HE WHO PASSED 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM 
 
 C.D.Albert 
 
,,„„ Cornell University Library 
 
 arV18212 
 
 To M.L.G., or. He who passed. 
 
 3 1924 031 252 004 
 olin.anx 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924031252004 
 
To M. L. G. 
 
To M. L. G. 
 
 Or, He Who Passed 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY 
 Publishers New York 
 
 ill/if^T,, 
 
Copyright, 1912, by 
 Frederick A. Stokes Company 
 
 All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign, 
 languages, including the Scandinavian 
 
 February, ig I2 J 
 
To M. L. G. 
 
To M. L. G. 
 
 BECAUSE I could not bring myself to tell you 
 these things, and because I would not marry you 
 unless you knew them, I let you go without me. 
 I let you believe that I did not care enough to go so far 
 away, though in truth I would have gone to the darkest 
 corner of the world with you, seeing only sunshine. 
 
 As people say, not thinking what the words mean, 
 " We have passed out of each other's lives." But can 
 those who have loved deeply pass out of each other's 
 lives ? You are my life. You began to light the world 
 for me — not the very first time we met, because then I 
 misunderstood you strangely, but the second time. 
 
 Every night now I dream of you, and the dreams are 
 more real than reality. In the dreams we meet by acci- 
 dent. Sometimes you have come back to England, and 
 we run across each other in the street, or at the house 
 where we met that wonderful second time and opened 
 the door of each other's souls. Or else, I have been sent 
 to the far-off eastern country of warmth and sunshine 
 where you are — where I might be with you to-day, if I 
 had said yes instead of no. But — in the dreams - — wher- 
 ever the places of our meeting, we always say the same 
 things to each other. You tell me that my not caring 
 
To M. L. G. 
 
 was the worst part of your loss. And I tell you — what 
 I am telling you now. Because this is for you and no 
 one else. Though others may read the book of my life, 
 only you will know that it is mine. And my heart is in 
 it for you. 
 
 In the dreams, I never finish what I have to say. 
 Something always comes to make me break off in the 
 midst, and I wake up in the dark with the same heavy 
 sense of hopeless loss I had when you left me, after our 
 last talk, and I heard the door shut behind you. 
 
 I would have given all the future, except ten minutes 
 of it with you, to call you back, then ; but I would not 
 call. In the dreams it is different. I start to call you. 
 I am ready to go on my knees and beg you to come 
 back. But the door of darkness is shut suddenly in my 
 face ; or else it is as if a bridge between our two spirits 
 broke with a loud crash, leaving a gulf that we cannot 
 cross. 
 
 If that day I had run after you, and opened the door, 
 and called, you would have come to me gladly. But — I 
 could not have told you these things, and if I had tried, 
 stumbling on, explaining, excusing myself, you would 
 have stopped me. You would have been impelled by 
 your love and pity to take me in spite of all, perhaps to 
 regret your generosity when it was too late. For you 
 would have stood by your word, I know, doing your best 
 not to let me see that I had struck you a blow over the 
 heart. But I should have seen that you suffered. I 
 daren't think what our life would have been together. 
 I might have killed myself. I should have had to free 
 you somehow. 
 
 Or else, fearing yourself and your love for me, yet 
 
To M. L. G. 
 
 knowing the love to be not quite strong enough, you 
 would have broken short my story in the midst — I think 
 I can guess just where — and have gone away of your own 
 accord. The door would have shut between us, just as it 
 shut when I sent you from me, but the pain afterwards 
 would have been sharper for us both. Bitter humiliation 
 for me ; for you, the sting of having failed a woman who 
 loved you with all that was best in her. 
 
 That was what I reasoned out when I let you go, all 
 of myself, all of my life going with you, leaving only a 
 shell — a shell full of echoes sad and sweet. I thought I 
 was doing the wisest thing — the only thing, as I could 
 
 not take A 's advice and marry you without telling. 
 
 A is the one person in England who knows, and 
 
 she but a few facts. 
 
 You will understand why I told her. In America, 
 among those w,ho remember me, nobody really knew 
 the whole story. I could have kept it all from you if I 
 had made up my mind to be your wife, and never speak 
 
 of things I wished to hide. But though A said yes, 
 
 something in myself said no. And my no was louder 
 than her yes. 
 
 It is these dreams which have made me wonder lately 
 whether I ought to have sent you away not knowing 
 what you were to me. Yet what could I have done ? I 
 ask myself that question over and over. And a still, 
 small voice answers : " Nothing else then, maybe. Yet 
 it is not too late to speak to him, across the wide spaces 
 that dreams can bridge." 
 
 This is a plan that I have thought of. Not just a 
 letter. No letter could be long enough. And a letter 
 you would have to answer — in one way or the other. 
 
4 To M. L. G. 
 
 Or if you did not answer, your silence could mean only 
 one thing. 
 
 Now, if you never write, I can comfort myself by 
 thinking " it may be he never found the arrow I sent 
 him from the dark. Perhaps if it had reached him he 
 would have written or come." I could manage to live 
 on that morsel of comfort, feeling I had done my best 
 for us both. Yet I believe that my message will find you 
 where you are now. You will see your initials in my 
 handwriting and the sign. I wear the star in the ring 
 always on the bangle you gave me, the fourteenth of 
 June. I wonder every day if you have kept the key. 
 But even if you have thrown it away, I know you cannot 
 have thrown away the memory. 
 
 If I had tried to tell you these things, stammering 
 them out hot from my heart, they would have been like 
 a confession. 
 
 This is not a confession. I do not mean it for one, 
 nor for an explanation. I shall just tell you things as 
 they were, taking my life step by step, showing how it 
 made me what I was — not what I am ; for you, and 
 loving you, has made me over again, into what I am. 
 And I have to begin at the very beginning, with my first 
 memories, and sometimes many details, so that if I am 
 worth understanding, you may perhaps come to under- 
 stand. Only — could a man understand ? 
 
 I don't ask you even to try. All I ask is, for the sake 
 of the old love, if none is left, do not pity me. I won't 
 have pity. And, when you have read all, and are decid- 
 ing for or against, decide for your own happiness, not for 
 mine. 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 IT was as if I had always lived in the house. I 
 know now that I was two years old when they 
 brought me there; and I suppose people cannot 
 begin to remember things that happened before they 
 were two. 
 
 In those days things didn't seem to happen. They 
 just were, and I was in the midst of them. 
 
 The house was in a long, straight street, very wide. 
 There were two lines of car tracks that went along it, and 
 I used to climb up on a chair in one of the front rooms 
 
 — whenever there was an empty room, with no boarders 
 in it — to look at the cars rushing by, up and down, up 
 and down. It was very strange to me where so many 
 people could be going, the whole day, back and forth, in 
 opposite directions, for the cars were always crowded, 
 with men hanging on outside. I thought the two ends 
 of the world must be at the ends of our street. Whether 
 any one had ever told me that the world had jumping off 
 places like that, I don't know, but the thought was in my 
 mind. It interested me, and was so mysterious that there 
 was more pleasure in looking out from a window of an 
 empty room than from the parlor, as we called it, where 
 all the boarders were. It was an adventure to steal into 
 a room, after the people who had lived there were gone 
 
 — perhaps never to come back — and climb up on a 
 chair. Sometimes the room would smell of a perfume 
 the last person there had used, for nearly all our boarders 
 
 5 
 
To M. L. G. 
 
 perfumed themselves a good deal, and it was seldom 
 any one thought to open the windows, except in hot 
 weather. 
 
 One day, when I was caught in the second floor front 
 room, looking out of the window, with the door shut, I 
 was pulled off the chair and my ears were boxed hard, so 
 that I heard a sound like a top humming — one of those 
 tops boys played with in our street in summer. Rose, 
 the black girl who boxed my ears, said that next time I 
 spoiled one of those good cane chairs kneeling on it with 
 my sharp knees, she would lock me up in a closet where 
 rats lived. I was afraid of Rose, because she was black, 
 and had a strange, musky smell, different from white 
 people ; and I was afraid of rats ; but still I could not 
 keep away from the room, whenever it was empty. It 
 fascinated me with its echoings, and the feeling of all the 
 people who had been there, and had gone I did not 
 know where. Even if I had forgotten some of their faces, 
 they would come back to me clearly in the room where I 
 had seen them. I used to think I might see figures pass 
 across the dusty mirror if I kept my eyes fastened on it 
 without winking ; and often when I had stared so fixedly 
 that my eyes watered and everything grew cloudy, I 
 imagined that the faces were there, behind the glass. 
 
 Another reason I liked the empty rooms was because 
 I had a game to play before the mirrors on dressing- 
 tables or mantels, or what we used to call " bureaus." 
 My favorite room was the front one on the second floor, 
 because of a large looking-glass with an old-fashioned 
 gilt frame that tipped forward a good deal over the nar- 
 row mantelpiece. The frame was encrusted with fly- 
 specks, but it seemed splendid to me, being like gold. 
 
To M. L. G. 
 
 This was the most expensive room in the house, so it 
 was frequently empty ; and I used to play, before the 
 big mirror, that there was another girl living next door 
 talking to me through a window. I called the girl Lily, 
 the name I admired more than any other. She was Lily 
 Merritt ; and if I did anything bad, or got scolded, 
 as often happened, I would say, " It isn't me. I've 
 gone over to Lily Merritt's house. This is Lily 
 Merritt who is naughty." But no one paid much atten- 
 tion. I don't remember ever being asked who was Lily 
 Merritt. Perhaps this was because, at our house, people 
 were always talking so much and so loudly that no one 
 listened with interest to any one else, especially to a 
 child. 
 
 Almost everybody called the boarding-house keeper 
 Ma, so I called her Ma, too, though I think I knew 
 vaguely from the first that she was not my mother. Odd, 
 how children do seem to know about mothers, and that 
 everybody must have one or have had one once ! Lily 
 Merritt and I used to discuss mothers through the look- 
 ing-glass. Hers was very pretty, and gave her beautiful 
 things on Christmas and other days. Lily said that she 
 never had her ears boxed, and no one ever shook her. 
 This friend in the looking-glass was a great comfort to 
 me, and she got to seem so real that I almost believed in 
 her existence, separate from mine. 
 
 " Ma" was not very old, perhaps, but I thought of her 
 as old. She was large and fat and soft-looking, especially 
 in the mornings, when her figure was rather like the bags 
 of kindlings I used to watch going down to the cellar. 
 In the afternoons she generally put on stiff corsets, which 
 she hated. Then the baggiest part of her figure stood 
 
8 To M. L. G. 
 
 out like a mantelpiece, and at meals she dropped things 
 on it unless she took a great deal of pains in eating her 
 food. There were spots on all her dresses because of 
 this, spots that wouldn't come out of her winter things, 
 because she loved plush, and materials which looked rich 
 but marked easily. Her hair was grayish brown at the 
 back and underneath, but there was a surface of red 
 bronze that was much brighter about once a week than 
 at other times. I slept in her room, and it fascinated me 
 to see her take off and put on most of her hair. The 
 part that came off was in puffs, which she hardly ever 
 combed out or brushed, for usually she was in a hurry to 
 dress and undress ; so they looked like rows of dusty mice 
 with reddish fur, all herded closely together on her head. 
 
 Once she might have been pretty, for even I, who 
 loved and keenly felt beauty when I was very little, could 
 see how perfect her features were. But they were very 
 small, and her face had grown so fat and large, with two 
 scollops of chin, that they seemed to be crowded together, 
 a tiny knot of eyes, nose and mouth, in a big, round ex- 
 panse of white, like a clock dial. Her eyes were a deep 
 violet color, but there was a disagreeable fullness round 
 them, and as she put black stuff on her short eyelashes, 
 there were always dark, greasy smudges underneath. In 
 each corner, white dots would come, especially when she 
 laughed hard, and I longed for her to wipe them away, 
 but she never did. , They were invariably there. 
 
 We slept in a back room at the top of the house. Ma 
 had a large bed, with yellowish sheets and pillow-cases that 
 were hardly ever changed if the house was full, because 
 there were only just enough to go round. When her 
 husband was at home he slept with her, but he was away 
 
To M. L. G. 
 
 most of the time. Rose said that he was a " drummer.' 
 I thought this must mean that he had to beat a drum, as 
 men did in processions which passed sometimes, but I 
 found out that he travelled to other cities, and small 
 towns, selling things. That was being a " drummer," 
 though I couldn't see why. No one ever called him Pa. 
 He was younger than Ma, or looked younger ; thin and 
 dark, with black eyes close together, which twinkled 
 when he was pleased, but snapped like a cross dog's eyes 
 when anything annoyed him. He used to be ill some- 
 times, when his face was purplish instead of yellowish 
 brown, and then he always smelled of liquor. I knew 
 that smell as soon as I knew anything, for people in 
 the house had a good deal of whisky and brandy in 
 their rooms, in bottles. Everybody called Ma's husband 
 Henry, or Hennery. He was kind to me, but I was 
 sorry when he came home, because he snored at night, 
 and made strange, dreadful noises in his throat that sick- 
 ened me with fear in the dark. Although I knew it was 
 he who made them, I could not help thinking that 
 wicked, indescribable animals were under the bed, and 
 might crawl out to eat me up in my low crib. Some- 
 times I imagined their warm breath on my face in the 
 darkness. And it was still worse when Rose told me 
 Bible stories about people who were possessed with 
 devils. I thought then that perhaps Henry was pos- 
 sessed with devils, and it was they inside him who roared 
 and grunted in the night. 
 
 Rose was very religious, and read the Bible at night, 
 but she was wicked, too, and it was her greatest pleasure 
 to torture me. I was sent to her in the kitchen every 
 day at one time or another, and her round black face, 
 
io To M. L. G. 
 
 with its huge rolling eyes had all the fascination for 
 me that a black cat has for a young mouse. She said j 
 that, after death, I would be black and she white. The 
 thought of dying (though I did not know exactly what 
 death meant) and of turning black frightened me horribly. 
 The idea was in my mind every night when I went to 
 bed. Once a sweet woman who stayed in our house a 
 whole month taught me a prayer : " Now I lay me down 
 to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die 
 before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen." 
 After Rose told me I would turn black when I died, I 
 stopped saying the prayer, because I thought it would 
 be better not to remind God of my dying in the night 
 before I waked. I hoped if I let Him alone, He would 
 forget me ; but it made me feel restless and uneasy not 
 saying the prayer I had been used to repeat. And I was 
 glad to be roused up in the morning, very early, by the 
 shaking of the house with the great traffic which began 
 at that hour; immense carts, laden with iron rails, or 
 beer-vans, or a procession of big horses, going I knew 
 not where. Now I know that what I used to think the 
 end of the world was a ferry, and our street was a thor- 
 oughfare between one river on the west and another on 
 the east, at the opposite sides of New York. 
 
