The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bought and Paid For, by Arthur Hornblow This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Bought and Paid For From the Play of George Broadhurst Author: Arthur Hornblow Release Date: July 8, 2005 [EBook #16249] Last updated: January 3, 2009 Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOUGHT AND PAID FOR *** Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Carol David, Joshua Hutchinson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Bought And Paid For A Story of To-day From the Play of George Broadhurst by Arthur Hornblow Illustrations From Scenes In The Play New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers Copyright, 1912, by G.W. Dillingham Company Without Further Argument, He Seized Hold Of Her. Contents Contents Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter I "How is he now, doctor? Don't—don't tell me there is no hope!" The wife, a tall, aristocratic looking woman who, despite her advanced years, her snow-white hair, her eyes now red and swollen from weeping, and pallid face seamed with careworn lines from constant vigils, still showed traces of former beauty, scanned the physician fearfully, trying to read in the expression of his countenance what the friend and man of science, out of sheer compassion, was doing his utmost to conceal. He had just emerged from the sick chamber; the trained nurse, methodical and quick, and singularly attractive looking in her neat uniform, had closed the door noiselessly behind him. Two young girls, one about eighteen and the other some four years her junior, both possessing more than average good looks, stood timidly in the background anxiously awaiting, together with their grief-stricken mother, to hear the dreaded verdict. The physician paid no attention to them, but paced up and down the room, his manner stern and forbidding, his head inclined in deep thought, as if bent under the weight of tremendous responsibilities. A noted specialist in pulmonary troubles, Dr. Wilston Everett was well past middle age, and his tall, erect figure, massive frame and fine, leonine head, crowned by a mass of stubborn, iron-gray hair, made him a conspicuous figure everywhere. His expression, stern in repose, was that of a profound student; it was a face where lofty thoughts, humane feeling and every other noble attribute had left its indelible impress. Mrs. Blaine watched him fearfully, afraid to intrude on his reflections. Finally, summoning up courage, she stammered weakly: "How do you find him—not worse, is he?" The doctor made no reply, but for a few moments stood looking at the three women in silence. He felt sorry for them— so sorry that it was only by the exercise of the greatest self-control that he kept his eyes from filling with tell-tale tears. Who, better than he, could realize the full extent of the misfortune which had suddenly befallen these poor people? It was almost the same as if it had happened to himself. Was he not, indeed, one of the family? Had he not been present at poor Blaine's wedding, brought each of these girls into the world and played with them on his knees? Now they had grown up to be young women, they looked upon him as their second father. Blaine, poor fellow, little thought that the end was so near! That's what he had got for giving up his life to the most exciting and ungrateful profession in the world. He had worked himself to death for a pittance, until, giving way under the strain, his constitution completely undermined, he proved an easy victim for pneumonia. If he had been less scrupulous, more of a grafter, if he had seen in his profession only the money to be made out of it, he might have been a rich man by this time. But he was honest, honorable to a fault. No amount of money could induce him to take tainted money. No matter what legal white washing he was promised, he would have nothing to do with thieves and perjurers. What was the result? After twenty years of legal practice he was still a poor man and here on his deathbed, suddenly struck down in the prime of life before he had time to properly provide for his dear ones. Probably there was no insurance. In fact, everyone knew that there was not. Blaine had admitted as much to him some time ago. He had said then that he had only $2,000 worth, but intended getting more. Now it was too late. Only a few paltry dollars—barely enough to bury him. The comfortably furnished room with its piano, books and pictures and other scattered evidence of culture and refinement, showed the manner in which the Blaines liked to live. Through the open window, affording a fine view of Central Park, with its rolling lawns, winding paths and masses of green foliage, came the distant sounds of busy traffic on the Avenue, ten stories below. Of course, they would have to give up all this. There was not the slightest hope for the patient. He was past human aid. It was only a question of a few hours, perhaps only minutes, when the end would come. Yet how could he break the terrible truth to this poor woman, to these children who now stood watching him, their lips not daring to give utterance to the dread question he could plainly read in their tired, red eyes? There was an unnatural silence. When anyone spoke it was in an almost inaudible whisper. Each seemed to feel that Death, grim and awful of aspect, was stalking invisible through the room. From behind the closed door where the father and husband lay dying there came no sound. Only an occasional sob from the wife, and the movements of the two girls as they endeavored to console her, relieved the oppressive stillness. Suddenly the doctor's eye encountered Mrs. Blaine's searching, questioning gaze. Averting his head, he said: "We must wait and hope for the best. You must be brave. He may rally. I don't like the heart action. That's what bothers me. If there's another sinking spell—" Mrs. Blaine laid her cold, trembling hand on his. Quickly she said: "You won't go away?" He shook his head. "Of course not. I'll stay until the crisis is past." The bedchamber door opened softly and the nurse appeared, with a worried