A sudden desire seized him to-night to return to his home, to become a citizen in fact and deed. It was now the time of year when the spring torrents flood the lowlands, when the melting snows trickle down the bleak hillsides, when the dead hand of winter lies upon the bosom of awakening spring, and the seed is in travail. Heigh-ho! the world went very well in the springs of old; care was in bondage, and all the many gateways to the heart were bastioned and sentineled.
"Sir, a lady wishes to see you."
Warrington turned. His valet stood respectfully in the doorway.
"The name?" Warrington rose impatiently. Nobody likes to have his dreams disturbed.
"Miss Challoner, sir."
"Challoner!" in surprise; "and this time of night?" He stroked his chin. A moment passed. Not that he hesitated to admit her; rather he wished to make a final analysis of his heart before his eyes fell down to worship her beauty. "Admit her at once." He brushed the ashes from his jacket and smoothed his hair. The valet disappeared. "If I only loved the woman, loved her honestly, boldly, fearlessly, what a difference it would make! I don't love her, and I realize that I never did. She never touched my heart, only my eye and mind. I may be incapable of loving any one; perhaps that's it. But what can have possessed her to leave the theater this time of night?"
A swish of petticoats, a rush of cool air with which mingled an indefinable perfume, and, like a bird taking momentary rest in the passage, she stood poised on the threshold. A beautiful woman is a tangible enchantment; and fame and fortune had made Katherine Challoner beautiful, roguishly, daringly, puzzlingly beautiful. Her eyes sparkled like stars on ruffled waters, the flame of health and life burned in her cheeks, and the moist red mobile mouth expressed emotions so rapidly and irregularly as to bewilder the man who attempted to follow them. Ah, but she could act; comedy or tragedy, it mattered not; she was always superb.
There was a tableau of short duration. Her expression was one of gentle inquiry, his was one of interest not unmixed with fascination. He felt a quick touch of compassion, of embarrassment. There had been times when yonder woman had seemed to show him the preference that is given only to men who are loved. Even as the thought came to him, he prayed that it was only his man's vanity that imagined it. As he stared at her, there came the old thrill: beauty is a power tremendous.
"Dick, you do not say you are glad to see me."
"Beauty striketh the sage dumb," he laughed. "What good fortune brings you here to-night? What has happened? How could you find time between the acts to run over?"
"I am not acting to-night."
"What?"
"No. Nor shall I be to-morrow night, nor the thousand nights that shall follow."
"Why, girl!" he cried, pushing out a chair. He had not seen her for two weeks. He had known nothing of her movements, save that her splendid talents had saved a play from utter ruin. Her declaration was like a thunderbolt. "Explain!"
"Well, I am tired, Dick; I am tired." She sat down, and her gaze roved about the familiar room with a veiled affection for everything she saw. "The world is empty. I have begun to hate the fools who applaud me. I hate the evil smells which hang about the theater. I hate the overture and the man with the drums," whimsically.
"What's he done to you?"
"Nothing, only he makes more noise than the others. I'm tired. It is not a definite reason; but a woman is never obliged to be definite."
"No; I never could understand you, even when you took the trouble to explain things."
"Yes, I know." She drew off her gloves and rubbed her fingers, which were damp and cold.
"But, surely, this is only a whim. You can't seriously mean to give up the stage when the whole world is watching you!"
She did not answer him, but continued to rub her fingers. She wore several rings, among which was a brilliant of unusual luster. Warrington, however, had eyes for nothing but her face. For the past six months he had noted a subtle change in her, a growing reserve, a thoughtfulness that was slowly veiling or subduing her natural gaiety. She now evaded him when he suggested one of their old romps in queer little restaurants; she professed illness when he sent for her to join him in some harmless junketing. She was slowly slipping away from him; no, drifting, since he made no real effort to hold her. And why had he made no real effort? Sometimes he thought he could answer this question, and then again he knew that he could not. Ah, if he only loved her! What a helpmeet: cheerful, resourceful, full of good humor and practical philosophy, a brilliant wit, with all the finished graces of a goddess. Ah, if indeed he only loved her! This thought kept running through his mind persistently; it had done so for days; but it had always led him back to the starting point. Love is not always reasoning with itself. Perhaps—and the thought filled him with regret—perhaps he was indeed incapable of loving any one as his poet's fancy believed he ought to love. And this may account for the truth of the statement that genius is rarely successful in love; the ideal is so high that it is out of the reach of life as we, genius or clod, live it.