 In Ma's room we could not see the street, but only 
 backs of other houses, and roofs where cats fought and 
 squalled. Once or twice in summer, however, every one 
 got up before five to be ready for some excursion ; so I 
 knew what kind of things went by along the street. If I 
 had not known, I should have been miserable with curi- 
 osity, or even fear, when the house shook so early in the 
 morning. 
 
To M. L. G. 1 1 
 
 It was a red brick building, with green blinds, and a 
 narrow iron balcony running across the front. Every- 
 thing was shabby about the house. The windows were 
 not washed more than once a year, and the blinds were 
 gray with dust — gray in little blotches, showing where 
 rain had fallen on thick dust. There were a number of 
 narrow steps which went up to the front door, and in 
 summer Ma, and any boarders not working, sat on the 
 steps in the evenings. 
 
 There was a whole row of houses exactly like ours, 
 and just as shabby. People sat on those steps, too, and 
 often they called out to each other and laughed and 
 made jokes. But then a car would come booming along 
 in the midst, and the end of the joke would be lost. 
 
 In the twilight it was not bad sitting there, though 
 smells of food came up from the basements. But it was 
 dreadful to open the front door on some of those hot 
 August mornings, just like opening the door of an oven ; 
 and the pavement seemed to fly up at your face, in a 
 swift flame, hitting you in the eyes. 
 
 Ma kept a boarding-house for actors and actresses. I 
 thought then that all grown-up people were " on the 
 stage," and even most children, though no little girls or 
 boys ever came to stay in our house while I was there. 
 Several of those I played with in the street went to the 
 theatre every night, and I knew very well what the 
 theatre was, because more than 'once I had been taken 
 there to " walk on," or rather to be carried on, for it was 
 when I was too young to be given a speaking part, and 
 I appeared as a baby. But it was an experience not to 
 forget. The lights and music, and all the faces looking 
 up made a picture in my mind whenever I heard the 
 
12 To M. L. G. 
 
 word " theatre " or " stage." Besides, at the theatre one 
 had lemon sticks and caramels given one, to keep one 
 quiet. 
 
 On the hot summer evenings those who were " rest- 
 ing," and trying to get engagements, sat on the front 
 steps with palm leaf fans in their damp hands, waiting 
 for those who were " working " to come home. Then 
 there was talk, with beer or ginger pop, and lemonade, 
 with cheese, sandwiches, and other things to eat, mostly 
 in tins, like sardines, or devilled ham. On the can of the 
 ham there was a picture of a little red devil, which I 
 liked very much. I always thought of him if any one 
 said, " Oh, the devil ! " or " Go to hell ! " which were 
 favorite exclamations among the boarders, even the 
 ladies. My idea of hell was a red place, inhabited by 
 quantities of devilled ham devils, and I thought it would 
 be rather fun to go there, if one had not to die first, and 
 turn black, after being born white in this world. 
 
 I was allowed to sit up late on those nights. That 
 is, no one noticed me or thought of sending me away, 
 unless I made a noise. And sometimes one of the ladies 
 took a fancy to me. When this happened it was very 
 nice. She would let me come to her room, bring in her 
 letters, and search for hairpins and collar buttons which 
 she dropped on the floor. I used to find extraordinary 
 things occasionally, colored beads and balls of chewing- 
 gum, so it was quite exciting, though the dust on the 
 faded old carpets made me sneeze. On the front steps, 
 at night, if it were not too hot, my loved one would let 
 me hold her hand, to look at her rings and go to sleep 
 against her shoulder when it was so late that I couldn't 
 keep awake. 
 
To M. L. G. i :> 
 
 I can't remember the time when any one dressed or 
 undressed me. Before I went up-stairs to bed, if I went 
 alone, somebody unbuttoned my dress behind. That 
 was all. The rest I had to do for myself. And in the 
 morning I came down-stairs in my petticoat, with my 
 frock over my arm. Ma, or one of the boarders would 
 fasten it up for me, in the basement dining-room at 
 breakfast ; but it was not every one who came down to 
 breakfast. Husbands carried up plates and cups to their 
 wives, or young men to the girls they were in love with. 
 If a lady had no husband and no lover, but could afford 
 seventy cents extra a week, she gave Rose ten cents a 
 day to take something up to her room, so it was only the 
 ugliest or poorest ones who came down to the basement 
 in the morning. 
 
 No wonder people did not like coming down, even 
 apart from being sleepy after a late night, for the dining- 
 room, shut up for many hours, smelt of cockroaches. 
 Later, the odor of different foods overpowered the other, 
 except in the kitchen. Nobody who has not seen that 
 kitchen, or another of the same type, can imagine what 
 it was like at night. The walls and floor were a moving 
 black mass of insects, and Rose threatened to throw them 
 at me, even to make me eat them, if I ever complained of 
 anything she did or said. 
 
 I suppose there are such houses and such people in 
 England, but you cannot imagine them ; your life has 
 been so different — with all the difference between heaven 
 and hell. But I hardly knew that I was wretched, for I 
 took everything for granted as it came. When I was be- 
 tween four and five I began to learn things about myself. 
 
 One day I was in my favorite room, which was empty. 
 
»4 
 
 To M. L. G. 
 
 No boarder had been there for a week, but on the table 
 were some carnations, not quite faded yet. I had taken 
 them out of the old yellow-green water, and finding the 
 stems gummy, had begun to dry them on a soiled towel, 
 when the door was flung open and Ma came into the 
 room with a strange lady. 
 
 " You nasty little thing — what a start you gave me ! " 
 she exclaimed. " How dare you sneak into this room ! 
 You've been slapped for it often enough." 
 
 " Oh, don't slap her now," said the lady. " I love 
 children. I lost a little girl of my own last year, just 
 about her size. How old is she ? " 
 
 " I don't know exactly. She must be nearly five," said 
 Ma. 
 
 They both looked at me, as I stood with the flowers in 
 my hand. I had dropped the towel, but Ma whisked it 
 up off the floor and made it into a ball, which she tossed 
 out through the open door. 
 
 " Oh, isn't she yours ? " asked the lady, from whose 
 face I had hardly taken my eyes. I thought she was 
 beautiful, but different from most of those who came to 
 our house. Their hair was usually gold color, or red, or 
 a bright auburn, but hers was just brown, not even bronze, 
 and she wore it parted in the middle, which gave her 
 brown eyes a gentle expression. Her eyebrows had a 
 lovely arch, though they were no darker than her hair. 
 Most eyebrows at our house were very black, and so were 
 eyelashes, but I thought hers pretty, for a change. She 
 was like the picture of a Madonna, which an Irish Cath- 
 olic girl, before Rose, had left in the kitchen. I knew it 
 would be nice to have a mother with such eyes and such 
 a smile. Some of the children in our street had real 
 
To M. L. G. 15 
 
 mothers, and cried for them to come if they fell down or 
 were hurt 
 
 " No, she ain't mine. I never had a child," Ma hurried 
 to say, as if she could not bear the idea. " I don't take 
 much interest in children. Did you ever hear of the 
 Love Birds ? That's what they call her father and 
 mother in the profession. They care for nobody except 
 each other. She's their child ; lived with a grandmother ; 
 but the grandmother died when the kid was two. That 
 was just the time when her parents had work in New 
 York. They were boarding here, and had to send for 
 the kid. When they went on the road again, they 
 couldn't take her, of course, so they left her with me. A 
 queer toad she is, but we get along with her somehow, 
 among us all. You know how it is. Folks are good- 
 natured. Her papa and mamma expected to be back 
 before this, or I wouldn't have kept her, but I've got 
 used to her now. The worst of it is, they haven't sent 
 me a nickel for three months, nor written neither. I 
 don't hardly know what to do." 
 
 " I expect you'll keep her," said the lady. " My ! what 
 big black eyes you have, little girlie. Glorious eyes, 
 aren't they ? " 
 
 " They'd be handsome with yellow hair," Ma answered. 
 " She's a regular little gipsy." 
 
 " A dear little gipsy," exclaimed the lady. " She shall 
 come to me when I'm not busy, and I'll tell her stories, 
 for I'm going to live here for a while." 
 
 Then she turned to Ma, and said that she had decided 
 to take the room. They talked about the price, and the 
 lady paid ten dollars for the first week in advance, as 
 strangers always did. People in the profession recom- 
 
16 To M. L. G. 
 
 mended boarding-houses to each other, and some one 
 this lady knew in California had sent her to Ma, some 
 one whose photograph was on the parlor mantelpiece 
 among a hundred others, growing yellow and stained by 
 flies and time. 
 
 My new friend (she was Mrs., not Miss, even on the 
 stage) had never been to New York before. She was a 
 San Francisco woman, I heard her say to Ma. She had 
 gone on the stage when her husband died, and had made 
 a success in a stock company. Her friends had advised 
 her to come to New York and try her luck. She had 
 some letters of introduction to managers, but the journey 
 had cost a good deal. She wanted to economize until 
 she found an engagement, but she believed she would be 
 comfortable in this room, and she was glad there was a 
 little girl in the house. 
 
 I had never been so happy as I was in the next few 
 weeks. I don't know how many weeks they were ; but 
 summer was over when my dear friend came, and there 
 was snow on the ground when she left me. 
 
 That room was a different place while she was in it. 
 She asked for a broom the first day, before she unpacked, 
 and swept the floor herself. 'Then she dusted, letting me 
 help with the chairs, using an old but clean grease towel 
 from the theatre. The weather was cold, and it rained 
 often, but she kept a window open at the top, night and 
 day. She said no one could be well or good without 
 fresh air. I never forgot that. Also she talked to me 
 about washing myself. " Think how sorry your mamma 
 would be if she saw you with dirty hands and face," she 
 would say. " My little girl used to be bathed all over 
 every morning." 
 
To M. L. G. 17 
 
 There was an old-fashioned bathroom in the house, 
 and she gave me baths there. She washed my hair, too, 
 and curled it. Then she would comb the curls out, and 
 let the hair fall in loose waves, telling me that it was very 
 pretty, and people would admire it as much as though it 
 were golden if I kept it neat. She bought me a brush 
 and comb of my own, and I enjoyed using them. Be- 
 fore that, I had only Ma's things, which I hated and 
 hardly ever touched, so my hair was usually all in thick 
 tangles, unless one of the boarders took pity on me, and 
 combed out the snarls. It was very long hair for a little 
 girl to have, my dear lady said. Even then it came 
 nearly down to my waist ; and when she used to take me 
 out for walks, as she often did, people in the street spoke 
 to each other of my eyes and hair. 
 
 One day we met a man she knew, and they talked 
 about me. My friend explained that he was a kind of 
 artist, who made dolls' heads, and he wanted to use me 
 as a model for a new doll. " Why, does he think I am 
 pretty ? " I asked. Then they both laughed, but did not 
 answer my question. He gave me five cents, and said, 
 " There, that's for yourself. You needn't put it in the 
 missionary box." But I had never heard of a missionary 
 box, and wanted to know what one was. 
 
 " Poor lamb, she's a perfect little heathen," said my 
 lady. And she asked if I would like her to take me to 
 church some day. When she told me there was singing, 
 and that I should see beautiful glass pictures in the win- 
 dows, I said yes. So she took me the next Sunday ; but 
 when I saw a plate full of money going round, I thought 
 it was meant for me to help myself, and I picked up two 
 handfuls. My dear friend turned red, and made me put 
 
18 To M. L. G. 
 
 it all down instantly. People tittered, and stared at us, 
 whispering. That made me very angry, and I said out 
 aloud : " I hate church. I'll never come again." 
 
 It was in this same week that the artist called to model 
 a doll's head from mine. I had never thought before 
 about being pretty, but now the idea was in my mind 
 constantly. I looked at myself earnestly in every mirror 
 I passed, and winked my eyelashes, or tossed my hair to 
 see how long it was. I began to be a vain little thing, 
 yet I don't know that my vanity did me much harm, for 
 it gave me a feeling of pride in keeping clean and neat, 
 which I had never had. 
 
 The artist came two or three times, and every one in 
 the house was interested about the doll. They all began 
 to call me " Dolly," which I liked much better than 
 " Kid," the name most popular in the household. But it 
 was a blow, when the model was made, to hear the artist 
 say it would be unlike me in one way. It was to have 
 yellow hair. Dolls with dark hair never sold well, he 
 explained. The young men boarders teased me about 
 this so much, that I was glad when eventually they for- 
 got the history of the doll. 
 
 My lady used to cut figures from fashion plates for 
 me, and I played with them in her room. She taught 
 me to fold layer after layer of paper one upon the other, 
 and then cut out some shape : a cat, a dog, or even a girl 
 or boy. It was thrilling to unfold the layers at last, and 
 see how a whole procession of the shape I had chosen 
 would appear, each figure attached to the other. She 
 made me pockets in my dresses, too, and gave me little 
 handkerchiefs to put in them. I loved her desperately. 
 And when she had found out how Rose was torturing 
 
To M. L. G. 19 
 
 me in secret, and persuaded Ma to send the cruel girl 
 away, I worshipped her so for her goodness, I could 
 have died for her, even though in dying I would have to 
 turn black. She taught me a new prayer, and told me 
 about angels. I used to try and see them at night. 
 Then, by and by, I began to think I really did see them, 
 or almost think it. And once, when I was ill, and Ma 
 had to get up in the night with me, I hoped to make 
 her believe me a wonderful child by crying out that 
 there were angels in the room. I expected her to 
 weep, but she only remarked, " I guess you must be 
 going crazy." After that I never again mentioned the 
 angels. 
 
 It almost killed me when my dear lady went away. 
 A long time passed before she found an engagement, 
 and even then it was not in New York, as she had 
 wished. Nearly all her money was spent, so she dared 
 not refuse an offer, though it was to go out to Chicago ; 
 and the part she had to play was not one that she liked. 
 She kissed me a great many times, and called me " poor 
 baby, poor, lonely little baby." Then she ran down the 
 steps with a bag in her hand, and across the street to 
 catch a car that was coming. 
 
 I had hardly realized what it would be like to have 
 her go until I saw her running with the bag. Then I 
 knew that she would be carried away from me forever. 
 I thought of our walks, of the soft clasp of her hand on 
 mine. Everything came back to me in a flash, and at 
 the same time an awful sensation of breaking. I gave a 
 scream, and would have run after my precious friend, 
 perhaps to fall under the car and be killed, if somebody 
 had not snatched me back. I heard a little sharp sound 
 
2o To M. L. G. 
 
 — the gathers of my dress tearing as I pulled, trying to 
 escape. Then I remember no more. 
 