look on her face. "What is it, nurse," demanded the physician quickly. "May I see you a minute, doctor?" Dr. Everett went towards the bedroom. Mrs. Blaine was about to follow when he turned and barred the way. "Let me see him, doctor. Please let me go in," she pleaded. The physician shook his head. Kindly but firmly he said: "Not now. We may have to administer oxygen. You'd only be in the way. You are better in here taking care of your daughters. If you are needed I'll call you." He disappeared into the inner room, and Mrs. Blaine, feeling faint from anxiety and suspense, sank exhausted into a chair. The two girls, nervous and ill at ease, too young to grasp the full significance of the calamity that had befallen them, approached timidly. Fanny, the elder girl, stood still, alarm and consternation written plainly on her face. Her younger sister, bursting into a paroxysm of weeping, threw her arms round her mother's neck. "Oh, mother!" she sobbed. "Surely God won't let papa be taken from us! I wouldn't believe in Him any more if He couldn't prevent that!" Mrs. Blaine raised one hand reprovingly as with the other she caressed her daughter's beautiful, long, dark hair. "Hush! Virginia, dear. It's wicked to talk like that. God does everything for the best. If it is His will, we must be resigned." Clasping her sobbing child to her breast, Mrs. Blaine sat in silence, her heart throbbing wildly, straining her ears to hear what was being done in the inner room, momentarily expecting to be summoned. As she sat there, enduring mental torture, each moment seeming like an hour, she rapidly thought over the situation. In spite of her grief, her helplessness, her brain worked lucidly enough. She realized that her husband was dying. Her life's companion, the father of her children, was going away from her—forever. Like a lightning flash, her whole life passed suddenly in review: She saw herself a young girl again, about Virginia's age, and with the same fondness for gaiety and companionship. She, too, had been fond of music, art and literature, and she was filled with ambition to make a name for herself. One day she met John Blaine, then a young law student. It was a case of love at first sight. They did not stop to consider ways and means. They got married, and to-day, after thirty years of loving companionship, her only regret was that she could not die before him. John had been a loyal friend, a faithful companion, both in fair weather and foul, and now their life's journey together had come to an abrupt end. It was too dreadful to think of. It seemed to her that all these happenings of the last few days—this sudden sickness, the coming of the trained nurse, Dr. Everett's grave demeanor—was a hideous dream from which she would soon awake. Their situation was, indeed, desperate. It had taken practically all John's income to live respectably. Living expenses were high and rents exorbitant. What made matters worse, there was practically no life insurance. John had intended taking out more, but it had been neglected. After the funeral and other expenses what would be left of the paltry $2,000? They would have to find a cheaper apartment. The girls—she herself—would have to find work of some kind. It would be terribly hard on the girls. Not only they lost a loving, devoted father, but at an age when a nice home, and comfortable surroundings meant everything in ensuring their future, they would find themselves penniless and forced to go out into a cold, unsympathetic world to earn their living. Fanny, she knew, would not mind. She was fond of work and had no artistic aspirations; but the blow would fall heavily on poor Virginia, who had set her heart on going to high school. "Why are you so silent, mother dear?" asked Virginia suddenly. "Of what are you thinking?" "Just thinking—that's all," sighed Mrs. Blaine. Virginia, not to be put off so easily, was about to insist on an answer less vague, when suddenly the bedroom door opened and Dr. Everett appeared. He advanced quickly into the room, his coat rumpled, his manner strangely agitated. It was so unusual to see the physician otherwise than calm and dignified that it seemed incredible that anything, no matter how important, could ruffle him. Mrs. Blaine's instinct told her the reason. Startled, she sprang to her feet. "My God!" she exclaimed. "He's not—" The doctor shook his head. "No; a weak spell—that's all. You'd better come in. The children can remain here." The next instant the two sisters were alone. For a few moments the girls, their arms clasped round each other's waists, stood still, as if spellbound, staring at the door which mercifully veiled from their view the tragedy of life then being enacted in the adjoining room. Terror- stricken, too frightened even to cry, they sat down and waited, straining their ears to hear what was going on. Why had Doctor Everett summoned their mother? If Dad was worse, if the crisis had come, why were they, too, not permitted to see him? Instinctively they felt that their fears were only too well founded. They shuddered, and it seemed to them that they felt a chill in the air as if the Angel of Death had already entered the apartment and was hovering near them. Virginia, nervous and hysterical, began to cry. Fanny, endeavoring to appear brave, but inwardly as nervous, took the girl in her arms and spoke consolingly and sensibly to her as became an elder sister. But Virginia obstinately refused to be comforted. Burying her face on her sister's shoulder, she gave free vent to the storm of tears which had been gathering in her girlish bosom all day. Devoted to her father even more than to her mother, the mere thought of losing him was intolerable. He was her comrade, her adviser, her mentor. All she had undertaken or was about to undertake was to please him. If she had excelled in her studies and advanced more rapidly than other girls in her class, he was the cause. She needed his praise, his censure to spur her on in her work. With him gone, it seemed to her that her own life, too, had come to an end, not realizing, in her youthful inexperience, that it had not yet commenced. She was