"Isn't this determination rather sudden?" he asked, when the pause grew insupportable.
"I have been thinking of it for some time," she replied, smiling. A woman always finds herself at ease during such crises. "Only, I hadn't exactly made up my mind. You were at work?" glancing at the desk.
"Yes, but I'm through for the night. It's only a scenario, and I am not entirely satisfied with it."
She walked over to the desk and picked up a sheet at random. She was a privileged person in these rooms. Warrington never had any nervous dread when she touched his manuscript.
"How is it going to end?" she asked.
"Oh, they are going to marry and be happy ever after," he answered, smiling.
"Ah; then they are never going to have any children?" she said, with a flash of her old-time mischief.
"Will you have a cigarette?" lighting one and offering her the box.
"No; I have a horror of cigarettes since that last play. To smoke in public every night, perforce, took away the charm. I hated that part. An adventuress! It was altogether too close to the quick; for I am nothing more or less than an adventuress who has been successful. Why, the very method I used to make your acquaintance years and years ago, wasn't it?—proved the spirit. 'We hate two kinds of people,'" she read, taking up another page of manuscript; "'the people we wrong and the people who wrong us. Only, the hate for those we have wronged is most enduring.' That isn't half bad, Dick. How do you think of all these things?"
She crossed over to the window to cool her hot face. She, too, heard the voices of the night; not as the poet hears them, but as one in pain. "He never loved me!" she murmured, so softly that even the sparrows in the vine heard her not. And bitter indeed was the pain. But of what use to struggle, or to sigh, or vainly to regret? As things are written, so must they be read. She readily held him guiltless; what she regretted most deeply was the lack of power to have him and to hold him. Long before, she had realized the hopelessness of it all. Knowing that he drank from the cup of dissipation, she had even sought to hold him in contempt; but to her he had never ceased to be a gentleman, tender, manly and kind. It is contempt that casts the first spadeful in the grave of love.
"Come, girl," he said, going to her side; "you have something to tell me. What is it?"
She turned to find his hand outstretched and a friendly look in his eyes. Impulsively she gave him both her hands. He bowed over them with the grave air of the days of powdered wigs. There was not a particle of irony in the movement; rather it was a quiet acknowledgment that he recollected the good influence she had at times worked upon him in some dark days. As he brushed her fingers with his lips, he saw. His head came up quickly.
"Ah!"
"Yes." Her voice was steady and her eyes were brave.
He drew her to the lamp and studied the ring. The ruddy lights dartled as he slowly turned the jewel around.
"It is a beauty. No one but a rich man could have given a ring like that. And on your finger it means but one thing."
"I am to be married in June."
"Do you love him?"
"I respect him; he is noble and good and kind."
Warrington did not press the question. He still retained the hand, though he no longer gazed at the ring.
"I have always wanted a home. The stage never really fascinated me; it was bread and butter."
"Is it necessary to marry in order to have a home?" he asked quietly, letting the hand gently slide from his. "You are wealthy, after a fashion; could you not build a home of your own?"
"Always to be identified as the actress? To be looked at curiously, to be annoyed by those who are not my equals, and only tolerated by those who are? No! I want a man who will protect me from all these things, who will help me to forget some needless follies and the memory that a hundred different men have made play-love to me on the other side of the footlights."
"Some men marry actresses to gratify their vanity; does this man love you?"
"Yes; and he will make me what Heaven intended I should be—a woman. Oh, I have uttered no deceit. This man will take me for what I am."
"And you have come here to-night to ask me to forget, too?" There was no bitterness in his tone, but there was a strong leaven of regret. "Well, I promise to forget."
"It was not necessary to ask you that," generously. "But I thought I would come to you and tell you everything. I did not wish you to misjudge me. For the world will say that I am marrying this good man for his money; whereas, if he was a man of the most moderate circumstances, I should still marry him."