 I don't know if I fainted, or whether a child can faint ; 
 but when I opened my eyes I was lying on a horsehair 
 covered sofa in the parlor. It was the horsehair prick- 
 ing my cheek which seemed to wake me up, and my face 
 was wet. 
 
 Ma was saying, " My ! a regular little tragedy actress ! " 
 For days afterwards I hardly ate anything. Whenever 
 I put food into my mouth I thought of my lost friend, 
 and my throat shut up so that I nearly choked. I cried 
 in her room till I was half blind ; but when the new serv- 
 ant girl found me there, Ma jerked me out and locked 
 the door until the next boarder came. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 ONE night that winter, Henry was at home, after 
 being away longer than usual. He came in the 
 afternoon, when Ma was at a matinee. He ran 
 up to his room and changed his clothes, then hurried out, 
 leaving word with Maud, the new servant, that he had 
 an engagement with some friends. He might not be 
 back till late. He must have been in a hurry, for he left 
 his things scattered about the room, although he was a 
 neat man in his ways, and always packed and unpacked 
 for himself very carefully. His travelling bag, which he 
 called his " grip," was invariably locked. It stood on 
 the floor in our room, in a corner, behind a chair, as if 
 he preferred not to have it noticed. I had seen Ma try 
 to open it sometimes with keys of her own, but they 
 would never fit. She explained to me once, when I 
 came in while she was on her knees by the bag, that she 
 wanted to see if Henry had anything there which ought 
 to be washed, but I must not tell him she was looking, 
 as he might be silly enough to feel annoyed. 
 
 This time he forgot to lock the bag. Ma did not go 
 up-stairs till after dinner. Then she took me, because 
 every one was saying my face was red and queer, as if I 
 were sickening for something. There was scarlet fever 
 in the street, and Ma said she would undress me to see 
 if I had any spots. If I had she would get the doctor, 
 and maybe he would send me away to a hospital. She 
 couldn't have me giving diseases to her boarders, espe- 
 
 21 
 
22 To M. L. G. 
 
 daily as my father and mother owed her six months' 
 money. 
 
 I was excited, and hoped I should come out in spots, 
 because I thought it would be interesting to be taken 
 away by a doctor and to see new things. But when 
 Henry's bag, unlocked and in the middle of the floor, 
 caught Ma's eye, she forgot me and squatted down, with 
 an eager, fierce expression on her face. She looked 
 like a person who is very, very hungry, and suddenly 
 sees food, which must be eaten at once or not at all. 
 
 She did not take the things out of the bag, but fumbled 
 among them. In a cigar-box, nearly full of pink writing- 
 paper and envelopes, was one sheet with something writ- 
 ten on it. Ma read with the same eager haste she had 
 shown in searching. " Aha ! " she said. " I knew it ! 
 I've got him now. Beast — beast ! " 
 
 I had never heard her speak like that. Generally she 
 was jolly and laughing, except when she had a headache ; 
 but this was a dreadful voice, as if she hated Henry, and 
 would like to kill him. 
 
 She was hardly ever really cross to me, except for a 
 minute or two, when she would cuff my head and push 
 my shoulder, if I were in her way, or if I asked questions 
 which she could not be bothered to answer. But now, 
 when she had gone all through the bag and ransacked 
 the pockets of Henry's coat, which sprawled on the bed, 
 she turned to me and spoke in the same wicked sounding 
 voice. If a snake could speak, I think its voice would 
 be like that. She said, " Stop staring and gaping, you 
 little saucer-eyed owl. Get to bed. I don't care whether 
 you have scarlet fever or not, or whether you give it to 
 every d fool in the house. I wish they were all 
 
To M. L. G. 23 
 
 dead. I wish Henry was dead. I'll make him wish it, 
 too ! " Then she swore a good deal, but it did not shock 
 me in the least. I was used to such words. They were 
 in every one's mouth. If I wanted to make people laugh, 
 I would swear, too ; at least, before my dear lady came. 
 Now, when I stopped to think in time, I never did it, be- 
 cause she had asked me not, as a favor, if I loved her. 
 
 I began to unbutton my dress behind, but it was dif- 
 ficult to do, so I was slow and clumsy. With some im- 
 patient exclamation, Ma pushed my hands down, and tore 
 the buttons out of the buttonholes, so savagely that sev- 
 eral buttons, already loose, flew off and fell on the floor. 
 She was in such a strange mood that I was afraid of her, 
 and putting my nightgown over my head without fasten- 
 ing it, I jumped into bed with my clothes on. She did 
 not notice, or else did not care. In a minute she subsided 
 heavily on a trunk, which had been hers ever since she 
 was a young woman on the stage, and had still some of 
 the old theatrical labels clinging to it. As a seat, it must 
 have left much to be desired, but she had a sullen air of 
 wishing to be uncomfortable. She sat looking at the 
 partly written letter and a photograph she had found. It 
 was unmounted, and curled up at the edges. Sometimes 
 she mumbled to herself, and I caught the word " Beast ! " 
 blurted out over and over again. 
 
 I was sorry for Henry, though I did not understand 
 what he had done. I wished I could have got up and 
 waited for him to come into the house, so that I might 
 warn him to go quietly away again. Not that I had any 
 love for Henry. He was never unkind, yet there was 
 something about him that disgusted me. Still, I felt a 
 desire to protect him now. 
 
24 To M. L. G. 
 
 It must have been about nine o'clock when Ma brought 
 me up, which was only the beginning of the evening at 
 our house, but she did not go down again. She sat glar- 
 ing and muttering for a long time. Then, as Henry did 
 not come, she began to undress. She pulled off the dusty 
 puffs, and wrapped two strands of hair between the ears 
 and temples round large curling pins. Then she got rid 
 of her gown, which was of green velveteen, and began to 
 move about aimlessly, changing the position of things in 
 the room. She was in her chemise and corsets and pet- 
 ticoat ; and perhaps it was a strange thought for a child 
 to have, but as I lay with my head almost hidden with 
 blanket and quilt, I wondered how such a woman could 
 expect a man to love her, she was so horrid to look at, 
 like that. You see, I heard a good deal of talk in the 
 house, about husbands who liked other women, if they 
 were prettier than their own wives. 
 
 The crocheted trimming on Ma's chemise was torn, 
 and some flannel, long-sleeved, low-necked thing she wore 
 underneath was a purplish red, shrunk and hardened by 
 washing. It was pinned across her fat bust with a large 
 black safety-pin. Her corsets were of blue sateen, very 
 dirty, and her petticoat, which hung crookedly round her 
 squeezed-in waist, was black cotton at the top, with a 
 flounce of flowered silk. There was lace on the flounce, 
 torn off here and there as if it had been bitten. In other 
 places it was held up with pins. She wore boots, with 
 more than half the buttons off, above the ankles, and she 
 trod her heels over to the outside, which gave her an odd, 
 waddling walk. 
 
 Just as I was beginning to wonder if I had dreamed 
 about the paper and the photograph, and Ma's anger, the 
 
To M. L. G. 25 
 
 door opened and Henry came in. The one gas jet, un- 
 shaded, was flaring very high, with a slight popping noise ; 
 and the light quivered on Henry's face, seeming to make 
 his black eyes twinkle more than ever for an instant. 
 But Ma turned, and his eyes twinkled no more. She 
 sprang at him, with the paper and photograph in her 
 hand. Henry grabbed at them, she resisting. But he 
 got what he wanted by twisting her wrist, and as he 
 crumpled paper and photograph together, she fought to 
 wrench them out from between his fingers. When she 
 could not do that, she snatched at his collar, as if she 
 meant to choke him. 
 
 Then they began calling each other strange names, such 
 as I had never heard, names of animals, and neither of 
 them remembered me. They wrestled together, the 
 floor creaking under their feet, and Ma began to cry and 
 laugh, gasping for breath, like the little boy next 
 door, who could be heard through the wall when he had 
 croup. 
 
 " Shut up ! " Henry panted. " You don't want the 
 whole house to know, do you ?" 
 
 " That's just what I do want," she shrieked. 
 
 " Take that, then ! " and he slapped her with the flat 
 of his hand across the bare shoulders, that were mottled 
 with the cold in purple blotches. The slap made a strange 
 sound, like the splash of a stone falling from high up, on 
 the surface of water. 
 
 Ma screamed as if she had been stabbed, and, bounding 
 to the door, threw it open before Henry could stop her. 
 She ran out, screaming " Murder ! Police ! " but she 
 must have forgotten how close was the door to the head 
 of the stairs, for she fell, her yells of rage turning to muf- 
 
26 To M. L. G. 
 
 fled moans of fear and pain. It seemed as if the thud- 
 ding of her body on step after step would never stop. 
 At last came one sharp scream, which broke off short. 
 
 Doors flew open, and banged against walls. People 
 cried out to know what had happened, and exclaimed at 
 something they saw. But Henry stood still, yellow pale, 
 his hands hanging at his sides, twitching at each of the 
 horrid bumping sounds. He did not stir until some one 
 called, " Henry — Henry — are you up there ? " 
 
 Then he shot from the room, straight as an arrow, and 
 I heard him running quickly down-stairs. After that there 
 was a buzzing of voices. A woman began to sob and 
 laugh in the same way that Ma had sobbed and laughed 
 a few minutes ago. I knew that it was Miss St. Clare, a 
 friend of Ma's, of about her age. " Oh, poor dear ! " she 
 shrilled out. " Oh, what an awful thing. She's dead — 
 she's dead ! " 
 
 I felt as if a shower of icicles had fallen on my naked 
 body. Hardly knowing what I did, I tumbled out of my 
 crib, in my nightgown, which I had put on over my 
 clothes, and ran to the top of the stairs. I had kicked off 
 my stockings in bed, and the oilcloth in the passage 
 felt cold to my feet, and rough where it was in holes. 
 But almost I was glad to be cold, as I think Ma had been 
 when she took off her dress and walked about the room, 
 muttering, before Henry came. The world seemed dark 
 with horror and suffering, and to have the feet chilled to 
 the bone was like sharing the general misery, if I could 
 not help. Child as I was, vaguely I felt this. 
 
 Although I ran to the head of the stairs, I did not go 
 down. Something seemed to stop me at the top. I 
 stood there, grasping the banisters with my little hand, 
 
To M. L. G. 27 
 
 and I could hardly believe that the loud, pounding noise 
 in my ears came from my own breast. 
 
 I thought that perhaps some one would come up to 
 me, but no one did. Looking down, I could see eight or 
 ten people, some partly undressed, some, who had just 
 got back from the theatre, in hats and coats. They were 
 all grouped together under a flaring gas jet, which had 
 been turned high, and blew in the wind from an open 
 door or window. Perhaps the front door had been left 
 open. Something was tapping constantly, though not 
 regularly, a window blind, I thought. It seemed to make 
 everything that had happened much worse, and more in- 
 credible. 
 
 At last I began creeping slowly down, step by step, 
 hanging on to the baluster rail. I was afraid of what I 
 should see at the bottom of the stairs, yet I had to know 
 what was there. 
 
 Just as I set my half frozen foot on the lowest step, 
 there was a loud bang of a door below. Then there was 
 no more tapping, and the gas jet ceased to flare. Two 
 men came hurrying up to the floor where the people 
 were ; one I knew, a thin, sad-faced, very funny comedian, 
 with hardly any hair. The other was a stranger, who 
 carried a small, square black bag. 
 
 Every one moved away, to stand against the wall, as 
 this second man appeared, and then I saw that Ma was 
 lying on the floor, near the foot of the stairs on which I 
 stood. She lay on her face, with her head doubled under 
 her shoulders in a queer way, which made her look head- 
 less and somehow not human. No one had dared move 
 her. Her big body was limp, yet round, like a bag of 
 flour thrown down anyhow. 
 
28 To M. L. G. 
 
 Afterwards the thought of death was more than ever 
 fearful to me, because of the hideous grotesqueness I 
 could not help associating with it. When people spoke 
 of death, instantly a picture would spring to my eyes of 
 Ma waddling about the room in her horrid blue corsets 
 and torn petticoat ; then lying in a huddled heap on the 
 floor, under the gas jet. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 MA had broken her neck. 
 Hardly any one left the boarding-house, only 
 Miss St. Clare and another woman who had 
 never got on with Henry, but always quarrelled with him 
 sharply at the table. The rest stayed, and all went to the 
 funeral. A sister of Henry's came to run the house, but 
 she made a great favor of leaving her husband and chil- 
 dren in Jersey City, and said she could not stop long. 
 She looked like Henry, dark and yellow ; and also like 
 pincushion dolls I had seen, with nut heads and hair 
 painted on with India ink. She had a very flat breast 
 and round shoulders, so that I wondered if her head could 
 have been put on wrong side in front. Her husband was 
 a grocer, and she knew hardly anything about the stage, 
 she kept telling every one. Nobody liked her, and I 
 think the house would soon have been almost empty, if 
 Henry had not brought a widow from Chicago to manage 
 it. She was handsome and young, with red hair, and 
 freckles that ran together on her apple-red cheeks. She 
 had a child, two years old, a girl, and we three slept in 
 the room Ma and I had shared. Henry, when he was at 
 home, took any room that happened to be free. 
 
 The widow was Mrs. Sage, and the little girl was Sell- 
 awese, a name obtained from running Sarah and Louise 
 together. 
 
 Mrs. Sage had a loud voice which you could hear all 
 over the house, and she never went up or down stairs 
 
 29 
 
30 To M. L. G. 
 
 without running very fast. People talked about her a 
 good deal, and I often heard what they said. She came 
 from a railway restaurant in a town of Ohio, and was a 
 great friend of Henry's, the very one, according to the 
 ladies (stage-whispering with their heads together), of 
 whom Ma had been jealous. Anonymous letters had 
 reached Ma, it seemed, and she had been watching. 
 Then " things had come to a head " — whatever that 
 meant. Now, they all prophesied that Henry would 
 marry Mrs. Sage as soon as it was " decent," if not 
 before. 
 
 What their idea of decency was I don't know ; but 
 Henry did marry her in the spring. I remember, because 
 there was no more snow after that, and the winds were 
 warm and sweet like a perfumed breath. 
 
 Mrs. Sage was never cross to me, until after the wed- 
 ding. Then she changed almost at once. Before that 
 she had seemed quite pleased to have me play with Sell- 
 awese, and keep the child quiet; but when she and 
 Henry were married, the bride said there was now no 
 place for me to sleep. Three in a room was enough. If 
 Hen were determined to keep me, I would have to be 
 put with Maud ; but her advice was to send me to some 
 orphan asylum, as my parents had paid nothing for nearly 
 a year. 
 
 I heard the new husband and wife talking on the day 
 of their wedding, in the parlor, which was given up to 
 them for the afternoon, by consent of all the boarders. I 
 had brought Sellawese in to her mother, because she was 
 naughty and I could do nothing with her. 
 