a singularly attractive girl and gave every promise of developing into a remarkably handsome woman. Slight and somewhat delicate in build, she was of brunette type, with a face oval in shape, small features and large, lustrous eyes shaded by unusually long lashes. The nose was aristocratic, and when she spoke her mouth, beautifully curved, revealed perfect teeth. Her hands were white and shapely, and the mass of dark, silky hair which fell luxuriantly over her shoulders was the despair of every other girl of her acquaintance. But it was not the possession of these mere externals that made people look twice at Virginia Blaine. If she had had only beauty there would have been nothing to particularly distinguish her from the many millions of girls to whom Nature has been kind. Beauty per se has no permanent power to attract. One soon tires of admiring an inanimate piece of sculpture, no matter how perfectly chiselled. If a woman lacks intelligence, esprit, temperament, men soon grow weary of her society, even though she have the beauty of a Venus de Medici; whereas, even a plain woman, by sheer force of soul and wit, can attract friends and make the world forget her ugliness. What made John Blaine's younger daughter an especial favorite was that in her case good looks were allied with brains. She made friends by her natural charm, her vivacity, her keen intelligence and uncommon strength of character, which, despite her youth, she had exhibited on more than one occasion. She was a merry-hearted, spirited, independent kind of a girl with decided views of her own regarding right and wrong and with the courage to express them. As the poet wrote: Her glossy hair was clustered o'er her brow Bright with intelligence and fair and smooth; Her eyebrow's shape was the aerial bow, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, As if her veins ran lightning. Two sisters more unlike in character and tastes it would be almost impossible to discover. Fanny, the elder, lacked not only Virginia's good looks, and also her brains. Yet she was good-natured and easy-going, and, as long as she had her own way, managed to get along with everybody. She went through the lower grades of public school, but did not shine as a particularly bright pupil, evincing little love for books, and shirking study when possible. Her fondness for amusement and her uncultivated taste also led to her associating habitually with companions beneath her socially. She was a thoroughly good girl. A vulgar allusion would have shocked her, an impertinence she would have quickly resented; yet she seemed of a coarser fibre than the rest of the family, the reason for which, seeing that both girls had equal advantages and opportunities, only an expert psychologist could explain. She had gone through school mechanically as an unpleasant task to be gotten over with as soon as possible, taking no interest in her work, and when she came out her brain was a sluggish and unresponsive as one might expect. Well aware of her shortcomings, she made light of them, insisting laughingly that she was the dunce of the family and Virginia its genius. She would do the drudgery of housekeeping while her sister went to college. There was no bitterness, no jealousy in this apparent rivalry. Fanny was devoted to her little sister and proud of her cleverness. She declared that one day Virginia would make a brilliant marriage and then she could pay it all back. That Virginia should ultimately go to college had been fully determined on. Everything attracted her to a liberal education. She was ambitious; she craved knowledge and showed talent in almost everything—in music, composition, painting. To her a liberal education would mean everything—the widening of her mental horizon, the initiation into keen, intellectual delights. No matter what sacrifice was to be made, to college the girl should go. So declared the parents. Now all was changed. This blow which robbed her of her father also shattered her hopes for the future. All this flashed through Virginia's mind as they sat there, waiting. Turning to her sister, she said through her tears: "If the worst happened—Fan—if Dad died—we couldn't go on living here, could we?" Fanny shook her head. Sagely she replied: "No, I'm afraid not. Father's got no insurance. Mother says we've lived up to everything. I guess I'll have to go to work —" "So will I," said Virginia quickly. "What nonsense you talk, Virgie!" interrupted her sister almost angrily. "As if you were intended for work! Nature intended you to be a lady, and a lady you'll be if I have to work all the flesh off my bones. Don't you suppose mother and I haven't talked it over already." With mock contempt she went on: "You work! What at, I'd like to know. Giving music lessons or writing articles for the ten-cent magazines! It's different with 'yours truly.' I'm not a highbrow. I never cared for books or culture and all that sort of thing. But I guess as a saleslady in some store I'll make a hit. Anyway, I'll make enough to keep things going—so there'll be enough for you and mother. Now—there isn't any use arguing. It's college for yours, Virgie, and when you graduate you'll marry a millionaire and we'll all be happy and comfy." Virginia was about to protest when suddenly there was a commotion behind them. The bedroom door was abruptly opened and Dr. Everett came in, supporting Mrs. Blaine, who was weeping bitterly. The two girls sprang to their feet with a startled cry. "How's father?" they exclaimed. Staggering to a chair, Mrs. Blaine clasped both her children to her breast. "Your father is in Heaven!" she murmured. Then she fell prostrate on the sofa, her whole being shaken by convulsive sobs. Virginia, panic-stricken, darted forward, but the Doctor held out a restraining hand. "Don't, child—let her cry. It will do her good." Chapter II "Fanny! Where are my scissors? Did you take my scissors?" Seated in the centre of the small parlor, before a round table fairly well lighted by an electrolier suspended from the middle of the ceiling and littered with chiffons and laces, Mrs. Blaine stopped sewing and began a laborious search all