"And who might this lucky man be? To win a woman, such as I know you to be, this man must have some extraordinary attributes." And all at once a sense of infinite relief entered into his heart: if she were indeed married, there would no longer be that tantalizing doubt on his part, that peculiar attraction which at one time resembled love and at another time was simply fascination. She would pass out of his life definitely. He perfectly recognized the fact that he admired her above all other women he knew; but it was also apparent that to see her day by day, year by year, his partner in the commonplaces as well as in the heights, romance would become threadbare quickly enough. "Who is he?" he repeated.
"That I prefer not to disclose to you just yet. What are you going to call your new play?" with a wave of her hand toward the manuscript.
"I had intended to call it Love and Money, but the very name presages failure."
"Yes, it needs the cement of compatibility to keep the two together."
"Well, from my heart I wish you all the best luck in the world," he said, the absence of any mental reservation in his eyes. "You would make any man a good wife. If I weren't a born fool—"
She leaned toward him, her face suddenly tense and eager.
"—if I weren't a born fool," with a smile that was whimsical, "I'd have married you myself, long ago. But fate has cut me out for a bachelor." He knocked the ash from a cold pipe, filled and lighted it. "By the way," he said, "I received a curious letter to-day." Its production would relieve the awkwardness of the moment. "Would you like to see it?" opening the drawer and handing the letter to her. "It's one of the few letters of the sort I'm going to keep."
She accepted the letter, but without any spirit of interest. For a moment a thought had all but swept her off her feet; yet she realized instantly that this thought was futile. Warrington did not love her; and there was nothing to do but to follow out the course she had planned. She had come to him that night with a single purpose in mind: to plumb the very heart of this man who was an enigma to every woman he met. She had plumbed it. Warrington loved nobody but Warrington and pleasure. Oh, he was capable of the grand passion, she very well knew, but the woman to arouse it had not yet crossed his path.
"What do you think of it?" he asked.
She came closer to the lamp. It was only pretense, but Warrington was not aware of it. She had stared at the sheet, reading only her miserable thoughts. Presently she smiled; the girlish exuberance amused her.
"She has put you quite out of reach. What a fine thing it must be to have such faith in any man!"
"And I'm not worth in her esteem an ounce to the pound." He was quite frank with himself. "I would to Heaven I were!"
"And this is the kind of woman that you will fall violently in love with, some day, Dick. It will be your punishment." She had fully recovered by now, and the old-time raillery was in the ascendant. "Oh, she has read you fairly well. You are good and kind and wise, but these virtues are not of equal weight. Your goodness and wisdom will never catch up with your abundant kindness. I've a good deal to thank you for, Dick; a good deal."
"Nonsense! The shoe is on the other foot. You have made half my plays what they are to-day." He rang and ordered some coffee.
She dropped into his desk-chair and propped her chin in her palms, viewing him through half-closed, speculative eyes.
"We've had some jolly larks together," he said. "I shall miss you; how much I shall know only when you are gone. Is he good-looking?"
"Very. He is tall and straight, with a manly face, fine eyes, and a good nose. You know that I'm always particular about a man's nose."
"And young, of course?" not without some feeling of jealousy.
"And young."
"Tell me all about him," drawing up a chair and facing her.
"He is a lucky chap," he summed up when she had done.
"That remains to be seen," lightly. "I may prove the worst wife possible. Perhaps, when I have burned my bridges, I shall be mad for the very publicity I'm trying to escape. Women are like extinct volcanos; they are most to be dreaded when written perfectly harmless."
Warrington shook his head and laughed. Here the coffee came in. He dismissed his man, and poured the nectar himself.
"You are the one man I know who never asks to sweeten my coffee," she observed.
"And yet I had to learn. You haven't taught this other fellow yet, I see. Is he warranted house-broken, or will he have to be chained?"
"He will not have to be chained; and a man who is a recluse seldom has to be broken in."
"A recluse? What's his hobby: butterflies, stones, stamps, or coins?—No, girl; I don't mean that. I'm a little heavy to-night. Do you recollect the night you donned a suit of mine, bundled your hair under a felt hat, and visited the studios? What a romp! Not a soul ever found out who you were; and if I hadn't been in the secret, I shouldn't have known, either. I shall never forget how funny Dolman looked when he started a certain popular story of his and you shut him up. 'Gentlemen,' you said, 'neither listen to, nor repeat that kind of story in the presence of ladies.' 'Ladies?' cried Dolman. 'I see no ladies.' 'But there are gentlemen,' you added quickly. Later, Dolman advised me not to bring any more of my Sunday-school friends to HIS studio."