 " I won't sleep with Maud," I said. " Maud's a black 
 girl." 
 
To M. L. G. 31 
 
 " She's not black. She's a pale brown," Henry's new 
 wife snapped back. " Besides, beggars mustn't be 
 choosers. You'll sleep in her room this very night, or 
 you'll go out of this house — see ? " 
 
 But a pretty soubrette, one of the boarders, took pity 
 on me, and let my crib be put in her room. She had 
 been making rather a pet of me ever since she came to 
 the house. She detested Sellawese, who was spoiled by 
 her mother, and always whining. Every one liked Daisy. 
 She had beautiful pale brown hair, and used to come 
 down to breakfast with it hanging over the shoulders of 
 her dressing-gown, when she came down at all ; but 
 generally the men boarders would dispute among them- 
 selves which should take up her coffee and sausage, or 
 fried egg. At night there were suppers in Daisy's room, 
 after the theatre. Each person contributed something. 
 Men and girls sat on trunks, or on the bed, or the floor, 
 eating raw oysters, with the girls' hairpins for forks, and 
 drinking beer (brought in the water-jug) out of the cup 
 in which Daisy brushed her teeth. She had a small back 
 room under the one where I had slept, but sometimes, 
 from eleven thirty to one o'clock, there were as many as 
 eight or ten people eating and drinking there, not count- 
 ing me in my crib — or out of it. 
 
 I learned through talk in the house that Henry had 
 put an advertisement in a theatrical paper which was 
 read by every one in travelling companies. It was ad- 
 dressed to my father and mother by name, informing 
 them that, if they neither fetched me nor paid my board, 
 I would be placed in an institution for the children of 
 impoverished actors. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 I USED to think that it would be splendid to have 
 another child in the same house, but Sellawese 
 made my life a misery. 
 She was a pasty-faced little thing, with weak eyes and 
 light reddish hair ; and as Mrs. Henry let her eat what- 
 ever she liked, she suffered dreadfully with indigestion. 
 Always after meals a pain came on, which she called 
 " the rat." Only she could not say " r " in the right 
 place, so she pronounced it " yat," which was peculiarly 
 offensive to my ears. " The yat — the yat ! " she would 
 squeal, and instantly lie down to roll on the ground, no 
 matter where she might be. Then she would roar to be 
 picked up and carried, and this business fell to my lot, as 
 I had come to be her unpaid nurse. If I refused to let 
 her ride on my back, with her sharp little finger-nails 
 sticking in my throat, just under my chin, she would yell 
 for her mother, and say that I had slapped or pinched 
 her. She would even pinch her own cheek or arm, and 
 show the mark, saying, " Bad Doll did that. Punish bad 
 Doll." And Mrs. Sage would pull the lobes of my ears 
 until they felt long and red, like a cock's comb. 
 
 I was staggering up the front steps with Sellawese on 
 my back, one warm afternoon in May, when suddenly I 
 heard a patter of feet on the pavement behind me, and a 
 woman's voice — sounding young and fresh — calling 
 out, " My little girl ! " 
 
 Involuntarily I tried to turn my head. Sellawese dug 
 
 3 2 
 
To M. L. G. 33 
 
 her fingers so deep into my throat that I choked and 
 turned giddy. I wavered, and would have fallen with 
 my load, if some one had not steadied me. Strong arms 
 swung me off the steps and set me down on the pave- 
 ment at the foot of the stairs. I felt unreasonably happy 
 and comforted. It was a little thin man who had caught 
 me, quite young I think he must have been, though all 
 grown-up people seem old to children ; not good-looking, 
 because his mouth was wide, with a long upper lip, and 
 his nostrils large and quivering, like those of a nervous 
 horse ; but his dark blue eyes struck me with their beauty 
 and- beaming kindness. They were the color of sapphires 
 in contrast with his thick black lashes, bushy black eye- 
 brows, and curly hair which might have been dipped in 
 ink. Though he was neatly shaven, his beard was 
 so strong that his deeply cleft chin and long upper 
 lip were nearly as blue as his eyes. He had splendid 
 white teeth, which showed in his wide mouth in a 
 long, straight line, as he bent over me with a charming 
 smile. 
 
 I have always observed things quickly, and they stick 
 in my memory; so in one look at this kind, beaming 
 man, his features, his expression, his attitude were photo- 
 graphed on my mind. Since that day I have always 
 been able to see him exactly as he loqk'ed then, stooping 
 down, with a tweed travelling cap pushed far back on his 
 thick curls. I was grateful to him, and knew I could love 
 him dearly, yet my eyes and my thoughts flew from him 
 to the woman whose fresh voice had cried out, " My little 
 girl ! " She seemed to me prettier than any one I had 
 ever seen, like a beautiful doll come alive ; and it was 
 with a shock of joy that I saw her shake Sellawese vio- 
 
34 To M. L. G. 
 
 lently, after tearing loose the little hands clutched round 
 my throat. 
 
 " Oh, say, dearie, I guess that's enough ! " the man 
 pleaded. 
 
 But the pretty woman shook Sellawese again, and 
 everything in me that was cruel and revengeful rejoiced. 
 The spoiled little girl, who was never scolded, much less 
 punished, by her mother, was horrified into silence for a 
 second. Then she burst into a hoarse roar of rage, which 
 sounded too big and old for her babyish body. It seemed 
 as strong as a grown-up woman's voice ; but her mother 
 was out ; and there was no one else in the house who 
 would not have revelled in the scene. 
 
 " Take that, you little brute ! " snapped the woman, 
 with a pretty viciousness, which seemed to me adorable 
 because it was shown in my defense, and for a long time 
 there had been no one to defend me. " Nasty little tyrant, 
 I'd like to spank you squint-eyed ! " 
 
 " There, there, drop the little goblin," said the man. 
 " It's all our fault, leaving the kid the way we have." 
 
 This turned the woman's attention to me. She let the 
 wriggling Sellawese go, and as the child scuttled up the 
 steps into the house, the lovely grown-up doll squatted 
 down and drew rhe into her arms, as if she had forgotten 
 or did not care that we were in the street, with a crowd 
 of children collecting and passers-by slowing their steps 
 to linger and stare. 
 
 She was not tall, though she had an inch or two ad- 
 vantage of the man ; and squatting close to the brick 
 pavement, her face came just on a level with mine. A 
 pair of immense brown eyes swam with sparkling tears 
 which, as they gathered and fell, carried with them faint 
 
To M. L. G. 35 
 
 black streaks from the remarkably long lashes. But I was 
 used to that effect, for ladies often cried a little at our 
 house, and nearly always damaged their complexions in 
 this way, unless they could gingerly dab their eyes in 
 time with a handkerchief, if they happened to have one, 
 or flick the tears away with a finger if they had not. 
 This lady had smooth pink and white cheeks with a few 
 little golden freckles that showed through the powder. 
 Her cheeks were delicately rosy like the inside of a conch 
 shell which was a valued possession of mine, a gift from 
 the sailor brother of a boarder. She had a tiny mouth, 
 with curving lips, painted in the shape of a bow ; and 
 though her eyes were so dark, and her arched brows 
 black, her hair was a pale> gold, with rippling waves that 
 glittered. The only fault in her oval face was that the 
 chin receded a little. A large navy-blue hat was a frame 
 for the shining hair, and her white throat rose like a long 
 stem of a flower out from her turned-down collar. 
 
 "Do you know you're our baby daughter?" she 
 asked me, in a cooing voice. " Oh, you poor wee 
 thing; those nasty creatures let you go looking like a 
 rag-bag." 
 
 I flung my arms around her and squeezed her tightly, 
 while she laughed and gurgled, hugging me to her full, 
 hard bosom. She smelled very good, like scented grease- 
 paint and powder, and seemed more than ever like a wax 
 doll which Sellawese owned, and would never let me 
 play with. I felt it was too wonderful to be true, that 
 these could be my father and mother. 
 
 " You'll take me away with you, won't you ? " I said. 
 And my father laughed a nervous little laugh, answering, 
 " Well, I guess we'll have to manage it, some way or an- 
 
36 To M. L. G. 
 
 other. But come on in now. We can't stay in the street 
 all day." 
 
 He picked me up in his arms and carried me into the 
 house, while my beautiful mother followed with a good- 
 sized hand-bag they had brought. No one was in the 
 parlor, and I showed them in there, for it seemed the 
 only thing to do. The shutters were bowed and the 
 windows were closed to keep out the heat. My father 
 sat down in an armchair that had a castor off, and tilted 
 over to one side. He took me between his knees and 
 smoothed my hair, which was almost as tangled as it 
 used to be before my dear Californian friend came into my 
 life. Mother looked at herself in the fly-specked glass 
 over the mantelpiece, moistening her handkerchief and 
 dabbing the faint black streaks off her cheeks, then dust- 
 ing on powder from a tiny round box in a pocket of her 
 coat. She laughed at the stacks of faded photographs. 
 " My," she said, " the same photos — even the same fly- 
 specks, I bet. Everything the same as last time." 
 
 " Except this," added my father, nodding at me. 
 
 " Except this," she repeated, and came to perch on the 
 arm of the green rep covered chair. This made it tilt 
 more than ever. She lost her balance, and he quickly 
 threw an arm round her. They both laughed, and kissed 
 each other. Then they kissed me, too ; and though I 
 felt instinctively that I was a second thought with them, 
 and always would be, I felt so happy that a kind of gid- 
 diness seized me. My knees trembled, and my father 
 snatched me up onto his lap. My mother knelt beside 
 the chair, pressing her head against my arm. She had 
 taken off her hat, and as her golden hair glittered under 
 my eyes, I saw that there was a brownish line along the 
 
To M. L. G. 37 
 
 roots. This disappointed me faintly, because it made 
 her seem a little more like every other woman, not quite 
 so unique. 
 
 It was thus that we were found by Henry's wife, who 
 threw open the door suddenly and came in with several 
 paper parcels dangling from her fingers by strings. She 
 had not waited to put away her purchases, for Sellawese, 
 appearing cautiously behind her skirts, had doubtless in- 
 cited her to vengeance. 
 
 There was a volley of recriminations on both sides, 
 and the words " my child " were sharply repeated by 
 both women again and again, but at last my father suc- 
 ceeded in making peace. He had a rich, low voice, 
 which was curiously soothing and pleasant. Even Mrs. 
 Henry could not resist it long. 
 
 Listening in silence, I understood most of the conver- 
 sation. There was much talk about the money owing 
 for my keep, but when tones grew shrill, my father ex- 
 plained quietly that he would now settle everything. He 
 had had rheumatic fever, and their savings had gone 
 while he was out of an engagement, and there had been 
 doctors' bills to pay. At last they had found another 
 " job," together, though otherwise not very good ; and 
 they had had to wait before coming to fetch me, until 
 the tour brought them east, within fifty miles of New 
 York. They had planned to wipe off part of their debt 
 and board at Henry's house, looking for a summer en- 
 gagement, but now they said that they would go some- 
 where else at once, and take me with them. They gave 
 Mrs. Henry what money they had to spare, which my 
 mother turned aside to get out of her stocking. How 
 much it was I don't know, though I saw several creased 
 
38 To M. L. G. 
 
 twenty-dollar bills counted by all three ; but there was 
 not enough, and my father had to give the woman a 
 diamond ring he was wearing before she would consent 
 to hand me over with my belongings. 
 
 I had seen such transactions in the house before, when 
 some boarder lacked money to pay outstanding debts, 
 for it was the fashion among actors and actresses to in- 
 vest their savings in diamond ornaments. Then, if they 
 were in difficulties, they had something to fall back upon. 
 My father liked his ring, and looked at it wistfully. He 
 suggested pawning it, but Mrs. Henry, who had evidently 
 calculated just what was owing, said he " wouldn't get 
 enough within fifty dollars." At this, he reluctantly gave 
 up the ring, and she stuck it on one of her own fingers. 
 The stone was yellow, though of a good size, and made 
 her hand look red and coarse ; but under an air of mis- 
 prisal she could not hide her pleasure. 
 
 I had hardly any clothes, for it was now so long since 
 money had been received, that no new ones had been 
 bought, and I had outgrown most of my old tilings. 
 Such possessions as I had, including the pink conch 
 shell, were made into a bundle by my mother and Mrs. 
 Henry, who went up-stairs together, while my father and 
 I remained in the parlor. The house was not very full 
 just then, and there was no one in it for whom I cared. 
 Even Henry was away on one of his business trips, so 
 there were few good-byes to say, except to Maud, Rose's 
 successor, and a thin black cat named " Mascotte," who 
 often frightened me by jumping into the window at 
 night. Maud had a bad temper, but was not cruel like 
 Rose. Sometimes she combed tangles out of my hair, 
 when I could not manage them myself, and though she 
 
To M. L. G. 39 
 
 did not care how much she pulled or hurt me, I was 
 rather sorry to think that I should never see her again. 
 I went down into the kitchen, and gave her as a parting 
 present a new piece of chewing-gum in paper, which my 
 father had just found in his pocket for me. I hated even 
 to shake hands with Maud, because her palms were so 
 pink that they made me feel sick, just as it did to touch 
 the hand of an organ-grinder's monkey. But it was far 
 worse when suddenly she snatched me up and kissed me 
 full on the mouth with her moist lips. It was all I could 
 do not to scream and writhe myself free, but it flashed 
 into my head that I would be sorry afterwards if I hurt 
 her feelings. I had never realized any fastidiousness in 
 myself before ; yet now it seemed that no washing could 
 ever make me clean and sweet again. I was afraid to 
 tell my mother, for fear she might never give me more 
 of her fragrant kisses, if she knew how I had been defiled. 
 For days I kept the secret, which weighed on my breast 
 and made me start out of my sleep early in the morning 
 with a confused sense of disaster ; but at last I confessed 
 to father. It was a relief, and yet a shock, to hear him 
 burst out laughing. Then I went on to tell him about 
 white people turning black when they died, and he said 
 that was a damned lie, except about very bad ones. If I 
 were good, I should always be as white as I was at that 
 minute, maybe whiter. 
 
 When we left the boarding-house, we walked along 
 our street — I between my father and mother, holding a 
 hand of each — till we came to an apparently endless 
 avenue. We went down this for several blocks, and then 
 began to visit different addresses which they knew about, 
 in search of what my father called a " perch." Three or 
 
4o To M. L. G. 
 
 four houses were full, except for rooms that were too ex- 
 pensive ; but at last we found a place, farther east, and 
 noticeably shabbier than my old home. We were all to 
 sleep in a back room at the top, but I was happy and 
 excited. It was a fascinating room to my eyes, because 
 it had no window but a skylight, and there was a patch- 
 work calico quilt on the bed, made to represent the 
 American flag. 
 