over the board for the missing article. Finally the scissors were found hidden in the folds of what some day would be a graduation dress, but no sooner were they in use than something else was missing. Impatiently, the widow called out: "Fanny! I do wish you'd come here. I'll never get this dress done. Did you see the roll of satin ribbon?" But Fanny, busy just then with a customer in the outer shop, paid no attention to the summons. Virginia's new dress could wait—it was a whole month to graduation day anyhow—but business was not so good that one could afford to neglect a possible purchaser. Four summers had gone by since John Blaine's death yet in that comparatively brief space of time, his widow appeared to have aged ten years or more. Now bent, infirm, a chronic invalid, she did not look as if she would long survive him. The world goes on just the same no matter whose heart is breaking, and time flies so quickly that the happenings of a decade seem only of yesterday. But John Blaine was not forgotten. The flowers that each week decorated his grave, placed there by loving hands, served to keep fresh the father's memory. As far as was possible, the bereaved wife tried to keep to herself the sorrow that had slowly but surely undermined her health and made her an old woman before her hour. In her heart she knew that she would not long remain after the dear departed one; all she asked was that she should live long enough to see her girls happily married and taken care of. At first it had seemed as if existence without him was impossible, yet the regular routine of life must go on. Besides it was not fair to the girls. Her own life was irretrievably wrecked, but theirs had barely begun. It would be selfish to allow her grief to cast a permanent shadow over their young lives. They loved their father very dearly; his death had been a great shock to them. But they were young. They had a thousand outside interests to distract their attention. And youth, with its gaze still turned upward to the stars, soon forgets. When everything was settled, the widow found herself with a little less than $3,000, all she possessed in the world. To attempt to live on the interest alone of such a slender capital was obviously an impossibility, so it was decided that they would move uptown, where they would not be known, and open a little millinery shop. This was a bright idea that had occurred to Fanny. She had always been clever at trimming hats. Why not put her skill to commercial profit? She and her mother could very well attend to such a business, while Virginia continued in school. If they were only fairly successful, the income would pay expenses, carry them along and help keep their capital intact. Dr. Everett heartily approved the plan, not only because it might prove a source of steady income, but also because it would be distraction for the widow and help her to forget. Mrs. Blaine somewhat reluctantly consented, and the girls set out enthusiastically to look for a shop. After no end of running here and there all over New York, they found just what they wanted in one of the cheaper and more recently developed districts of Harlem. It was a narrow little store, with a fair-sized show window on Broadway, and with living rooms in the rear. Fanny declared it was just too cute for anything, and as she was the prime mover in the enterprise, a lease was signed without further delay, and the Blaine family took immediate possession. At first the girls were as delighted with their new home as are children with a new toy. It being Summer time, there was no school for Virginia, so she was free to assist in the store. She dressed the window and waited on the customers, and after a very busy day, which kept her on her feet from morning till night, thought she had never had so much fun in her life. For the nonce, books and music were forgotten. She was a smart little saleslady, succeeding in selling one after the other, for ten dollars, hats which had cost Fanny not more than two. But her coöperation was not to be for long. It was quite decided that in the Fall she was to go to High School. This was her mother's wish, and it had also been insisted upon by Fanny as a condition of their taking the store. Virginia, at heart, was glad enough to acquiesce. As they were too poor to keep a maid, she would willingly have stayed at home and shouldered her share of the daily toil, but an education meant a great deal to her, more than to most girls, and she would have relinquished her schooling only with bitter regret. Autumn came with its cooler weather and longer evenings, and when High School opened Virginia was sent to resume her studies, while her sister and mother, busy in the store, exerted every effort to keep the little household going. The younger girl felt keenly the sacrifice they were making for her, and determined to prove worthy of it. She began to apply herself more energetically than ever. A clever, brainy girl, she was highly sensitive to every surrounding influence, with ideas and ideals of her own, in full sympathy with the social side of life, yet independent and self-reliant, and just beginning to choose her own path in the bewildering maze of the world's devious thoroughfare. In High School she made astonishing progress. Her fine mentality enabled her to grasp quickly the most obtuse scientific and economic problems, and her natural taste for belles lettres making languages and general literature comparatively easy, she soon distinguished herself above the other girls of her class. Especial talent she showed for public speaking, having a good command of English, with forcible delivery and sound logic. So successful, indeed, was she in this respect, that in her final year, as graduation day drew near, she was picked out from among three hundred and fifty girls to deliver the class oration at the graduating exercises. Mrs. Blaine, overjoyed at this fulfillment of her fondest hopes, at once said she would make the graduation dress. Fanny and Virginia, knowing well the labor it would involve, demurred. It was too much of an undertaking. Their mother was far from strong; the