The woman smiled, but the smile was only on the lips. All those happy frolics were to be no more. Heigh-ho! Over the mantel there were several photographs of herself. Like all celebrities of her kind, the camera was a constant source of amusement. It was not necessarily vanity. The rose is not vain, yet it repeats its singular beauty as often as the seasons permit it. Across these pictures she had scrawled numerous signatures, "Kate" and "Kit" and "Kitty" and "Katherine Challoner," with here and there a phrase in French and Italian.
"You wouldn't return those under any circumstances?"
"No, indeed! That's all I'll have. And besides, you wouldn't ask me to give them up?"
Her answer remained unspoken. The valet appeared deferentially.
"Well?" said Warrington.
"A gentleman to see you, sir. He said he wouldn't need any card. Mr. John Bennington, sir.
"John Bennington!" Warrington sprang from his chair, his face joyous. "Old John here to-night! Finest chap on earth, Kate; my roommate at college, and the only chap in my town who was my friend when I was a nobody. Old John ..."
"Richard, you must hide me quickly. I mustn't be seen here. There is no way of passing him the hall."
"Good Lord!" He did not notice her pallor. "The butler's pantry," he said hastily.
She slipped out of sight noiselessly. Presently she heard sounds, men's voices, a hearty greeting and for a moment the world seemed gliding from under her feet. Her gloves! She had forgotten her gloves!
Chapter III
Men have a way of greeting which is all their own. It is unlike the kiss and flutter of women, which may signify frankness or deceit, generosity or selfishness, some favor to gain, some treachery to forestall. Men's likes and dislikes are generally visible. The dog wags his tail, or he warns you away with a growl; there is no mistaking his attitude. On the other hand, the cat purrs and rubs against your leg, and when you reach down to smooth her, as likely as not she gives you a dig for your pains. True, there are always exceptions to this rule.
With their hands on each other's shoulders, at arm's length they stood, a likely pair to look at, smiling frankly and joyfully into each other's eyes. When it is without self-interest, friendship between man and man is a fine and noble thing. It is known best in the stress of storms, in the hour of sorrow and adversity. Friendship, to be perfect, must be without any sense of obligation; for obligation implies that one or the other is in debt, and the debtor is always wondering when he will have to pay. Between these two men only the slightest favors had been exchanged. They had grown up together, one the son of a rich steel-mill owner, the other the son of a poor farmer. The one had entered college to the sounding of golden cymbals, the other had marched in with nothing but courage in his pocket. It is impossible to describe how these great friendships come about; generally they begin with some insignificant trifle, soon forgotten. Warrington had licked Bennington in the boyhood days; why, I doubt that the Recording Angel himself remembers. So the friendship began with secret admiration on one side and good-natured toleration on the other. One day Warrington broke a colt for Bennington, and later Bennington found a passably good market for Warrington's vegetables. Friendship, like constancy, finds strange niches. The Bennington family were not very cordial to the young vegetable grower. On the mother's side there was a long line of military ancestors. It is impossible that a cabbage and a uniform should cohere. Warrington's great-grandsires had won honors in the Revolution, but as this fact did not make cabbages grow any faster he kept the faded glory to himself.
In college the two lads were as inseparable as La Mole and Coconnas; they played on the same teams, rowed on the same crews and danced with the same girls. The only material difference in their respective talents lay in one thing: Bennington could not write a respectable rhyme, and I'm not sure that he wasn't proud of it. It distinguished him from the other members of his class. As for Warrington, there wasn't a pretty girl in the whole college town who couldn't boast of one or more of his impassioned stanzas. And you may be sure that when Warrington became talked about these self-same halting verses were dug up from the garret and hung in sundry parlors.
Bennington was handsome, and, but for his father's blood, the idleness of his forebears would have marked him with effeminateness. His head, his face, the shape of his hands and feet, these proclaimed the aristocrat. It was only in the eyes and the broad shoulders that you recognized the iron-monger's breed. His eyes were as blue as his own hammered steel; but, like the eyes of the eagle at peace, they were mild and dreamy and deceptive to casual inspection. In the shops the men knew all about those eyes and shoulders. They had been fooled once, but only once. They had felt the iron in the velvet.