 The baggage was still to come, and father had left 
 word about it at the other house, which already seemed 
 to me remote, as if it belonged to another world I had 
 been snatched away from and could never by any possi- 
 bility visit again. Mother was anxious about the trunk, 
 fearing " that woman " would be malicious enough to 
 keep it, or send it back, when it arrived from the 
 " depot," whence it was to be forwarded. Meanwhile, 
 however, she busied herself with unpacking the big trav- 
 elling bag they had carried in their hands. She hummed 
 little gay tunes in a light, pretty voice as she took out 
 the contents, scattering them wildly about. She let me 
 look on, and even help her to find places for the things. 
 " What a handy little body it is ! " she said ; and that en- 
 chanted me. 
 
 It was wonderful how much the bag contained, and 
 what an extraordinary collection had been stuffed into 
 it. Among other things, there were a good many 
 bottles, one of which had been broken, and my mother 
 cut her hand with a piece of glass. But father washed 
 the place, and " kissed it to make it well." Then I re- 
 membered how Ma had talked about them both to my 
 dear friend from California, calling them the " Love 
 Birds," and saying that they cared for nobody in the 
 
To M. L. G. 41 
 
 world but each other. I thought, if only I knew any 
 prayer except " Now I lay me down to sleep," and " Our 
 Father," I should like to pray to God that they might 
 care for me. But even "Now I lay me" and "Our 
 Father " I had not said for a long time. I supposed that 
 God was angry because I had wanted Him to forget me 
 in the night, so it would be no use asking Him for 
 things, supposing I had known how. I dimly imagined 
 Him living in great state in the church to which my dear 
 lady had taken me, and being always there, if people 
 went to call on Him, though by some miracle He could 
 not be seen. 
 
 My father — whom I soon learned to call " Boy," my 
 mother's name for him — went out when things began 
 to be a little settled, because there was no time to waste. 
 
 He was going to " have a chin with B ," who was, I 
 
 learned afterwards, a second or third-rate theatrical agent. 
 Also he promised to see Mrs. Henry, and find out if the 
 trunk had come. When he was gone, mother drew me 
 to her and began to run her hands through my tangled 
 crop of dark curls. 
 
 " My, what a mop you've got, Midget ! " she said. 
 " It would be scrumptious if it was blonde. Goodness, 
 what it would be like, with your eyes ! Mine wouldn't 
 be in it with them." 
 
 Then she thought a minute, and gave a little laugh. 
 " Say, would you like to have hair the color mine is ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " I exclaimed. " I would love it ! " 
 
 " Then you shall," she replied. " I guess I've got 
 perox enough to begin with anyhow. But it'll need a 
 lot of doing. Ginks, what fun having everybody say 
 
42 To M. L. G. 
 
 you take after me ! Folks will think mine's natural, if 
 yours is the same, and our eyes so dark." 
 
 She was as much amused as a child with a new doll. 
 Seating me on a chair (made higher by means of a hard 
 pillow from the bed), she tied a towel round my shoul- 
 ders. Emptying the contents of a bottle, nearly full, 
 into the wash-bowl, she began to wet my hair with the 
 colorless liquid, using a nail brush at the roots. As 
 she did this, she hummed different airs, and chewed gum, 
 which at last she took out of her mouth and stuck on the 
 wall, till she should want it again. When my whole 
 head was thoroughly wet, she rinsed my long hair in 
 what was left of the liquid in the bowl. I did not like 
 the odor of the stuff, but it was very familiar. Most of 
 the ladies in our house smelled of it in the mornings, at 
 least once a week ; and I was passionately interested in 
 what would happen to me after the application. 
 
 At first, no difference could be seen. But when my 
 hair dried, I squeaked with excitement at discovering 
 that, from very dark reddish brown, it had turned a bright 
 auburn. This stage had been reached about the time 
 that Boy returned, to announce that the trunk was at the 
 door. He had run up four flights of stairs to bring 
 the glad tidings as quickly as possible, and his face looked 
 odd and drawn. There were white streaks under his eyes, 
 and his lips were bluish white. 
 
 " Dearie " (his name for mother) clapped her hands 
 with joy about the trunk. Then her smile seemed to be 
 caught away from her face, rather than to fade. " You 
 mustn't gallop up-stairs like that ! " she exclaimed crossly 
 " Don't you remember what the doctor said ? Oh, Boy, 
 you shall be careful." 
 
To M. L. G. 43 
 
 " It's all right," he said, and his color began to creep 
 back, though his breast heaved. Then he saw me, as I 
 stole up to him, and shouted at sight of my changed hair. 
 Like all the other men I had known, his unfailing ejacu- 
 lation was, " My God ! " " What have you done to her ? " 
 he wanted to know. 
 
 " It's going to be ' like mother, like child ' when she's 
 finished," Dearie explained. He laughed till tears ran 
 down his cheeks, as I soon learned that he did at most of 
 her fancies, and though he said it was " a sort of pity," he 
 did not appear to disapprove. 
 
 We slept three in one bed, in the little room under the 
 roof, and it was very hot and close, because we could not 
 keep the skylight more than a crack open at night, for 
 fear of a sudden rain-storm while we were asleep. 
 
 Next morning Dearie sent Boy out to buy more " pcr- 
 ox " (for it seemed that there was still a little private hoard 
 of money), and another stage in my development was at- 
 tained. My hair became a shade lighter. That same 
 afternoon it was soaked again, and then I was in ecstasies 
 of admiration, for all the crisp masses of waves and curls 
 were of a gorgeous red gold. In contrast, my big eyes 
 were like black holes in my small olive face. It cannot 
 have been becoming really, for my complexion was too 
 dark for red hair, but I thought the effect magnificent, 
 and so did Dearie and Boy. Every one in the house ad- 
 mired me, too (there were not many at the moment), and 
 in the street, when Dearie took me out, people nearly 
 always turned to look back after us. I grew to expect 
 this, and was mortified for us both if it did not happen. 
 Dearie grew quite proud of me, and made me several 
 dresses out of old ones of her own. She dampened the 
 
44 To M. L. G. 
 
 roots of my hair very often, and when she brushed it, 
 kissed me. I was perfectly happy. 
 
 This state of things went on for three or four weeks, 
 until it began to seem that I had always lived with Boy 
 and Dearie — except in dreams, when I was invariably 
 back in the old house with Ma or Mrs. Henry. 
 
 They tried untiringly to get an engagement, and I 
 knew from their low-voiced discussions in bed, when they 
 supposed me asleep, that they were falling into debt. 
 Dearie had had a diamond ring, better than Boy's, but 
 that, too, was gone now. Only to the pawnbroker's, 
 however ; and they did not much mind, because they felt 
 sure of getting it back again. They were great optimists, 
 and always hoped for the best, hating even to think of 
 disagreeable happenings. 
 
 I can imagine your wondering how they could have 
 kept those rings and left me so long, like an unclaimed 
 parcel, at Henry's house ; but knowing them, as I know 
 them now in retrospect, I can well understand. Out of 
 sight was to be practically out of mind with them. They 
 had each other, and contrived to be happy, through all 
 their worries " on the road." They could not make pic- 
 tures in their minds, as I have always done, or else they 
 shut their eyes upon all disagreeable ones. It was only 
 the sight of me, ragged and tangled and dirty, that 
 startled the lovers, and opened their hearts, which were 
 really warm and kind, though without much permanent 
 love to spare for a little third person. Seeing me, want- 
 ing to rescue me, they were impulsively ready to part 
 with Boy's diamond, which they could hardly have borne 
 to sell for my sake, when at a distance. As for writing 
 to Ma or Henry, and apologizing or explaining things, of 
 
To M. L. G. 45 
 
 course they would not do that, being their happy-go- 
 lucky selves. Perhaps they never saw the advertisement, 
 or received Ma's letters, or if these did reach them, still 
 they would not answer, because all unpleasant duties were 
 duties to put off. And duties put off were dissipated in 
 air, like smoke. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 ONE summer day Boy came home from the agent's, 
 wildly happy. He raced up-stairs, and had to 
 be scolded before he was allowed to tell his news. 
 Then he told it panting, he was in such haste to get it 
 out. He had obtained an engagement for them both, in 
 vaudeville. Together they had written a tiny, quarter- 
 hour play, and there was an offer to do it, at a down- town 
 theatre, as long as it " attracted." This was a vague time 
 limit, but they were satisfied, and had no fears. At best, 
 they had not dreamed of a New York engagement in 
 summer. They had thought that, even with luck, they 
 would have to go on the road, playing in small towns. 
 
 The two lovers hugged each other, and danced round 
 the room, which made the floor creak dangerously, though 
 they were both so small, and Boy so thin. Then at last 
 they remembered me, and I was duly kissed, and made 
 to share the rejoicings. 
 
 After that followed a few rehearsals, not more than two 
 or three, and Boy and Dearie were ready with their 
 " turn." The first night they came back happy, and too 
 much excited to try not to disturb my sleep. When I 
 opened my eyes they flew at me, and we had a splendid 
 pillow-fight. " We've made a hit, Miss Mouse ! A hit — 
 a hit ! " said Boy. " Pity you don't know what a hit is, 
 unless it's a slap. But you will some day." 
 
 I assured him that I did know, which was true, for I 
 had heard too much talk of the theatre not to under- 
 
 46 
 
To M. L. G. 47 
 
 stand most of the jargon. And my definition of the 
 word's meaning tickled my parents so exquisitely, that 
 they let me sit up in bed and help eat the supper they 
 had bought to celebrate their great success. They must 
 have been very extravagant, for we had expensive soft- 
 shell crabs, which they had purchased at a restaurant 
 ready cooked, in a paper box, sandwiches, and a basket 
 of strawberries. There was also a bottle of English beer, 
 or ale, which Boy pronounced the best in the world, and 
 darn the cost ! 
 
 It was true their little entertainment must have pleased 
 the public,, for the manager of the cheap theatre (I know 
 now it was one of the cheapest) prolonged their engage- 
 ment. They were delighted, and appeared to be enjoy- 
 ing life ecstatically, though a heat wave brooded over the 
 city, like a hen that sits on her nest, covering her chickens 
 with lazy wings. But they lay late in bed, sleeping through 
 the hot mornings, and I, too, had to lie there, very still, 
 for fear of rousing them. I used to be tortured with 
 cramps in my legs, growing pains probably, and it 
 was almost unbearable to keep myself rigidly stretched out 
 between the two passive forms, hour after hour, staring 
 up at the skylight (over which Boy had tacked green 
 paper muslin), wondering if they would ever wake up. 
 
 Dearie looked pretty and young in bed, though her 
 face was shiny with cold cream ; and the black stuff was 
 never completely washed off her eyes after coming home 
 from the theatre. But Boy slept with his mouth open, 
 and his dry white lips, and the dark hollows that were 
 deepening in his cheeks, made him seem much older than 
 when he was awake and animated, smiling his kind, 
 beaming smile. 
 
48 To M. L. G. 
 
 Dearie did not bother about bleaching my hair any- 
 more, now that she was busy in the evenings, and tired in 
 the mornings. Such energy as the heat left her by day 
 she used in helping Boy to write another short vaudeville 
 play, to be ready in case the first failed to attract. Even 
 this mental effort bored her, and often she would doze in 
 the midst. A dark streak grew out from the roots of my 
 hair, appearing dead black in contrast with the red gold 
 of the long curls, and I looked a dilapidated, uncared-for 
 little object, even more forlorn than in Mrs. Henry's day. 
 I saw that myself, in the mirror, where the growth of the 
 dark streak interested me intensely, though not pleasantly. 
 But Boy had brought me home a handsome doll, which 
 opened and shut its eyes, so that I did not grieve deeply 
 over my neglected hair, until one day a child in the street 
 yelled at me, shouting out, " Zebra ! " 
 
 The landlady of this house kept no servant, except a 
 very old black man who waited on the boarders at table, 
 for she had two daughters, and the family of three 
 managed the work between them. Her " girls," as she 
 called them, were plain, and rather cross, with long, nar- 
 row faces. They seemed very old to me, and they were 
 not on the stage, which was odd in their world. I don't 
 think they approved of actors and actresses, and the 
 boarders felt that they " put on airs." They and their 
 mother were pleasanter to us, however, than to any of 
 the others, perhaps because Boy and Dearie were so jolly 
 and winning that it was impossible to feel hard towards 
 such happy creatures, or perhaps because they were in a 
 good engagement. Many of the rooms were unoccupied, 
 and my father and mother were offered one at a less price 
 than had been asked at first. They talked it over, but 
 
To M. L. G. 49 
 
 decided to stay where they were. This was not through 
 motives of economy, which never bothered them when 
 they were flush. Simply, it was too much trouble to 
 move their things, and they had grown fond of the green 
 gloom under the paper muslined skylight. 
 
 At night, when Boy and Dearie were away at the 
 theatre, " doing their turn," the two old maid daughters 
 of the house looked after me a little, unfastening my 
 dress and sending me up-stairs to bed when they thought 
 it time. After four or five weeks, however, one of them 
 wetit away on a visit. Her sister fell ill with some 
 mysterious malady, and a servant was engaged. To 
 my horror, it proved to be my old enemy Rose, who 
 made goggling eyes when she saw me peering at her 
 through the kitchen door. I confided my fears of her 
 to Boy, though I found myself inarticulate when I 
 tried to go into details of the tortures she had inflicted 
 on me. 
 
 Somehow, when there was anything to confide, it was 
 to Boy that I went, never to Dearie. I felt instinctively 
 that I bored her ; but even to him, with his beautiful eyes, 
 I could not speak all that was in my heart. There seems 
 to exist a mysterious wall between children and grown 
 people, which cannot be broken down or passed, no mat- 
 ter how well the big and the little ones may love each 
 other. Since that time I have often felt the existence of 
 this wall. It is as strong and indefinable as the barrier 
 between sexes, which keeps men and women from ever 
 understanding each other completely. 
 
 Still, it was enough for Boy to know that I was afraid 
 of Rose, and he proposed taking me to the theatre at 
 night. The servant's room was next ours, and I was sure 
 
So To M. L. G. 
 
 Rose would come in some time, when I was in bed, and 
 frighten me to death. 
 
 Dearie did not mind doing as Boy suggested ; and that 
 very evening I went with them. It was a long time since 
 I had been in a theatre, but at once I felt at home there, 
 and used to sit quietly in the dressing-room, cutting out 
 paper dolls, as my dear friend had taught me to do. I 
 was told that I must make no noise, and never run out 
 into the corridor. If I disobeyed I would never be 
 brought again, so I did my best to deserve Boy's pet 
 name for me, " Mousie." 
 