sewing would tire her eyes. Besides, they could not spare the time from the store. It would be cheaper and quicker to buy the dress ready made. Even Dr. Everett, when consulted, shook his head and tried to discourage the widow from a task which he was afraid might prove beyond her strength. But Mrs. Blaine was not to be put off so easily. Since their father's death, she had let the girls have much their own way, but this time she was determined. It would be a labor of love, she insisted. Daddie, himself, would have wished it. And so, without further ado, work on the beloved graduation dress was commenced. And such work as it entailed! Running down town each instant, to buy satin and ribbon and laces and lining, unable to find what was wanted, or else purchasing something that did not suit and having to take it back and exchange it for something else. The girls literally wore their shoes to pieces, but they did not mind. They knew that making this graduation dress was the one great joy that had come into their mother's life since their father's death, and they were amply rewarded when, after a long and arduous shopping tour they returned home with the required article and handed it to her as she bent low over her work at the board she would look up with a smile and exclaim: "Oh, isn't it beautiful? That's just what I wanted! Now I can get on with Virginia's dress." Thus, between working and studying, the days passed pleasantly enough. The little shop prospered, and all three were happy, each in her own way, Fanny in looking after the customers, Virginia in doing her lessons, Mrs. Blaine in working on her beloved graduation dress. It was about this time that a romance came into Fanny's heretofore prosaic existence. So far the poor girl had not enjoyed much of life. Her time spent between four walls, there was a very narrow horizon to her outlook on things. She rarely went out, took no part in the pleasures and gaieties of other young women of her age. When not waiting on customers, she was cooking. Yet she was always good-natured about it. Laughingly she called herself Cinderella, because, while her more favored sister might be dressing up to go to recitals, lectures or concerts, she would be in the kitchen washing up the dishes. She took it amiably, yet there were times when she had a quiet cry all to herself, when she thought that her mother, instead of being so much engrossed in making a fine graduation dress for sister, might remember that she, too, needed something pretty to wear. When, therefore, one evening at a neighbor's party, she happened to meet a young man who went considerably out of his way to pay her attention, she was greatly flattered and gratified. The very novelty of it startled her. Until now none of the eligible young men had so much as looked at her. Virginia, quite innocently, of course, had always monopolized their society. But this particular young man, whose name was James Gillie, seemed not in the least attracted to Virginia. In fact, he rather avoided her, appearing to be somewhat intimidated by her well-bred manners and cultured conversation. He made no secret of his preference for the homelier virtues of the elder sister, whose irrepressible propensity for picturesque, up-to-date slang and free-and-easy style put them on a more equal social footing. So began an acquaintance which resulted in the young man becoming a frequent and intimate visitor at the Blaine home. Mr. James Gillie was an original in more ways than one, and it was some time before either Mrs. Blaine or Virginia could bring themselves to approve Fanny's liking for a young man with ways so uncouth and vulgar and whose antecedents were obviously so plebeian. Of Irish parentage, but American born, James Gillie was a product of the newest America, the typical gamin of New York's streets, fresh and slangy in speech, keen to the main chance, not over scrupulous, shrewd and calculating. Fair and slight in build, he was about twenty-six years old and his upper lip was adorned with a few thinly scattered hairs, which he proudly termed a moustache. Otherwise he was unintelligent and ordinary looking, one of the many thousands of New York young men who, graduates of the slums, have been left to shift for themselves, and whose chief intellectual pastime has been standing on street corners reading baseball returns. Not only had he no education, but he was rather proud of the fact, affecting to despise bookish people as prigs and "high-brows." Incompetent and lazy, without any real ability, he worked only because he had to, and his standing grievance was that he was misunderstood, unappreciated and underpaid. The one good side to his nature, and the one which, perhaps, appealed most to Fanny, was the unconscious possession of a rich fund of humor. He was funny without intending to be, and this not only made him a diverting companion but ensured him a welcome everywhere. With the straightest of faces, he would say funny things in so ludicrous a manner that a roomful of people would go into convulsions. He laughed with them, not realizing they were laughing at him, but ever preening himself on being a very witty and clever person indeed. His greatest fault was inordinate vanity. He had the highest opinion of his own capacity, and he could never understand why capitalists generally did not tumble over each other to secure his services. At the present time he was earning the magnificent salary of ten dollars a week as shipping clerk, but this, he explained, was only a nominal stipend, as a starter. Before very long he would be president of the company. His hobby was inventing things. So far he had not made enough by his brain to purchase a collar button, but ideas were coming thick and fast, and he was convinced that the day was not far distant when he would make a great fortune. That is why, all things considered, he believed himself, despite his obscure origin and lack of education, a desirable match for the proudest girl in the land. "Fanny! Where's my tape measure? I can't find my tape measure." Once more Mrs. Blaine laid down her work and began to rummage among the mass of