretofore, the fact that he was now on the verge of social
and moral annihilation made it no longer a matter of question. She felt
that Steadman's honor was at this moment the most vital thing in her
existence. He had thrown it at her feet after a long and romantic
wooing. Had laid bare his entire past. She was convinced that he loved
her. But at the crucial moment she had hesitated, had not responded in
quite the way she had probably given him reason to expect. She had
asked for time for reflection, and could give no adequate explanation in
answer to his imperative "Why?" When later he had renewed his suit she
had again forced a postponement, and he had departed, annoyed and
perplexed.
It was at this juncture that the money had dropped into his hands and he
had disappeared. Where was he? On a shooting trip? He frankly admitted
caring nothing for sport or hunting. It was not the season for travel,
and his name was not upon the sailing lists. Her instinct told her that
somewhere in the great city Steadman, oblivious to the call of duty, was
living the life from which her influence had called him for a time,
reckless of consequences, disregardful of the beckoning finger of
opportunity. She knew also that this was his last chance.
She realized that she could never marry Steadman disgraced, yet she felt
now that she loved him, and that could she see him and watch him start
for the front with his regiment, she would promise him what he had
asked.
She took Ralston's picture in her hand and held it to the light. It
trembled a little. She knew she could have cared for him--but he was so
stern, so strong, so capable. He had never treated her save as a sort of
younger sister. She had often wondered if he cared or could care for any
woman. With her he was always the same--kindly, sympathetic, obliging,
thoughtful. What must he think of her, sending him forth in the dead of
night to search the city for a man whom he scarcely knew? Her cheeks
burned at the thought of what she had done.
She had hardly known what she was asking when she had sent the message.
It had been done hurriedly, as she was leaving for the Pattersons', on
the impulse of a moment when she felt that, unless John Steadman could
be found, life would cease for her to be worth living--sent in a sort
of hysteria in which she instinctively turned to the one man in all the
world upon whom she could call for any service she might ask. Dear old
Dick! How tired he had looked in the rain! He might be up all night
looking for Steadman, and then not find him! And he was to leave for
Washington to-morrow.
She went to the window, against which the rain drove in a fine shower,
blurring the myriad lights below her that marched in long, straight
lines to north, south, and east. On the Tower the searchlight still
burned steadily. She shivered and went back to the fire. Then she laid
one of the pictures gently against her cheek.
V
The Moonshine Theater blazes its defiance into the night from a gleaming
Broadway promontory, whose cape divides the restless human tide that
rises to its neap every evening about eleven and falls to its ebb in the
neighborhood of two or three in the morning. Through its arched portals
one might drive a hansom cab, and tradition says that the feat has been
accomplished.
Here Mrs. Vokes, under the alias of "Hélène DeLacy," first minced her
way into popularity--but that was in the days of crinoline. The youths
who loitered about its iron-bound stage entrance are gray-headed men
to-day, those of them who are still alive. Only old Vincent remains, as
rugged as a granite cliff, and as impervious to persuasion, bribery, or
anger. "I'm sorry, gents, but it's against my orders," is said as
conclusively to-night as it was twenty years ago. He got as far as:
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's against--" then changed it to a wondering:
"Bless my soul, Mr. Ralston! Is it you?" as he encountered the set face
of our friend.
"Why, Vincent," exclaimed the latter, "you still here? What luck! You
don't look a day older!"
"I can't say the same for you, sir. I understand congratulations are in
order. Oh, I read the papers. But--" he hesitated.
"But you think I'm rather old for 'Johnnying'?" interpolated Ralston.
"You're quite right. I am. But don't be alarmed; this is business. I
want to find a young woman named Ernestine Hudson. I must see her at
once. Can you fix it for me?"
"I think so," answered the guardian of the wings. "I'd do it if I lost
my job. I won't forget in a hurry what you did for my little Bill. Just
step----"
At that instant the door was thrust violently open and a gray-coated
messenger boy, carrying a large oblong box, projected himself violently
against Vincent.