"I'm mighty glad to see you, boy," said Warrington, dropping his arms. "You haven't changed a bit."
"Nor you, Dick; if anything you look younger."
"How many years is it, John?"
"Six or seven; not very long."
"Time never seems long to a man who never has to wait for anything. I have had to reckon time with hours full of suspense, and those hours have aged me; perhaps not outwardly, but all the same, I'm an old man, John."
"Nonsense!"
"When did you cross?"
"About a year ago, when father died. I had given up the English end of the concern two years before, and was just wandering about the continent. I was dreadfully disappointed when I learned that you had visited the shops in ninety-eight. That summer I was in Switzerland. I had no idea there was going to be war, and never saw a newspaper till it was nearly over. I should have enlisted. And another year we passed within two days of each other."
"No!" Bennington exclaimed.
"Yes. It was in Italy, at Sorrento, that I learned of your nearness. You were off for Amalfi and I had just come from there. For three days I ran across your name in the hotel registers. I tried to find your permanent address, but failed. Cook's nor the bankers in Naples knew anything about you. I tell you what, it was discouraging."
"What luck! I was having all my mail sent direct to Mentone, where I spent the winter. Say, what do you think?"
"About what?"
"Won five thousand at Monte Carlo in one play."
"Pounds?" exclaimed Bennington.
"Lord, no!—dollars."
"Ah! But of course you went back and lost it?" ironically.
"On the contrary, I've never staked a dollar since. Gambling was never a habit of mine, though I dare say the moral side of the subject would not have held me back. Simply, I know that the gambler always loses, and the banker always wins, in the end. Common sense told me to quit, and I did. I brought my letter of credit home practically intact."
"You used to play poker," dubiously.
"Poker isn't gambling. It's surreptitiously lending money to your friends."
"You were always good at definitions," sighed Bennington.
"I understand you've sold your holdings in the English shops?"
"Yes. I was weary of the people and what they called their conservatism, which is only a phase of stupidity. And then, besides, I loved the old home up there. I've been living there about a year now."
"It's a pity you couldn't have looked me up before this," Warrington complained.
Bennington only laughed affectionately.
"Take a look around the room while I get the whisky and soda."
"Don't bother, Dick."
"Boy, I licked you once, and I'll do it again if you don't sit down. A little extra attention won't hurt; and I'll guarantee the whisky." Waving his arms toward all the desirable things in the room, he vanished beyond the curtain.
Bennington looked about leisurely. It was just the kind of room he had always imagined; it was like the man who occupied it. Simplicity and taste abounded; the artist and the collector, the poet and the musician, were everywhere in evidence. He strolled over to the mantel and took down one of the pictures signed "Kate." He smiled. It was not an indulgent smile, nor the smile of a man who has stumbled upon another man's secret. The smile was rather exultant. He leaned against the mantel and studied the face in its varied expressions. He nodded approvingly. It was a lovely face; it was more than lovely,—it was tender and strong. Presently he returned to his chair and sat down, the photograph still in his hand. And in this position Warrington found him.
"Ah, you sly dog!" he hailed, setting down the glasses and pouring out a liberal bumper. "So I've caught you? Well, you're not the only man who has been conquered by that very photograph." He had half a notion to go in and bring her out; but then, women are such finicky beings!
Bennington laid aside the photograph, a certain reverence in his action that in ordinary times would not have escaped Warrington's notice.
"What's this to be?" asked Bennington, lifting his glass and stirring the ice.
"Immer und immer, as the German has it," Warrington replied.
"For ever and ever, then!"
And the two lightly touched glasses, with that peculiar gravity which always accompanies such occasions.
"When a man drinks your health in bad whisky, look out for him; but this whisky is very good, Dick." Bennington set down his glass and wiped his lips. "It is very good, indeed."
"Well, how are things up in Herculaneum?" asked Warrington. "You know, or ought to know, that I get up there only once a year."
"Things are not very well. There's the devil to pay in politics, and some day I may have a jolly long strike on my hands," grimly. "But I shall know exactly what to do. That man McQuade owns about all the town now. He controls congressmen, state senators and assemblymen, and the majority of the Common Council is his, body and soul. Only recently he gave the traction company a new right of way. Not a penny went into the city's purse. And you know these street-railways; they never pay their taxes. A franchise for ninety-nine years; think of it!"