chiffons and laces piled up before her. In the shop outside she could hear her daughter laughing and talking. Impatiently the widow called out: "Can't you come and help me, Fanny? Who are you talking to?" "It's Mr. Gillie, mother," came the answer. "He's helping me close the store." A look of anxiety crossed Mrs. Blaine's face. It went against the grain to entertain a person like Mr. Gillie, but for her child's sake she said nothing, and when he called, as he had done very frequently recently, she had tried to receive him as cordially as possible. But to-night she was very tired. At times she felt dizzy and faint. His interminable chatter and boasting would only weary her more. So, hoping the visitor would take the hint, she called out again: "Isn't Virginia home yet? It's getting very late." "She couldn't be here yet," called out Fanny. "The concert's not over till ten. We've all closed up now. I'm coming right in." A moment later the young girl appeared, followed more leisurely by Mr. Gillie. The shipping clerk entered jauntily, a lighted cigar in his mouth, full of self-assurance. He wore a check suit much too small for him, a pink tie, and patent-leather shoes. Fanny's face was red and her manner somewhat flustered, but this the mother, bent low over her work, did not notice. "Good evening, m'm," said Mr. Gillie, coolly seating himself without waiting to be asked. Sitting back, crossing his legs and carelessly flecking his cigar ash on the floor, he added in patronizing tones: "How's the world using you?" "Good evening, Mr. Gillie," returned the widow graciously. "How are you?" "Oh, fairly well to middlin'." Glancing at the littered table, he said: "Still busy on the graduation dress, I see." Mrs. Blaine sighed wearily. "Yes—it's taking me longer than I bargained for. Sometimes I feel very tired. I wish Virginia was here to try it on." Fanny glanced at the clock. With a quick, significant look at Mr. Gillie, she said quickly: "She'll be here any moment now. The concert is usually out by this time." There was an awkward pause and then she stammered: "Mr. Gillie has something to say to you, mother." Mrs. Blaine laid down her work and looked up in surprise. "Something to say to me?" she echoed in amazement, looking inquiringly from her daughter to the visitor. But Fanny, her face crimson, had already bolted into the kitchen, while Mr. Gillie, his chair tilted backward, a picture of magnificent unconcern, coolly blew smoke rings into the air. "Something to say to me?" repeated Mrs. Blaine. "Asch—ooah!" His chair suddenly returning to the floor level with a thud that shook the house, Mr. Gillie sneezed violently, a physiological phenomenon which curiously enough never failed to present itself when any extraordinary pressure was put upon his brain cells. Wiping his watery eyes with a pink-bordered handkerchief—a color he rather affected—he began eloquently: "Mrs. Blaine, you're a sensible woman. I feel I can talk to you plain. There comes a time in every man's life when he feels lonesome—when it looks good to him to have someone round all the time, looking after things—his dinner, his clothes, and so on. Why, sometimes I go around for weeks with my suspenders only half fastened, just because I've got no one to sew a button on. It gets on a feller's nerves—yes, it does—until at last he says to himself: 'Jimmie, my boy, you've knocked about alone long enough. You want to hitch up with some girl and take it easy a bit.'" He stopped a moment to gauge the effect of his words, but as Mrs. Blaine gave no sign that she understood what he was driving at, he proceeded: "I'm not much good at speechifying. With the frills all cut and to come to the point, this is what it is: Fanny seems the kind of girl I'm looking for, and I don't see I could do any better. I've just asked her, and now it's kinder up to you—" The widow took off her spectacles and gasped. Could she have heard aright? He was actually asking for Fanny. She was amazed not so much at his monumental selfishness and impudence as that Fanny herself could have given him the slightest encouragement. She fully realized that times had changed since the days when they lifted their heads proudly in the world, but to sink as low as this seemed too terrible, too humiliating. Yet, after all, could she blame her daughter? What was her present life, what would be her future, without education, without money—unless she had someone who could take care of her? Dissembling her indignation as much as possible, she inquired suavely: "This takes me very much by surprise, Mr. Gillie. You will, of course, allow me leisure to talk it over with my daughter. May I ask if your means permit you to provide a comfortable home for Fanny—the kind of home to which she has been accustomed?" The muscles of Mr. Gillie's nostrils contracted and for a moment it looked as if his slight frame were again about to be shaken convulsively by a mighty sneeze, but the spasm passed. He merely coughed loudly to clear his throat. Then, glancing round the room in which he was sitting, he said: "Oh, I guess we'll be able to put on as good a front as this, all right, all right." Tilting his chair back until it seemed physically impossible that he could maintain his balance, he went on between puffs of his cigar: "You see, m'm, I'm not the kind of man that's satisfied to go on working all his life for only just enough to keep body and soul together. That's all right maybe for pikers—poor devils that have no spunk—but not for 'yours truly.' I'm a pusher, a climber, I am, and, what's more, I'm a man with ideas. No one can keep me down in the world. One of these days I'll be driving my own automobile and Fanny will be riding in it with me. It's no 'guff' I'm giving you. I'm the real 'goods.'" "You are a shipping clerk, I believe," said Mrs. Blaine when she could get in a word sideways. "Yes, m'm," he snapped, "a shipping clerk—what of it?" "Is that a very—lucrative position?" He laughed derisively as if it was absurd to imagine he was going to remain a shipping clerk all his life. "Oh, I'm only a clerk now, but I'll be boss some day—see if I don't." "Might I ask