 The partitions which divided their dressing-room from 
 those adjoining did not go up to the ceiling. There was 
 a long row of little cells on either side the narrow 
 corridor, more like stalls in a stable than rooms, but the 
 actors thought themselves lucky to have such good 
 accommodation. Everything said in one dressing-room 
 could be heard in the next, unless the speakers dropped 
 their voices to whispers, which they seldom troubled to 
 do. Before the performance began, and after it ended, 
 when there was no need for silence, people shouted to 
 each other across the partitions, as they made up for 
 their parts, or wiped the make-up off to go home. 
 
 As Boy and Dearie were in the theatre not much more 
 than an hour, their dressing-room did not belong ex- 
 clusively to them. Their " turn " came about half-way 
 through the entertainment, and a " lady acrobat " had 
 the room before we arrived. There was a shelf for her 
 make-up, which those who came later did not touch. 
 An enormous, spotted grease towel always covered it; 
 and the mingling tints of red, blue, brown, purple and 
 black made me think of a story my Californian friend 
 
To M. L. G. 51 
 
 had told me. It was about Joseph and his coat of many 
 colors. I imagined that to have resembled a glorified 
 grease rag, of great size. Though the things on the 
 shelf were hidden, there were other possessions of the 
 lady acrobat which I was free to examine and admire. 
 She did her turn in spangled tights, covered as thickly 
 with sequins as the skin of a snake with scales ; and there 
 were close-fitting jackets and trunks to match. She had 
 several suits, with which to change when she liked; 
 shimmery crimson spangles on green ; gold on blue, and 
 different shades of green on purple. As she was careless, 
 and trusted Boy and Dearie, she left her finery hanging 
 on the wall. I used to sit and stare up at its glitter, 
 fascinated. The twinkling flash and sparkle hypnotized 
 me into a pleasant sleepiness. I cultivated the sensation 
 when I had tired of my paper dolls ; and by the time Boy 
 and Dearie came bouncing in upon me, ready to dress 
 for home, I was half-way along the road to dreamland. 
 
 Their laughing voices outside in the corridor roused 
 me up, and I always had the same sensation of gladness 
 at hearing them, in remembering that I had some one to 
 love and take care of me now. But one night the voices 
 were different. I woke up with a start, not sure whether 
 it were a dream or true, that Dearie was crying. 
 
 The next minute I knew that it was true. " Oh, help 
 me get him in," she whimpered. " I don't know what's 
 the matter. What shall I do? Will they send for a 
 doctor ? " 
 
 A man I did not know flung open the door so vio- 
 lently that it banged against the thin wooden partition. 
 Another man, dressed like a clown, with wild black 
 eyebrows half-way up his forehead, a whitened face and 
 
52 To M. L. G. 
 
 great red lips, was helping Dearie lead Boy into the 
 room. And Boy seemed strangely dazed and weak. 
 His eyes were open, but dim, as I had seen Ma's once, 
 when she got up and walked in her sleep. The man 
 had his arm round Boy's waist, and Boy's head was 
 resting on his shoulder. 
 
 Dearie rushed ahead of the others into the room, and 
 without looking at me, began tearing her street clothes 
 and Boy's from their hooks on the wall, and throwing 
 them in a heap on the floor. She was dressed like a 
 little girl, in a short white frock, with blue silk stockings 
 and a blue sash. Her fluffy hair hung down under a 
 frilled white sunbonnet. She had looked like a big 
 child ; but now her face was old and drawn, so that it 
 was painful to see, framed in the babyish sunbonnet. 
 My father wore the costume of an Eton boy, with a 
 wide white collar, but the silk hat with which he made 
 great play in his sketch was missing, and his hair was 
 ruffled. 
 
 " Lay him down here," said Dearie in a choked voice ; 
 and the two men — the clown and the other — gently 
 laid Boy on the pile of things she had tossed on to the 
 floor. He gave a sigh as his head came to rest, and 
 his muscles relaxed feebly. His shut eyes opened once 
 more, searched for Dearie, found her, and smiled their 
 beautiful, beaming smile, though his lips did not move. 
 Then his eyelids drooped, slowly, until they were almost 
 closed, but not quite. A line of white showed between 
 his black lashes, and his face was paler than I had ever 
 seen it, even when he ran up four flights of stairs too 
 fast. It Jiad a gray whiteness, like burnt-out ashes, and 
 his lips hung apart. 
 
To M. L. G. 53 
 
 Dearie fell on her knees beside him, and caught his 
 hand up between both hers, to her breast. She bent 
 over him, sobbing strangled sobs, and begging him to 
 speak. But he did not answer, or open his eyes again. 
 
 For a minute the two men stood just inside the open 
 door, and out in the corridor a crowd was collecting, 
 people in stage clothes, or half dressed for the street, 
 men in wigbands, women whose faces were plastered with 
 vaseline. Over the partitions I could hear voices asking 
 each other questions and answering them, in solemn 
 tones such as people take involuntarily when they read 
 the Bible aloud. " What's up ? Oh, sick, is he ? Poor 
 chap — poor girl ! Why doesn't the doctor come ? " 
 
 There was no swearing or joking over the partitions 
 now. I don't know why, but I thought about my Sun- 
 day in the dim church, and remembered the throb and 
 thrill of the organ. 
 
 An old woman came into our room, pushing past the 
 men, and tried to coax me, in whispers, to come with 
 her, while my mother prayed out loud and dropped tears 
 on the white face she loved. But when I struggled, and 
 opened my mouth as if to cry, the woman let my arm 
 fall instantly. " Better come away, and give him more 
 air," she half whispered to the men, and pushed them 
 before her, neither resisting. Then she shut the door, 
 carefully and noiselessly. We three were left alone. 
 
 I should think that prayers had never been heard over 
 the partitions before ; but now, the actors who listened 
 awestruck in their dressing-rooms, and crowded outside 
 our door in the corridor, must have heard Dearie pray- 
 ing out aloud. She prayed in a monotonous voice, not 
 like her own, nor any real voice. It reminded me of a 
 
54 To M. L. G. 
 
 phonograph doll in a toy-shop, where Boy had taken 
 me, and the thought that I could not help being re- 
 minded of that was dimly horrible to me. I did not dare 
 to go near Dearie, or even to cry so that she could hear 
 me, but my cheeks were wet with tears that burned in 
 my wide-open eyes. 
 
 " Oh God let Boy live Oh God don't let him die and 
 leave me alone Oh God spare him spare him," she was 
 praying, without any stops between her words. And 
 outside the room were no more sounds, except those far 
 away on the stage ; now and then a muffled roar of dis- 
 tant laughter from the audience, and a thunderous clap- 
 ping of hands ; but that was in another world. I did not 
 know which was real, yet it seemed that both could not 
 be true. It was not like being alive, to crouch there 
 unseen, as if I were invisible, hearing that strange, croon, 
 ing voice that went on and on, while Boy, who had 
 loved it as he had loved life, lay still and gave no answer. 
 
 A long time seemed to pass, though it may not have 
 been fifteen minutes, before the door opened softly, and 
 the man who had helped the clown to bring my father 
 in returned with a doctor. I was sure he must be a doc- 
 tor, because of a bag exactly like the bag I associated 
 with Ma's death. 
 
 One or two other people silently followed them in, but 
 I hardly noticed any one except the man with the bag. 
 He had a strong, tired face, with deep-set eyes and a 
 prominent chin. I felt that whatever he said would be 
 true, and whatever he did would be best. 
 
 Ever since Boy had been brought in, I had stood in a 
 corner, crushed against the acrobat's spangled tights, 
 which hung on the wall like a row of Bluebeard's wives. 
 
To M. L. G. §5 
 
 But I grew conscious that I was standing only when the 
 doctor came. Suddenly I felt deadly weak, as if I should 
 fall, and I clasped my hands tightly over my heart. They 
 were ice cold, though the night was hot and the room 
 close. 
 
 The doctor did not ask Dearie to move, but went down 
 rather stiffly on one knee on the other side of Boy. His 
 back was turned to me, and I could not see all he did, 
 except that he bent his head very low. He looked wide 
 and squat, for he was a stout man, but somehow noble, 
 and the whole room seemed changed by the dignity of 
 his importance. Just as he got slowly up there came 
 echoing in one of those great bursts of applause from 
 the audience, and he started slightly, looking up as if 
 he expected the ceiling to fall. But he asked no ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " My poor little woman," he said to Dearie, laying his 
 square hand on her head, " your husband " 
 
 He got no further. Dearie uttered a shriek, and 
 throwing up her arms, flung herself face down across my 
 father's body. 
 
 So she lay, writhing and moaning, until the doctor 
 lifted her in his arms, though she struggled like an ani- 
 mal in a trap. For an instant I caught sight of her face, 
 and it was not her sweet doll's face at all, but that of a 
 desperate woman, whose eyes had already gone mad. 
 
 Once there had been a dog running along our street 
 with its head down, and when it came near where I 
 played with a little boy, who jerked me aside, it looked 
 up. There was foam in its mouth, and in its eyes the 
 same blind, wild look of savage pain that was in Dearie's 
 now. 
 
56 To M. L. G. 
 
 " Give her the child," said the doctor, holding her in 
 his arms. 
 
 The old woman who had come before took me by the 
 shoulder, and urged me towards my mother. 
 
 Dearie's head was shaking from side to side, her fair 
 hair streaming over her face, and she took no notice of 
 me until I was made to touch her. Then, with a sharp 
 cry, she pushed me back with both hands, so that I fell 
 against the woman. 
 
 " Take her away — I don't care for her — I don't want 
 her," she wailed. " I hate her — I hate every one. I'm 
 going to kill myself." 
 
 She made as if to scratch out her eyes, but the doctor 
 caught her hands, and gathering her up in his arms like 
 a child, carried her out of the room. 
 
 Everybody else went too, as if expecting something to 
 happen which they must see. When the old woman 
 came back, with the doctor and no one else, I was kneel- 
 ing on the floor beside Boy. 
 
 It seemed right to kneel. And I had been saying, 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep." I knew that Boy was 
 dead, and I was sure that he would always be white, as 
 he was now. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THEY had to drag me away from Boy, for I 
 could not bear to leave him lying there alone, 
 without Dearie, whom he had loved so much. 
 The old woman tried, but I was so strong and fierce she 
 could not hold me, and a man threw his coat round me 
 to keep me from moving my arms and legs. The coat 
 smelt of tobacco and perspiration, and was rolled so 
 closely that it pulled my head back by my long hair. I 
 was furious, as at a shameful indignity ; still, I had been 
 so trained since babyhood never to make a noise in the 
 theatre, that I did not scream. 
 
 " See here," said the woman, walking by the man's 
 side, as he carried me in a bundle hastily along the cor- 
 ridor, " no one wants to hurt you. I'm going to take 
 you home with me for to-night. You can't stay in the 
 theatre. They'll be getting your father away. And 
 your mother's been taken to a hospital. She's out of her 
 head, and can't think about you. Be good, and I'll do 
 the best I can for you, until somebody else comes along. 
 I like little girls." 
 
 She was not very old really, but she looked old, be- 
 cause her dull eyes seemed to have died in her face ; and 
 it was very white, very flabby, as if the bones had all 
 been cooked, and the flesh had jellied on them. I knew 
 she had to do with the theatrical wardrobes, and I 
 had heard the lady acrobat tell Dearie that she was 
 " Someone " in the theatre, because she had been the 
 
 57 
 
58 To M. L. G. 
 
 manager's mistress when she was young. She was 
 known by an abbreviation of her surname, which 
 sounded like " Touey.' - It was not that, but I will call 
 her so, here. 
 
 Outside the stage door the man set me down, releas- 
 ing me from his coat, and Touey caught my hand, fear- 
 ing that I would try to run back. To do that did not 
 occur to me, until her start put the idea into my head. 
 But even then I made no such move. I knew that it 
 would be useless, and that I should never see Boy again. 
 I went with Touey, crying quietly, thinking of his beau- 
 tiful kind eyes and his last smile that had been for Dearie. 
 
 The woman lived only a short distance from the theatre, 
 not in a boarding-house, but in a little flat at the top of a 
 building which smelled very old, as we went up the nar- 
 row stairs. She had two rooms, a bedroom and a tiny 
 dark kitchen, like a cupboard. The bedroom was small, 
 too, and looked smaller than it was, being stuffed full of 
 parlor" furniture, much too large for it, which must have 
 come from a bigger house. Pictures of actors and ac- 
 tresses and photographs without frames were stuck all 
 over the walls, as high as a hand could reach to nail them 
 up. There was one window, but it came within two feet 
 of another house, so that it was always twilight, except 
 at night when the gas flared. 
 
 Touey struck a match when she had unlocked the door, 
 and lit the gas when she brought me in. We entered 
 opposite a mantelpiece, and the first thing that caught 
 my eye was the life-size portrait — head and bust — of a 
 beautiful woman, done in crayon, as if it had been en- 
 larged from a photograph. 
 
 The woman in the picture seemed young, and I 
 
To M. L. G. 59 
 
 thought of Touey as old ; yet there was a likeness be- 
 tween the two. 
 
 The portrait was taken in profile, looking over the 
 shoulder, and the straight line between the forehead and 
 nose, the curve of the lips, and the way of dressing the 
 hair in a bunch of curls, made it look like one of the 
 " plaster ladies," as I called them, copies of Greek statues, 
 used as property decorations at the theatre. Then I re- 
 alized that the faded Touey was like that, too, only she 
 was a dissipated, broken statue. 
 
 The " somebody else " she had spoken of, who would 
 look after me by and by, did not come to claim me. No 
 one ever came to Touey's rooms, except a woman who 
 did a little cleaning once a week ; and Touey never would 
 go out, all day long, till evening, just before the " show." 
 Then the forlorn statue seemed to come alive, and wak- 
 ing up did some necessary shopping. I was taken with 
 her, as she could not leave me alone in her rooms ; and 
 so, going back to the theatre again, I heard much talk. 
 Touey made no friends, and did not talk of herself or her 
 own affairs ; but she listened to gossip, with that dead 
 look in her eyes as if her soul had been sent off on a dis- 
 tant errand. I heard that I had no relations, except 
 Dearie, and she was still in hospital. People whispered 
 to each other that she had tried to kill herself, but others 
 were of opinion that she was too soft for anything of that 
 kind. She might mope, but she would never have the 
 courage to hurt her pretty body. She could not act 
 much. I heard it said, but Boy had been a fine actor, and 
 might have climbed to the " top of the tree " if he had 
 had ambition. 
 