"Why don't you men wake up and oust McQuade? I'll tell you right here, Jack, you have no one to blame but yourself. Scoundrels like McQuade are always in the minority; but they remain in power simply because men like you think politics a dirty business and something for an honest man to keep out of. Run for mayor yourself, if you want clean politics. Rouse up an independent party."
"Do you know what they call me up there?" Bennington laughed.
"I confess to ignorance."
"Well, the newspapers say covertly that I'm all but a naturalized Englishman, a snob, when I'm only a recluse, a man who dresses every night for dinner, who dines instead of eats. There are some things it is impossible to understand, and one is the interest the newspapers take in the private affairs of men. If they jumped on me as a mill-owner, there might be some excuse, but they are always digging me on the private-citizen side. Every man, in his own house, ought to be allowed to do as he pleases. They never bothered the governor any, when he was alive. I believe they were afraid of him."
"I can explain all that, my boy. Buy your clothes of the local tailors; get rid of your valet; forget that you have lived in England. They'll come around to you, then. You may talk as much as you like about the friendliness between the Englishman and the American. It is simply a case of two masters who are determined that their dogs shall be friendly. Let the masters drop out of sight for a moment, and you will find the dogs at each other's throat. And the masters? The dollar on this side and the sovereign on the other. There is a good deal of friendship these days that is based upon three and a half per cent. Get into politics, my boy."
"Bah! I'd look nice running for mayor, wouldn't I? The newspapers would howl calamity, and the demagogues would preach that I would soon impose English wages in the shops, and all that tommyrot. No, thank you; I'll take trouble as it comes, but I'm not looking for it."
"I see that I shall have to go back there and start the ball myself," said Warrington, jesting.
"Why don't you? You are not a rank outsider. The people are proud of you."
"And always will be, so long as I have sense enough to remain here in New York," dryly. "But if I lived there ...!"
"You are not always going to live in New York?"
"Not always."
"You've a beautiful old home up there."
"I bought that just to show the people I had the money," laughing. "They may never forget my cabbages, but they'll forgive them."
"Nevertheless, you ought to return."
"Listen," said Warrington, lifting his hand. They became silent, and presently the voice of the city came into the room. "I'm afraid I could not live away from that. How many times have I stopped work to listen to it! How many inspirations have I drawn from it! It is the siren's music, I know, but I am no longer afraid of the reefs. Perhaps I have become enamored with noise; it is quite possible."
"I have lived in London. I thought it was going to be hard to break away, but it wasn't."
They lighted cigars, and Bennington took up the photograph again.
"A lovely face," was his comment.
"With a heart and a mind even more lovely," supplemented Warrington. "She is one of the most brilliant women I have ever met, and what is more, humorous and good-humored. My word for it, she may have equals, but she has no superiors on this side of the ocean."
Bennington looked up sharply.
"Nothing serious?" he asked gently.
"Serious? No. We are capital friends, but nothing more. There's been too much comradeship to admit anything like sentimentality. Ah, boy, you should see her act!"
"I have. I saw her in London last season. She was playing your War of Women. She appeared to me enchanting. But about these actresses ..."
"I know, I know," interrupted Warrington. "Some of them are bad, but some of them are the noblest creatures God ever put on earth; and yonder is one of them. I remember. Often we were both in debt; plays went wrong; sometimes I helped her out, sometimes she returned the favor. We were more like two men. Without her help I shouldn't be where I am to-day. I always read the scenario of a play to her first; and often we've worked together half a night on one scene. I shall miss her."
"What! Is she going away?"
"After a fashion. She has retired from the stage."
"Do you believe she means it?" asked Bennington. "You know how changeable actresses' moods are."
"I think Miss Challoner will never act again. She has always been an enigma to the majority of the show people. Never any trumpets, jewelry, petty squabbles, lime-lights, and silks; she never read criticisms, save those I sent her. Managers had to knock on her dressing-room door. Oh, I do not say that she is an absolute paragon, but I do say that she is a good woman, of high ideals, loyal, generous, frank, and honest. And I have often wondered why the devil I couldn't fall in love with her myself," moodily.
Bennington was silent for a moment. Finally he said: "How does it feel to be famous, to have plays produced simultaneously in New York and London?"