what your present income is?" inquired the widow blandly. For the first time Mr. Gillie seemed at a loss for an answer. Awkwardly shifting his cigar to the other corner of his mouth, he stammered: "I'm not getting much now—ten a week—that's all." Hastily he continued: "But it won't be for long. The big men down town know me—they know what I'm worth to them. They're just watching me. Any day they may make me an offer that would land me in Easy Street. Besides, sooner or later I'll astonish people with one of my inventions. I'm full of new ideas. Some of them are bound to make money. It's a cinch!" How long he would have continued in this strain there is no telling, for, although not talkative usually, he always became extraordinarily loquacious when encouraged to speak of his own affairs. Utterly exhausted by his chatter and feeling dreadfully tired, Mrs. Blaine began to wish that her unwelcome visitor would go. The room was full of tobacco smoke and his free-and-easy manner irritated her extremely. Of course, his proposal was ridiculous, an impertinence. It was Fanny's fault for having encouraged him. But it was best to say nothing—to just drop him gently. An awkward pause followed during which the widow, fatigued as she was, plied her needle more industriously than ever, while the would- be Benedict, nicely balanced on his chair, amused himself sending rings of smoke up to the ceiling. Happily, at this juncture, Fanny returned from the kitchen. She had noticed the strained silence and feared it boded ill. A glance at her mother's face was enough. Quickly she exclaimed: "Now, mother, you must go to bed. Mr. Gillie will excuse you, I'm sure. It's getting real late." Taking the hint, the shipping clerk rose to his feet. With a grin he said: "That's right, m'm—all work and no play don't agree with nobody. That's my maxim. Well, good night, ladies!" As he shuffled off, accompanied to the door by Fanny, he said in an undertone: "It's O.K., Fan—I put it to her good and hard —it's you for mine, all right!" As they passed along the dark passage he profited by the opportunity to snatch a kiss, and as they bade each other good-bye he said: "You'd better get after mother. She was for handing me a nice, juicy lemon, but I gave her a line of talk that fetched her. Good night, sweetheart!" Just as he was going out at the front door, Virginia came up. "Good evening, Mr. Gillie," she said politely. He laughed as he chucked her playfully under the chin. "Mr. Gillie?" he echoed. "What's the matter with James or Jimmie? Good night, little sis!" With a boisterous laugh he went out into the street and shut the door. Virginia, astounded, looked at her sister and laughed. "What's the matter with him to-night?" she exclaimed. "Is he crazy?" Without waiting for an answer, she added quickly: "How's mother?" Fanny averted her face. She dreaded taking Virginia into her confidence; somehow she could not tell her. Briefly she said: "She's very tired—been working until now. We expected you home earlier. She wanted to try on the dress." Quickly removing her hat and coat which she threw on a convenient chair, Virginia answered: "The concert was out later than usual. Dr. Everett was there. He brought me to the corner. How long has Mr. Gillie been here?" "All evening," replied Fanny. Then suddenly the elder sister flung her arms round Virginia's neck. "Virgie!" she exclaimed, "what do you think? Mr. Gillie has asked me to marry him." Chapter III Each day brought graduation day nearer, and Mrs. Blaine, becoming more and more nervous as the great event approached, made strenuous efforts to get the dress finished in time. There were vexatious delays without number. It was difficult to find the right material or else something went wrong with the measurements and all had to be done over again. From morning till night, day after day, the old lady sat in doors, at the table piled high with dressmaker's litter, deeply engrossed in her self-appointed labor of love. In vain Virginia and Fanny protested. Their mother refused to listen to them. This dress, she insisted, was her one joy in life. It would be cruel to deprive her of anything which afforded her so much pleasure. They said no more, but they noticed with alarm that each day their mother seemed to age a year. Her cheeks became more hollow, her face more chalky white. She complained continually of pains in the region of the heart, and it was plainly discernible that she was rapidly growing more feeble. One day when Dr. Everett was paying them one of his regular weekly visits Virginia took him aside and told him of her anxiety. He seemed to know already what she had to say. Taking both her hands in his, in that big-hearted, paternal manner so characteristic of him, he said impressively: "Dear child—you must be brave. You cannot expect to have your mother always with you. She is tired and world- weary. She has earned that beautiful, eternal sleep which alone brings perfect peace. An organic disease of the heart, which remained latent up to the time of your father's death, has now become very pronounced. Trouble and sorrow have aggravated the condition. Your mother may live for years; then again she may pass away from us any time. One never can tell what will happen when the heart is in that state." A long spell of weeping followed this confidential chat with the doctor, and for days Virginia went about only a shadow of her former self. How cruel was life! she mused. First to lose her father, and now her best, her only friend! What would she do when her mother was gone? Fanny was hardly a companion. She was so different; her tastes and pursuits were not the same. There was not the same bond of sympathy between them. If anything happened, they would, of course, go on living together as usual, but how different their life would be! Nothing further had been said regarding Mr. Gillie's proposal. Fanny had not mentioned it again, and both Virginia and Mrs. Blaine were silent. Instinctively Fanny knew that her mother and sister disapproved of the match and inwardly she resented it. Why should they interfere with her happiness? She had a right to look