 Living with Touey, never having exercise or sunlight, 
 
60 To M. L. G. 
 
 eating anything she chose to give me out of tins, since 
 she hated cooking, reduced me to a curious state for a 
 child. I was passionately homesick for Boy and Dearie 
 at first, but by and by, as my vitality ebbed, I felt as if I 
 had never had a father and mother, except in dreams. 
 My despair died down into apathy. It did not matter 
 to me whether I stayed indoors or went out. I never 
 wished to play, and though Touey was kind in her weary 
 way, buying me striped sticks of candy and chocolate 
 mice when she shopped, I shrank from her ungratefully. 
 
 Something strange was the matter with Touey, I did 
 not know what, and had little curiosity about it, though 
 I thought of it often, and wondered if, whatever it was, I 
 should get it too. I began to think that I was growing 
 like her, and stared into my eyes in the greenish mirror 
 over the bureau to see if they were dying in my face, or 
 if my flesh looked white and baggy. 
 
 All over her arms and legs were queer marks, which 
 came from sticking the needle-point of a little syringe 
 into her skin. She did this every night after coming 
 home from the theatre, and two or three times in the 
 day besides. After she had done it she seemed happier, 
 and her eyes were not so dead. 
 
 When I first came she tried to hide the little syringe 
 and what she did with it, from me; but I was always 
 with her in the bed-sitting-room, and soon she grew not 
 to care. I dare say she thought me too small to notice, 
 not remembering that the younger the child, past baby- 
 hood, the more interested is it in everything new and 
 strange. 
 
 I shared the bed with her, and slept badly, for she 
 mumbled constantly in her sleep, and often groaned or 
 
To M. L. G. 61 
 
 even screamed. She would say over and over again in 
 the dark, *' Oh, my God, my God, what have I come to ? 
 What am I good for ? " and the bed would shake and 
 creak with her sobs. But if I spoke she never answered, 
 and I should have thought she was talking in her sleep, 
 if on these nights of her agony she had not got stealthily 
 up, and lighting a match, not the gas, pricked herself 
 somewhere with the needle. Then she would lie down 
 again and be quiet. 
 
 She suffered from such lassitude in the morning that, 
 when she rose to dress for the day, which was seldom 
 before eleven or twelve o'clock, she would not even 
 trouble to make coffee, but heating some milk for herself 
 and me, into her portion she would pour nearly half a 
 small bottle of black coffee essence. She advised me to 
 taste this when I complained of being tired, saying it 
 would brace me up, as it did her ; but one sip was enough. 
 The taste was very bitter, and sugar made it worse rather 
 than improved it. 
 
 Lying in bed late was not the same penance to me 
 that it had been when with Dearie and Boy, for now I 
 was so listless that I cared for nothing, and it did not 
 matter whether I were up or in bed all day. If it had 
 not been for the Irishwoman who came every week, we 
 should both have been very dirty, but she was a brisk, 
 wholesome person supporting a large family of children, 
 of whom she continually talked, and it was on her con- 
 science to rouse Touey to " a sense of responsibility." 
 She pulled the sheets and pillow-cases off the bed to wash 
 them, and my only pleasure was to go with her up a little 
 stairway to the roof, where they, and other people's 
 things, were dried. She took away our underclothes, 
 
02 To M. L. G. 
 
 too, and gave us clean ones, or we should have changed 
 seldom. Occasionally she mended for me, too, my things 
 which had come from the house where I used to live with 
 Dearie and Boy. 
 
 It was not in me, just at this time, to be very fond of 
 any one, but I had a dim sense of gratitude and affection 
 for Mrs. Ryan, and it was faintly cheering to see her ar- 
 rive, even though she scolded me for a" lazy little gyurl." 
 After a few weeks with Touey, Mrs. Ryan brought in, on 
 one of her mornings, a basket. " This is for you, 
 mavourneen," she said. 
 
 In the basket was a fat white ball of a kitten, with mild 
 blue eyes and a tiny pink nose. Life was ebbing low in 
 me, but my blood stirred in my veins at the sight of the 
 little live thing ; and I believe that the interest I took in 
 it saved me from illness. The kitten slept in its basket 
 by the side of the bed at night, but when I woke up in 
 the gray twilight, which was all the morning light we 
 had, I would take my pet up and play with it, under the 
 sheet and blanket. Before it was given me by Mrs. 
 Ryan I watched the coming of day by the glimmer of a 
 bald spot in the midst of Touey 's long, grizzled hair, for 
 she lay with her back to me. I had hated the look of that 
 yellowish white circle, but I never thought of it again 
 after the kitten became my bedfellow. 
 
 When I had been with Touey for five or six weeks, one 
 afternoon while we were eating a meal, there came a loud 
 knocking at the door, a thing that had never happened 
 in my experience. No one called except Mrs. Ryan, 
 who had a key, as that saved Touey getting up if she 
 were in bed. 
 
 I looked at Touey to see what she would do, but to my 
 
To M. L. G. 63 
 
 surprise she did not seem to be astonished. Some kind 
 of emotion she did feel, for the blood slowly and faintly 
 colored her waxy skin. Her dead eyes lighted, as when 
 a lamp is held at the door of a dark room, and she got 
 up, quickly for her, from the table. 
 
 The key was always turned in the lock, so that nobody 
 could walk in from outside. Touey twisted it squeakily 
 back, and let a beautiful, charmingly dressed woman 
 come in. I knew at once that this was the original of 
 the big portrait which reigned over the room. 
 
 " It's like the black hole of Calcutta here 1 " was the 
 first thing she said. 
 
 I sat still at the table, staring at the beautiful lady with 
 as much interest as I was able to feel in anything. 
 
 •• So this is the child ! " she went on, when Touey said 
 nothing in defense of the room. 
 
 " Yes, poor little thing," returned Touey. 
 
 " Not so poor as she would have been, if you hadn't 
 taken her in," said the other. She had a rich, throaty 
 voice, but did not modulate her words as musically as 
 Touey did, unless she stopped to think about it. Touey 
 had the slow, grand way of speaking of one who had 
 once been a good actress. 
 
 " I don't know," said Touey. " Perhaps I have done 
 her harm. But I meant for the best. There seemed 
 nothing else for the little creature. You know I always 
 liked children, though I had no way with them." 
 
 They talked before me as if I were a piece of furni- 
 ture. 
 
 The beautiful woman sat down on the sofa, near the 
 table, and what light there was fell on her face. She 
 noticed that my eyes were fixed on her. 
 
64 To M. L. G. 
 
 " Are you thinking that I'm like your friend Touey ? " 
 she inquired, speaking in the tone she would have used 
 to a grown-up person. 
 
 " Yes," I said. " Only you are pretty." 
 
 " She was much prettier once. Would you think she's 
 only twelve years older than I am ? " 
 
 " I don't know," I answered shyly. I had all a 
 child's vagueness about differences in age among grown 
 people. 
 
 " What's the good of talking to her like that, Mag- 
 gie ? " Touey asked, her eyes dead and her face pallid 
 again. 
 
 " Only for something to say," Maggie answered. 
 " What is the matter with your hair, little girl ? It's dark 
 on your head, and the rest's red. Is it a disease, or did 
 you try to bleach it ? " 
 
 " My mamma bleached it," I said, feeling hot and uncom- 
 fortable, for beautiful as the lady was, she had hard eyes. 
 
 " Oh ! " She turned to Touey, ignoring me again. 
 " Have you heard the latest news of her mother ? " 
 
 " I know Belle A went to call on her at the hos- 
 pital. They were talking about it last night, over there." 
 She nodded in the direction of the theatre. 
 
 " Nothing else ? " 
 
 " No. They hadn't seen Belle since." 
 
 " She came to my house this morning on business. 
 That's what made me think of looking in on you to-day. 
 Belle said the poor girl was well enough to be moved, 
 but in a queer state, almost like a half-witted person ; 
 doesn't even take any interest in her looks. Wouldn't 
 hear anything about — this." They both looked at me, 
 Maggie with interest, Touey wearily. 
 
To M. L. G. 65 
 
 " I thought she'd have been crazy to get the little one 
 back, by this time, or I wouldn't have taken it," said 
 Touey. " Not that the little thing is any trouble. I like 
 having her, for my own sake. But this is no place for a 
 child." 
 
 " She looks sick," Maggie said. " No wonder. No- 
 body but you could stand it here." 
 
 " It agrees with me," Touey replied hastily, as if she 
 were afraid of being advised to change. " As well as 
 anything does," she added. 
 
 " If the kiddie dies in this den of yours, you may get 
 the police in," said her sister. " I'll take her for a while, 
 if you like. I wouldn't mind. It might amuse me. I'm 
 so sick and tired of everything, I'm almost scared." 
 
 " What — scared that you'll get like me ? " Touey said, 
 with a smile that showed black teeth — one of the reasons 
 for her looking old. 
 
 " No, I'd never come to that, whatever happened," the 
 other answered quickly. " But there are — several things. 
 I hate my life. The more money I make, the more I 
 hate it, because my money doesn't give me the things I 
 want." 
 
 " I know how that is," Touey muttered. " I could 
 have plenty of money, if I asked for it. But I don't care. 
 I have enough to get me everything I need." 
 
 Maggie threw her a strange look, with raised eye- 
 brows. Then she turned to me. " Would you like to 
 come and live at my home ? " she inquired. " I've got a 
 whole house for you to run about in, with plenty of light 
 and air, and a back yard where you can play. I'll make 
 a pretty little girl of you, maybe." 
 
 " Can I take my white kitten ? " I asked. 
 
66 To M. L. G. 
 
 " Yes, for all I care." 
 
 I looked at Touey, realizing faintly that she had been 
 kind, as kind as she knew how to be. " Do you want me 
 to go?" 
 
 Her strange face had an extraordinary sweetness of 
 expression as she smiled at me, almost gratefully, before 
 answering. " Yes, dear," she said, slowly. " I think it 
 would be the best thing for you to go, and my sistet 
 Maggie will take care of you, better than I can." 
 
 " You may call me ' Auntie,' " the beautiful woman 
 suggested. " I guess I'll take her this afternoon, other- 
 wise I may change my mind." 
 
 " I'll get her things ready," said Touey, pulling herself 
 up heavily. But Maggie stopped her. " You needn't ! 
 If the rest are like the samples, I wouldn't be seen dead 
 with her wearing any of them. And heavens, that hair! 
 I shall have to take a hack to get her home. There's 
 one thing, I can afford it." 
 
 A few minutes later, Maggie led me down-stairs, with 
 my head wrapped in a scarf of hers, and the kitten in its 
 basket on my arm. I had not kissed Touey good-bye, 
 yet I felt sad and even reluctant to leave her at the last. 
 I had but little curiosity as to my next home. I suppose 
 I had become too anaemic to care. 
 
 I never saw Touey again, but a few weeks later Mrs. 
 Ryan found her dead in bed. Maggie, whom I knew by 
 
 that time as Madame B , the beauty specialist, told 
 
 me her sister had died suddenly, and I think she arranged 
 a funeral. But it was years before I ever heard any 
 more about Touey. Even then, I never learned exactly 
 how she had fallen into that state of degradation, while 
 her younger sister thrived. Nor could any one tell me 
 
To M. L. G. 67 
 
 why her real name had been turned into Touey. All 
 that people could say was that once she had been a fine 
 actress, and had had good opportunities. I have always 
 believed that she was trying to kill some gnawing mem- 
 ory. And somehow I think of her often lately. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 I SUPPOSE a child cannot be sad for long. I was 
 not, though I had moments of dumb yearning for 
 Boy's kind eyes, and the feel of his arm round my 
 neck, while I sat on his lap, listening to fairy stories. If 
 I walked behind a young, blonde woman in the street, 
 and saw the sun touch her hair, my heart flew back to 
 Dearie, and I was sick with longing for her petting, for 
 the sound of the " Love Birds' " laughter together, in the 
 hot room of the skylight. But the pain would pass, and 
 the luxury of my new life would take hold of me again. 
 
 Madame's house was like what I imagined Paradise to 
 be, judging by the rapturous descriptions of a future state 
 I had heard from Rose and Maud. Heaven, as pictured 
 by negroes, blazes with color, and Rose, in comparatively 
 benevolent moments, loved to paint for my envy the 
 house of many mansions in which she expected to be an 
 honored guest. It was to have the loveliest silk walls 
 and curtains imaginable, and all the furniture was to be 
 of gold. Almost I believed that I was entering celestial 
 regions, when Madame took me by the hand and led me 
 through her newly varnished front door. 
 
 Outside, nothing was new except the door and the 
 paint ; but everything was new within, from basement to 
 attic. 
 
 It was darkening to twilight when we arrived, in a 
 cab ; for after leaving Touey's, Madame had shopped for 
 me till the closing hour of the big department store 
 
 68 
 
To M. L. G. 69 
 
 where she bought everything. She fitted me out with a 
 ready-made wardrobe, each garment good and expen- 
 sive, after its kind ; for not only was she generous, but 
 her vanity made her dislike asking a shop assistant for 
 anything that was cheap. " I work hard for my success 
 and my money," she was fond of remarking, " and I have 
 a right to enjoy spending. It's one of the few pleasures 
 I have." 
 
 I think it was a real delight for her to see my awed 
 admiration of her house and its decorations. Her great 
 grievance was that, although she was handsomer than 
 most of the rich clients who paid her to give them 
 beauty, and though she had begun to make money 
 enough to compete with them in clothes and jewels, no 
 women of society would have anything to do with her 
 outside business hours. Actresses and other Bohemian 
 women would gladly have been her friends, but those 
 she did not want. She wanted only the best, or what 
 she thought was the best. Less than this she would not 
 have, preferring glorious isolation. Therefore she made 
 few friends, and was always alone when her business was 
 done, except for one man, a German Jew, who was 
 clever, and knew about pictures and music. 
 
 I learned these peculiarities, and others, as time went 
 on, for Madame opened her heart to me, as freely as if I 
 had been a grown woman ; all her troubles, all her am- 
 bitions and disappointments she recounted; everything 
 except her early history, and the story of her elder sister, 
 Touey. Without doubt, it was for the sake of compan- 
 ionship, and the relief of having some one always ready 
 to be talked to, that she kept me on. 
 
 I am sure she had known few happier hours since sue- 
 
70 To M. L. G. 
 
 cess enabled her to buy and to decorate this house, than 
 that in which she led me from room to room, mention- 
 ing what she had paid for the furniture of each. Money- 
 was an unknown quantity to me, but I drew in a vague 
 impression of splendor and luxury. I was flattered, too, 
 in a childish way, that she should think me capable of 
 understanding, just as I was flattered in months and 
 years to come, with her frank confidence concerning 
 men who admired and made strange proposals to her ; 
 men " society women " angled after in vain. 
 
 Madame's house was on the fringe of a good neighbor- 
 hood, in a quiet cross street, midway between up-town 
 and down-town ; for that, she explained, was necessary 
 for business. Thus she caught both publics. 
 