"After the first success there is never anything but hard work. A failure once in a while acts like a tonic. And sometimes we get an anonymous letter that refreshes us—a real admirer, who writes from the heart and doesn't fish for a letter or an autograph in return. I received one of these only a few days ago, and I want you to read it." Warrington produced the missive and tossed it into Bennington's hands. "Read that. It's worth while to get a letter like that one."
Bennington took up the letter, smiling at his friend's enthusiasm. A single glance at the graceful script, however, changed his expression. He sat back and stared at Warrington.
"What's the matter?"
Bennington did not answer, but settled down to his task, reading carefully and slowly. He did not look for any signature, for he knew there would be none. He returned the letter, his face sober, but his eyes dancing.
"Now, what the deuce do you see that is so amusing?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Don't tell me there isn't any romance in the world. But, hang it, Jack, I'm not worth a letter like that," earnestly.
"Of course not."
"I'm not jesting. I've sown wild oats, and God knows what the harvest will be. There's a law that exacts payment. Retribution is the only certain thing in this world."
"Oh, you're no worse than the average man. But the average man is jolly bad," Bennington added gravely. "But you, Dick; I'm not worrying about you. Perhaps the writer of that letter sees good in you that you can't see yourself; good that is in you but of which you are unconscious. One thing, you have never besmirched the talents God gave you. Everything you have done has been clean and wholesome—like yourself."
"I wish I could believe that! But I've had no ties, Jack, none. You can't keep to a course without a compass. The real good in life, the good that makes life worth while, is the toil for those you love. I love nobody, not even myself. But this girl rather woke me up. I began to look inward, as they say. So far I've not discovered much good. I'd give a good deal to meet this writer."
"Doubtless you will find her charming."
Suddenly Warrington turned upon his friend. "But what I want to know is, what brought you around here this time o' night? I never knew you to do anything without a definite purpose."
"That's precisely what I've been waiting for you to lead up to. The truth is—" Bennington hesitated. His hand, idly trailing over the desk, came into contact with something smooth and soft. It was a pair of white kid gloves, a woman's. Absently he drew them through his hand. He was only half conscious of his action, and he did not observe Warrington's sudden agitation. "The truth is, I've gone and done it. I'm going to be married in June, and I want you to be my best man."
Warrington's hand went out impulsively.
"Oh, I felt it in my bones when your card came in," he said, rearranging the glasses. "Lucky woman! Long life to you, Jack, and long happiness!"
"Thank you, Dick." (Ceremonial recurrence of drinking a health.)
"Now, out with it. Who is she, and all about her?"
"Dick, I'm genuinely sorry, but I'm still under bond of silence."
"More mysteries!" cried Warrington, with evident discontent.
"Only for a week, when, if you say, we'll have breakfast here in these very rooms.
"Done. Only I must say you're a bit hard on me to-night.
"I'm sorry."
"Let me see; I'll describe her for you. Beautiful."
"Yes."
"Accomplished."
"Very."
"A woman who will be both wife and comrade."
"Exactly."
"An American."
"In all things."
"You make me envious."
"Why don't you get married yourself?"
"Bah!" Warrington went to the window and looked down upon the street.
Bennington eyed his broad shoulders sympathetically. He looked down at the limp, smooth skins in his hand, and sat up stiffly. From the gloves to Warrington and back again to the gloves, his gaze traveled. With an impulse rather mechanical he raised the gloves to his nose. Quickly he dropped them on the desk, took up the photograph, rose and replaced it on the mantel. Hearing him, Warrington turned.
"No, Jack, I doubt if I shall ever be lucky enough to find the one woman. I've been so busy that I've never had time to hunt for happiness. And those who hunt for it never find it, and those who wait for it can not see it standing at their side."
Bennington wandered about, from object to object. Here he picked up a dagger, there a turquoise in the matrix, and again some inlaid wood from Sorrento. From these his interest traveled to and lingered over some celebrated autographs.
"Happiness is a peculiar thing," went on the dramatist. "It is far less distinctive than fame or fortune. They sometimes knock at your door, but happiness steals in without warning, and often leaves as mysteriously as it comes."
Bennington paused to examine a jade cigarette case, which he opened and closed aimlessly. And there were queer little Japanese ash-trays that arrested his attention.
"Men like you and me, Jack, never marry unless we love. It is never a business transaction."