"For Hudson!" he ejaculated shortly.
"Put 'em on that desk," directed Vincent.
"Say, boss, let me take 'em in," pleaded the boy.
"Who do you think you are, anyway?" inquired the doorkeeper. "Get out of
here."
The boy lingered, gazing wistfully down the gas-lighted passage, through
which floated the hum of the orchestra, confused by the shuffle of feet
and inarticulate orders.
Vincent took a threatening step in the direction of the boy, who made a
grimace at him and backed slowly through the door. Ralston smiled and
looked inquiringly at the box.
"It might serve as an introduction," he suggested with a smile.
"You don't need it," said Vincent. "I guess you remember the way. Just
step down the passage, and you'll find the chorus ready to go on for the
second act. Hudson's the wheel horse for the partridges. She has a bunch
of tail sprouts like a feather duster. What fool things the public pay
to see nowadays! Why, they ain't content to let a girl be a girl, but
they have to turn her into a bird, or a dress form, or a wax figger, or
an automobile, or a flower. Now take this show. It's supposed to be a
kind of a 'flag-raiser.' 'Marchin' Through Georgy' and 'Campin'
To-night' and all that, and the chorus is _birds_. Birds! Sparrers,
canaries, and partridges!" he grunted scornfully. "Well, good luck. See
you later."
Ralston walked down the passage and pushed open the skeleton canvas door
that separated him from the wings. The curtain was down, and a small
army of men were noisily pulling enormous flies into place by means of
pulleys. One group in the center of the stage were erecting a "Port
Arthur" bristling with guns, and several with wheelbarrows were bringing
in a foreground of rocks, which others arranged with elaborate
carelessness. Overhead hung a wilderness of ropes and drops, with
sections of scenery suspended in mid-air. Two spiral staircases of iron
sprang from either side and lost themselves in the tangle above.
Ascending and descending were a perpetual stream of heterogeneous
figures, who went up as birds and came down as village maidens, or who
from grand dames of fashion were transformed into Quakeresses or drummer
boys. There was loud chattering on all sides, interspersed with deep
invectives from the coatless hustlers on the stage. Above all shrieked
and rattled the pulleys.
The blinding light and the clouds of dust made the scene utterly
confusing, and for a moment Ralston hesitated vaguely. To his left a
flock of "partridges" clustered about one of the flies, while one little
lady partridge sat apart on a nail keg, and eased her little partridge
foot by loosening her slipper.
To the nearest Ralston turned and inquired for Miss Hudson. The girl
whom he had addressed stared boldly at him, and without replying waved
languidly toward the partridge on the barrel. It was evident that she
took no interest in the friends of Miss Hudson. Ralston turned, and at
the same moment heard a shrill cackle from the group behind him. In
spite of himself he could feel the red coursing up to his ears. The girl
on the barrel had entirely removed her slipper and was stretching her
toes. She did not look up at his approach, having already minutely
studied his make-up under the shelter of her heavily corked eyebrows, as
he emerged from the passage.
"Are you Miss Hudson?"
"Yes," said the partridge, critically examining her instep.
"My name is Ralston," he began rapidly. "I'm looking for a friend of
mine, who must be turned up at once. It's a matter of life and death,
and he's got to be found. I have an idea you know him."
"Have you?" said the partridge innocently.
"The man I refer to is John Steadman. Do you know where he is?"
The girl slowly lifted her head and looked at him rather impudently. She
seemed more like a large doll than a girl.
"I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance, Mr. Ralston, if that is
your name, and I don't know your friend Steadman."
There was something about her manner that convinced Ralston that she
knew more than she admitted, but it was obvious that for purposes of her
own she had made up her mind to treat him with the scant courtesy
usually extended by show girls to people who are not worth while, and to
people it is worth while to keep for a time at a distance.
"I'm very sorry," said Ralston. "I believed that you were the one
person in New York who could tell me where he was. Of course, you might
know him under some other name."