after her own interests. What better offer could she expect? Suppose James was a rough diamond; he might still make a better husband than some other man better educated. He had had no advantages, but he was respectable and clever. Everyone admitted that he was smart. His ideas were simply wonderful. One of these days he would make a lot of money with his brains, and then she would be proud to be his wife. Thus she reasoned and, once she made up her mind, nothing could alter it. Mr. Gillie continued his visits and made himself quite at home until, at last, they all called him by his first name and it became quite natural to see him there. There was no more talk of marriage, but both Mrs. Blaine and Virginia soon arrived at the conclusion that he and Fanny were tacitly engaged. Virginia sometimes wondered if she herself would ever marry, and, if so, what kind of man she would choose for a husband. What she knew and heard of marriage had not filled her with any keen anxiety to enter the married state, or with any profound respect for matrimony as a social institution. In theory it was beautiful; in practice it left much to be desired. Like any thoughtful girl having a broad, sane outlook on life, she fully appreciated the dangers and unhappiness that may attend unions entered into lightly and carelessly, without such safeguards as regards morals and health, as a paternal State should properly control. Although a girl of high moral principles, she was not innocent. Are there any such? Innocence is, of necessity, the sister of ignorance. The conditions of modern existence render it impossible for any girl, once she has attained the age of fifteen, to continue unacquainted with the main facts of life, and some are initiated at an even tenderer age. How is it possible for any maiden to remain unenlightened in this regard these days when sensational, muck-raking prints throw the searchlight of publicity into every boudoir and spicy details of society's philandering fill column after column in the breakfast table newspaper? No matter how little curiosity a healthy-minded girl may have, by reason of a natural coldness of temperament, to acquire such knowledge, it becomes, in spite of her, part of her daily surroundings and she cannot escape its contaminating, demoralizing influence. Virginia was no fool. Now nearly nineteen, she knew everything about life which an intelligent girl should know. What puzzled her most was to determine her own mental attitude towards marriage. Not yet having met a man for whom she could feel any especial regard, the idea of forming with any man as close an association as marriage would mean was repellent to her. The intimate relation the marital tie pre-supposes frightened and appalled her as it has done many times before thousands of passionless, strongly intellectual women who, bringing cold analysis to bear on the sexual instinct, rebel at the subordinate, humiliating role which the weaker sex is called upon to play in Nature's vast and wonderfully complex scheme. Not that she was passionless or lacking in temperament. The girl in "whose veins ran lightning" could hardly be accused of indifference to the opposite sex. She liked several young men, but there was not one of them whom she could bring herself to think of in the light of a husband. Girls often married for other than sentimental reasons. Of that she was well aware. Self-interest was at the bottom of most marriages. Cupid, guileless as he seems, is often a shrewd, calculating little gnome in disguise. If a girl has no means, no friends, no way of earning a living, what is going to become of her unless she seeks refuge in marriage? Her first instinct is to find a husband, a man sufficiently well off to support both. There was, of course, only one word with which to brand that sort of thing. It was a legalized form of prostitution, an approved system of cohabitation which must be horrible and detestable to any girl of decent instincts, no matter which way she looked at it, and yet it was a state of white slavery which society fully condoned and ever approved. Hundreds of virtuous girls thus sold themselves—to the highest bidder. The slums had no monopoly of the white slave traffic; it flourished equally well on fashionable Fifth Avenue, where its countless victims, for the honor of the system, managed to conceal their tears from the world. What did bridge-playing mothers care about their daughters' happiness so long as they were able to procure for them rich men who could give them fine houses, servants, and automobiles? It was all hideous and ghastly, when viewed thus sanely, and Virginia shuddered as she thought of it. To such degradation as this she would never sink. Never would she marry a man whom she did not truly love. If it came to the worst she would go as domestic servant or even starve rather than surrender her self-respect. Graduation day was almost at hand, but the dress was still unfinished. There was considerable work yet to be done on it. The nearer came the important event, the more nervous and exhausted Mrs. Blaine showed herself. She had already had several fainting spells and on one occasion the girls were so alarmed that they thought the end had come, peacefully and suddenly. But the widow rallied and, in spite of her daughter's protests, insisted on continuing with her work. Marvelling at her determination, touched by this pathetic exhibition of maternal devotion, Virginia would sit silently for hours, her eyes filled with tears, watching the dear, tired fingers swiftly and skillfully plying the needle. One evening the little family was assembled in the stuffy parlor back of the store. Mrs. Blaine, tired after a long day's toil, had sunk back in her armchair, dozing. Her head had fallen forward on her breast, a piece of hemming on her knee. In order not to disturb her, the girls conversed in low tones. Virginia was reading, her favorite occupation, while her elder sister, engaged perhaps more usefully, was darning stockings. Suddenly the front door bell rang. With an anxious glance at her mother to make sure that the noise had not disturbed her, Fanny...