"It is love or nothing," said Bennington, turning his face toward Warrington. The smile he gave was kindly. "Yes, true happiness can be sought only in those we love. There is happiness even in loving some one who does not love you." Bennington repressed a sigh. "But, Dick, you'll be the best man?"
"Depend upon me. What do you say to this day week for breakfast here?"
"That will be wholly agreeable to me."
Bennington's cigar had gone out. He leaned upon the desk and took his light from the chimney. Men who have traveled widely never waste matches.
"Can't you bunk here for the night? There's plenty of room," said Warrington.
"Impossible, Dick. I leave at midnight for home. I must be there to-morrow morning. I'm afraid of trouble in the shops. The unions are determined to push me to the limit of my patience."
"Why the deuce don't you get rid of the shops?"
"They're the handiwork of my father, and I'm proud to follow his steps." Bennington's eyes were no longer at peace; they sparkled with defiance. "Half-past ten!" suddenly. "I must be going. My luggage is still at the hotel. God bless you, Dick!"
Their hands met once again.
"You know, jack, that I love you best of all men."
"You are sure there is no woman?"
Warrington laughed easily. "Ah, if there was a woman! I expect to be lonely some day."
Bennington put on his hat and gloves, and Warrington followed him into the hall. Once the prospective bridegroom paused, as if he had left something unsaid; but he seemed to think the better of silence, and went on.
"Tuesday morning, then?"
"Tuesday morning. Good night."
"Good night, and luck attend you."
The door closed, and Warrington went slowly back to his desk, his mind filled with pleasant recollections of youth. He re-read the letter, studied it thoroughly, in hopes that there might be an anagram. There was nothing he could see, and he put it away, rather annoyed. He arranged the sheets and notes of the scenario, marshaled the scattered pencils, and was putting the glasses on the tray, when a sound in the doorway caused him to lift his head. One of the glasses tumbled over and rolled across the desk, leaving a trail of water which found its level among the ash-trays.
"It is quite evident that you forgot me," said the woman, a faint mirthless smile stirring her lips. "It was very close in there, and I could hear nothing." She placed a hand on her forehead, swayed, and closed her eyes for a second.
"You are faint!" he cried, springing toward her.
"It is nothing," she replied, with a repelling gesture. "John Bennington, was it not?"
"Yes." His eyes grew round with wonder.
"I was going to keep it secret as long as I could, but I see it is useless. He is the man I have promised to marry." Her voice had a singular quietness.
Warrington retreated to his desk, leaning heavily against it.
"Bennington? You are going to marry John Bennington?" dully.
"Yes."
He sat down abruptly and stared at her with the expression of one who is suddenly confronted by some Medusa's head, as if in the straggling wisps of hair that escaped from beneath her hat he saw the writhing serpents. She was going to marry John Bennington!
She stepped quickly up to the desk and began to scatter things about. Her hands shook, she breathed rapidly, her delicate nostrils dilating the while.
"Look out!" he warned, at her side the same instant. "Your hat is burning!" He smothered the incipient flame between his palms.
"Never mind the hat. My gloves, Dick, my gloves! I left them here on the desk."
"Your gloves?" Then immediately he recollected that he had seen them in Bennington's hands, but he was positive that the gloves meant nothing to Bennington. He had picked them up just as he would have picked up a paper-cutter, a pencil, a match-box, if any of these had been within reach of his nervous fingers. Most men who are at times mentally embarrassed find relief in touching small inanimate objects. So he said reassuringly: "Don't let a pair of gloves worry you, girl."
"He bought them for me this morning," a break in her voice. "I MUST find them!"
The situation assumed altogether a different angle. There was a hint of tragedy in her eyes. More trivial things than a forgotten pair of gloves have brought about death and division. Together they renewed the search. They sifted the manuscripts, the books, the magazines, burrowed into the drawers; and sometimes their hands touched, but they neither noticed nor felt the contact. Warrington even dropped to his knees and hunted under the desk, all the while "Jack Bennington, Jack Bennington!" drumming in his ears. The search was useless. The gloves were nowhere to be found. He stood up irresolute, dismayed and anxious, keenly alive to her misery and to the inferences his best friend might draw. The desk stood between them, but their faces were within two spans of the hand.
"I can't find them."
"They are gone!" she whispered.