"Why are you so interested in finding this Mr.--Steadman?" asked the
partridge, studiously inserting her foot in a shoe that seemed all toe.
"Simply for his own sake."
"Don't you ever come behind for yours?" she inquired abstractedly.
Ralston suppressed a smile.
"See here, young lady--" he began, changing his tactics.
"All on for the second!" shouted a big man in a Derby hat. "Here you,
Hudson, stop fooling and get into your place! Clear the wings."
From behind the wall of curtain came the distant crash of the contending
chords of the overture. "Port Arthur" with its rocks was in place, the
Japanese flag flying defiantly in a strong current of air, generated by
a frenzied electric fan held by a "super" in the moat. The chorus
trooped from the flies, and came tumbling down fire escapes and
staircases.
The partridge knocked her heels together and jumped lightly to her feet.
"Peep-peep!" she said. "See you later, old man. Stage door about
eleven-thirty."
She nodded at him and started hopping toward the stage. The other
partridges were forming in long lines, with much jostling of tail
feathers and fluttering of pinions.
"Hurry up there!" shouted the assistant "stage" in Miss Hudson's
direction, and then turned hastily toward the opposite flies where some
mix-up had attracted his attention.
Ralston saw his last clew hopping away from him. A bell rang loudly, and
the orchestra struck up the first few bars of the opening chorus. Hardly
conscious of what he was doing Ralston strode quickly after the
partridge and, grasping her firmly by the wings, drew her back into the
flies.
"Let me go!" she gasped, struggling to free herself. "Let me go! What
are you trying to do? Do you want to get me fined?"
"Keep quiet," whispered Ralston, "I've got to speak to you. Do you
understand? I can't let you go on. I'll stand for any fine, and square
you into the bargain. It's too late, anyway! The curtain's up already."
"Let me go!" she cried, the tears starting into her eyes. "You're
hurting me, you brute! I'll lose my job. The management don't stand for
this kind of thing. You're a fine gentleman, _you_ are! Oh, what shall I
do?"
Ralston's heart smote him. He knew well the hideous uncertainty which
being out of a job means to the chorus girl, and its more hideous
possibilities.
"I'm sorry," he said humbly. "I had to do it, and I promise you shall
lose nothing by it. Now, quick, where can we talk? Not here? The manager
would see you."
The partridge wiped her eyes.
"Do you promise to square the management?"
"I certainly do--on my honor as a gentleman."
"Then come!" Hudson darted quickly back among the scenery, and Ralston
followed her down a flight of iron steps which led beneath the stage.
Pipes ran in all directions, and great heaps of old flies and useless
properties reached toward the low ceiling, between which narrow alleys
led off into the darkness. A smell of mold and of paint filled the air.
Even the scant gas jets seemed to burn with a peculiar dimness in the
damp atmosphere.
"Come along!" whistled the partridge.
Beyond a pile of lumber in a sort of catacomb she stopped. A bead of gas
showed blue against some whitewashed brickwork.
"Turn it up," said Hudson, and Ralston did so.
"Hungry?" she continued. "_I_ could eat anything that 'didn't bite me
first!'"
Ralston laughed.
"Were you in that show?" he asked. "It was a good one. No, I'm not
hungry. Suppose I were?"
"This is our rathskeller," she laughed. "Are you thirsty?"
Ralston admitted to a certain degree of dryness.
"Certainly," he said, "I should like nothing better than a large
schooner of dark, imported beer. What will you have?" he continued,
carrying on the jest.
Hudson, who had seated herself on a low seat by the wall, got up and
struck sharply on the wooden partition with a stick.
"What's that?" asked Ralston.
"Perhaps some beer will come out!" remarked the partridge. "Moses was
not the only one."
A rattling followed, and a square opening appeared in the wall, in which
the shaggy tow-head of a young man was visible.
He grinned at sight of Miss Hudson.
"How vas de shootink?" he inquired. "Does de bartridges vant more vet?
Ha! Ha! You _vas_ a bird!"
"Ya, Fritz. Two schooners and a hot dog. Hustle 'em up."
Fritz closed the slide which covered the opening and the partridge
turned gayly toward Ralston.
"What do you think of that? Pretty good, eh?"
"I don't understand," he replied. "Where did he come from? What is in
there?"
"I'll tell you. When 'Abe' Erlanger built this house there was a row of
old tenements on the side street. Well, Jo Bimberger tore 'em down and
built a rathskeller. While he was doing it one of the girls tipped off
the boss carpenter to leave this place. Ain't it grand? Say, you get
almost dead jumping around on the boards. It looks easy enough, but I
tell you sometimes you're ready to scream."
"Just the thing," answered our friend. "Do the management object?"
"Not a bit. 'Abe' gets a rake-off from the saloon. It's good business."
The slide opened and two dripping glasses made their appearance. Ralston
received them and handed one to Miss Hudson. Then Fritz passed in a
frankfurter about the size of a policeman's night stick.
Ralston drew half a dollar from his pocket and exchanged it for the
sausage.
"That's all right, keep the change," he remarked.
"My, you must have it to throw away!" said Hudson. "Twenty-three for
you, Fritz. Shut the slide."
Ralston took a deep draught of the beer. He could not help smiling as he
thought of the picture he would present could any one of his associates
see him at the moment. What, for instance, would the President have
said? And the Secretary of War! Underneath the stage of a theater,
drinking beer with a chorus girl! He put down the glass and pulled
himself together.
"Now to business!" he exclaimed. "This is jolly good fun, but I've a
long night in front of me, and I've got work to do in it. Where is
Steadman?"
The partridge looked at him inquiringly.
"You don't mean you really are trying to find anyone?"
"Certainly I do."
"Steadman?"
"Yes."
She shrugged her shoulders. It was clear, even to Ralston, that she was
disappointed.
"I can't help you."
"You _know_ him?" Ralston's gaze penetrated her feathers.
"Yes. But I don't know where he is--and what is more, I don't care. He's
a cad."
"Well, let it go at that. But I've got to find him. How long is it since
you've seen him?"
"Three weeks."
"What was he up to?"
"Oh, the usual business. He's badly in. Let him go; he's not worth your
while."
"I didn't say he was. But he must be turned up. Was he drinking?"
"Yes!"
"Ah!" Ralston scowled.
"He's a bad one," continued the partridge. "He began at the bottom and
worked down."
"You must help me to find him. Who is he running with?"
"I don't know anything about him. I've heard he knows a girl named
Florence Davenport. If you can find her she might help you."
"Where does she live?"
"On Forty-sixth Street," and she gave him a number.
Ralston arose and put his hand in his pocket.
"I am very much indebted to you," he said courteously. "You won't mind
if I make good your fine?"
He drew out a bill and placed it in her hand. She raised her eyebrows at
sight of its denomination.
"No," she said, "I haven't done anything for you. I don't want the
money."
"But your fine?"
"That's all right," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "I could have
gone on--if I'd wanted to. I was merely bluffing. You couldn't have held
me. You're a gentleman, and I don't want the money." She spoke quietly,
and looked him full in the face. Ralston wavered.
"Please don't," said the girl, and held out the bill. Ralston took it
and returned it to his pocket.
"Miss Hudson," said he, "you have placed me under a great obligation,
one that money cannot repay. If I can ever help you in any way let me
know."
The partridge got up and led the way toward the staircase. At the top
she held out her hand and Ralston took it in his.
"He's not worth it," she repeated. "Let him go."
"_Noblesse oblige_," he smiled, looking down at her.
The chorus had filed off the stage and were standing on the other side.
"Here you, Hudson! Where have you been?" whispered the manager hoarsely,
grasping her roughly by the shoulder. "Get over there."
"Leave me alone!" she cried sharply, shaking off his arm. Then, turning
to Ralston:
"Good night, sir," she said.