 Her own taste, she said, was too Oriental to be trusted. 
 She had given a decorator " carte blanche " to make her 
 place pretty, and attractive to women. Evidently he was 
 a clever decorator. He had known what beauty of sur- 
 roundings to give ladies in search of beauty for their 
 faces. Madame's great speciality was to have all her 
 preparations smothered in roses. Bags were of rose 
 brocaded silk, tied with rose-colored ribbons. Paper 
 boxes for powder were patterned with roses. Bottles 
 had golden roses pasted on their sides. Creams and 
 elixirs were perfumed with roses. The whole house 
 smelled of roses ; and the two first floors, with the show- 
 room, reception and consulting rooms, and all the little 
 cubicles for different processes of beautifying, had rose 
 pink carpets, rose silk curtains, and wall-papers trailing 
 roses. 
 
 In the basement the work-girls dined. There were 
 more than a dozen of these young women. Those who 
 
To M. L. G. 71 
 
 attended the clients were daintily uniformed in pink and 
 white, and were chosen for the beauty of their complex 
 ion and hair. They were called the " young ladies." 
 The others were the " girls." There were two dining- 
 rooms down-stairs : one for the " young ladies," one for 
 the " girls," whose work was the filling of bottles and 
 boxes and bags, the pasting-on of labels, the tying of 
 ribbons, and arranging of shelves in the show-room. Up 
 at the top of the house these young women did their 
 work, in a big front room ; and at the back was another 
 room, full of exquisite smells, where Madame herself 
 superintended the mixing of her patent preparations, the 
 secret things which were making her name and fortune 
 as a beauty doctor. Never would she trust any of these 
 secret recipes even to her head assistant. She was afraid 
 that they might be stolen, and that the thief would start 
 a rival establishment. 
 
 In her pamphlets and other advertisements she assured 
 the public that she had obtained her " marvellous speciali- 
 ties " in the Far East, where, in travelling, she had " vis- 
 ited the harems of Eastern sovereigns and learned the 
 secrets of women famous for their alluring charms of face 
 and figure." But her Jewish friend, Mr. Heinrich, and I 
 knew that she had never been farther east than Nan- 
 tucket, where once she had spent part of a summer. 
 
 On the top floor there was also a small kitchen, which 
 Madame had installed there for her own benefit, with her 
 own cook in attendance — a more accomplished and 
 highly-paid cook than the sharp-tongued old woman who 
 worked for the girls, in the basement. Madame's pri- 
 vate suite was on the third floor, above the pink-cur- 
 tained cubicles, and there I lived with her, not being en- 
 
72 To M. L. G. 
 
 couraged to wander up or down during business hours, 
 between nine and five, or from nine till two on Saturdays. 
 She did not like me to talk much with the " girls," or 
 even with the " young ladies," fearing perhaps that they 
 might " pump " me about her affairs, and knowing also 
 that their conversation was not always suitable for a 
 child's ears. As it happened, I had already heard most 
 things supposed to be unsuitable for a child ; but as they 
 were not forbidden, and nobody had ever cared whether 
 I knew them or not, I had paid slight attention. Things 
 which Madame would have considered " disgusting " 
 went in at one ear with me, and out at the other, when 
 they were mentioned in my hearing. 
 
 Madame's suite consisted of a bedroom with a bath, 
 a dining-room and a small parlor which she called her 
 boudoir, without any clear idea of the word's meaning or 
 pronunciation. Touey would have pronounced it per- 
 fectly, after hearing it correctly spoken once, but Madame 
 had no more music than temperament, therefore it was 
 difficult for her to remember the sound of words. Her 
 rooms imitated Marie Antoinette's in the Petit Trianon, 
 how crudely I have only found out in the last few years, 
 and she was proud of them. It was a real grief to her 
 that none of the " swell women " she treated ever came 
 to visit her there, socially. She would sit in front of 
 her expensive mirror, and gaze at herself, with tears 
 in her big eyes. " I am beautiful ! " she would say. 
 " Look at me. They get their complexions and busts 
 out of my bottles. I get mine from God. Yet what 
 good are my beauties to me? What good are these 
 rooms, or my pretty gowns, or anything I've got in the 
 world ? " 
 
To M. L. G. 73 
 
 But her things were of great good to me, and I was 
 not half grateful enough for them. Like the little animal 
 I was (and almost all children of that age are animals) I 
 soon began to take everything I had from Madame for 
 granted. The delicious bath in a large porcelain tub, 
 such as I had never dreamed of; the soft bed, all to my- 
 self, in a white and gold crib, with pink blankets, which 
 Madame bought for me the day I came to her ; the pretty 
 clothes, the good food, the sunshine in the little back 
 yard, and toys to play with there. In an incredibly 
 short time I let the old life of sordidness drop out of my 
 thoughts, as if it had been lived by some one else who 
 had told me about it. I accepted everything I had as 
 my right, though I had no claim on Madame. It was 
 only by the accident of her fancying me that any of these 
 luxuries had come to be mine. Worse than all, I never 
 loved her. I admired her beauty, and when it occurred 
 to me, I was spasmodically grateful ; but even as a very 
 small child I was curiously critical of her, I don't know 
 why, unless it may have been because she did not love 
 me — because I felt instinctively that she made a con- 
 venience of me. I was chaperon, companion, confidant ; 
 I could be roused at any time of night to be told things 
 which Madame wished to talk about, things of no sig- 
 nificance to a child. 
 
 My affairs never interested her, and if she were anxious 
 that I should be well, it was because she had a morbid 
 fear of any contagious disease in the house, which might 
 injure her business or which she might take from me. 
 She was frank about all this. I could not help knowing 
 how she felt ; and though she pretended a great deal to 
 her clients, she never pretended to me. The fact that 
 
74 To M. L. G. 
 
 she need not pretend was one reason why I was of im- 
 portance. She liked to be called " Auntie," as " Ma- 
 dame " was her professional name ; but she did not seem 
 like an aunt, and the word always came from my lips 
 with an effort. 
 
 To her clients she pretended to be older than she was, 
 though it must have pained her vanity. She was about 
 thirty-six when I went to her, I think ; but she would 
 tell ladies of over forty, in strict confidence, that she was 
 of their age, or more, and that she kept her hair thick, 
 her bust firm, and her complexion without a line or spot, 
 all by the use of her own •• discoveries." 
 
 She would describe to me her scenes with these women, 
 and I would listen but vaguely, taking in the sense of 
 her stories, but feeling the bitterness with which she 
 related them. The night I left Touey, Madame cut off 
 my hair at the dark line which had grown out, and the 
 long, red-gold curls shorn away were used in the special 
 department for making up what Madame called " sani- 
 tary transformations." The hair she sold was guaranteed 
 to be healthy, and Madame charged enormous prices for 
 it, as she did for all her preparations and contrivances. 
 Her theory was, that if women were made to pay high 
 for things, they valued them accordingly, and perhaps 
 she was right. In any case, she was sought after by the 
 most fashionable women in New York, as well as the 
 actresses and demi monde. She made medicated masks, 
 and straps to smooth out wrinkles, and some sort of 
 depilatory which was supposed to be permanent in its 
 effects. There was a glass machine with a rubber bulb 
 to be squeezed, which caused the bust to grow ; but one 
 of the work-girls used this invention on herself, and pro- 
 
To M. L. G. 75 
 
 duced, or thought she produced, some strange disease, 
 which frightened the other employees, and made them 
 whisper ominously together. Besides these, there were 
 fifty other patents : things to take down flesh and keep 
 the chin firm ; to change the shape of the nose ; and to 
 fill out hollows in sunken cheeks, or remove the shadows 
 from tired eyes. But the most inviolate secret of all was 
 the use of raw veal to brighten faded complexions and 
 prevent wrinkles. Neither the work-girls, nor the " young 
 ladies " were in the secret, for only Madame herself gave 
 the treatment, in the biggest of the cubicles, with the 
 door locked. She charged ten dollars for the cure, there- 
 fore it was vital to keep people from finding out, because 
 veal was cheap, and could be applied at home. Even 
 those undergoing the treatment did not know what was 
 put on their faces, except that it was something cold and 
 damp, with strips of linen laid on top, highly perfumed 
 with attar of rose. Without the perfume, they might 
 have smelt the raw meat; and in a bright light they 
 might have seen it ; but the effect of the medicine was 
 supposed to be enhanced by darkness, therefore the pink 
 cubicle was unlit, except by a transom over the door. 
 The patient was made to lie on a sofa for two hours, 
 with strips of lean veal on her forehead, nose and cheeks ; 
 then the juicy dampness would be wiped away with a 
 soft rag ; some soothing lotion of Madame's was sprayed 
 on the face to destroy the telltale odor ; and last of all, 
 a velvety powder was dusted on. The veal was intended 
 to supply some valuable quality lacking in the skin after 
 the first youth of a woman ; and Madame must have had 
 faith in it, for it was the only one of her prescriptions 
 which she used for herself. She employed it with great 
 
76 To M. L. G. 
 
 care, in her own room, once every week, in the even- 
 ing before bedtime ; and when she had known me long 
 enough to be sure that I could be trusted never to repeat 
 anything, she told me the whole history of the treatment. 
 
 This trustworthiness was hardly a virtue, for I never 
 felt the temptation, even as a very small child, to be 
 loose-tongued about myself or others. Occasionally, 
 when I was a little girl, I made up dramatic stories about 
 my own doings, because I wanted the things I described 
 to happen ; and the next best thing was to tell them to 
 some one as if they had happened. Otherwise I was 
 reticent. I cultivated the quality of reserve, when I 
 heard it praised by Madame to Mr. Heinrich, who was 
 faintly interested in me, as Madame's " experiment." 
 
 Things I have thought of most, or have felt most 
 deeply, have always been the things hardest for me to 
 speak of; and I do not believe I could have told you 
 intelligibly what I am trying to tell you now, except in 
 this way, on paper. 
 
 Often I longed in those days to question Madame 
 about Dearie, but the words would not come. Just when 
 I had brought myself to the point I would tremble, and 
 all my muscles would be tense. I would have a sensa- 
 tion as if a hand were pressed over my lips, and I was 
 forced to be silent, even if Madame were waiting for me 
 to speak; 
 
 Of her own accord, after I had been in the house for 
 about two months, she told me one day that my mother 
 was better, and had left the hospital. 
 
 " Will she come and take me ? " I asked, half hope- 
 fully, half fearfully. 
 
 " Oh, dear no 1 " said Madame. " It seems she can't 
 
To M. L. G. 77 
 
 bear to hear your name. It makes her too sad. She's 
 gone out West again, to visit an old friend of hers who 
 thinks she can get her into a stock company. I expect 
 she'll marry before long. She's just the kind that does 
 — and I say it's the best compliment a man or woman 
 can pay to the first ; it shows the sample was a success." 
 
 Madame's theorizing was unintelligible as Greek to 
 me; but I pondered over her words so earnestly and 
 often, that they were imprinted on my mind. Always I 
 was waiting, after that, for other news to come, though 
 the same dumbness bound me in silence. Then three or 
 four months passed, and no echo came back from that 
 vague " West " which had swallowed up my pretty mother. 
 I was forgetting to wonder, when Madame, reading a 
 theatrical paper she took in, exclaimed, " There ! I told 
 you so ! Your mother's married. Another actor, of 
 course — some Western man, I suppose. I never saw his 
 name. They won't see New York again." 
 
 By and by some insignificant client of Madame's, who 
 wished to rejuvenate her complexion after a season of 
 " one night stands," brought further tidings of Dearie. 
 The two had met in a town where Dearie was playing 
 with a company of " barnstormers," managed by her 
 new husband. Madame's client, who knew the old 
 name of " Love Birds," asked how she had made up 
 her mind to marry again so soon — she who nearly went 
 insane from grief at the death of her Boy. 
 
 " I couldn't help it. I had to have some one to love 
 me, so it was better to be married," was the answer, 
 which I have never forgotten. 
 
 It was characteristic of Dearie. She could not live 
 without petting. Yes, it was better that she should 
 
78 To M. L. G. 
 
 marry, for she had to love and be loved. A child was to 
 her an accident. A man was her world. The new hus- 
 band drank, and struck her sometimes in the intervals of 
 loving, I learned a few years later. Then, there would 
 be reconciliations, and so it went on, till he died, and the 
 next week she married the leading man of the barn- 
 storming company. 
 
 To me, she never wrote or sent any message, though 
 she must have heard, or could have heard if she had 
 cared, that Madame had informally adopted me. I felt 
 no bitterness towards her, for I knew too little about other 
 mothers, or what the love of a woman born to be a 
 mother might be like — such a woman as my dear lady 
 of California. And I feel no bitterness in recalling her. 
 I understand that to Dearie the thought of me meant 
 sad memories, and sadness was as death to her heart of a 
 butterfly. Now she is dead. She died of pneumonia, 
 far off in the West, when I was fourteen. But that was 
 after Madame, too, had gone out of my life. 
 
 Though I knew that Madame did not like me to be 
 with the girls in the workroom, I was tempted there 
 sometimes, when she was busy in her consulting room, 
 or giving the veal treatment, advertised as the " Sultana 
 Rose Cure," or in superintending the so-called " mustard 
 and electric," an application to the spine, which was sup- 
 posed to renew the youth of a patient in a mysterious 
 and marvellous way. 
 
 When I first came to the house I was a novelty. The 
 girls wanted to see me, to find out who I was, and why 
 Madame had taken me to live with her. I picked up 
 the idea, from their sly hints to each other, that they 
 believed me to be her own child ; but the little that they 
 
To M. L. G. 79 
 
 were able to tear from me about Dearie and Boy must 
 have shattered this theory and disappointed their desire 
 to dig up some scandalous secret. 
 
 Later, they tried to catechize me about Madame's life 
 after business hours. Did she dine out with gentlemen ? 
 Did many " gentleman friends " come to see her ? Did 
 she get presents of jewellery ? Did she go to the theatre 
 and stay out to supper nearly every night ? 
 
 Instinctively, I was loyal to Madame. The little there 
 was to tell concerning Mr. Heinrich, I did not tell, I did 
 not wish to tell, though the girls bribed me with candy 
 and compliments. They, escaped from rosy bags and 
 boxes, saw Madame sometimes driving in the park, at 
 the fashionable hour, in the handsome Victoria she had 
 bought ; and, though she was never disagreeable in her 
 manner to them, they seemed maliciously pleased that, 
 in spite of her fine " turn-out " and beautiful clothes from 
 Paris, none of the grand ladies whose names were in the 
 newspapers ever bowed to her in passing. 
 
 Even when they must have realized that there was very 
 little to " get out of me," the girls used to try and lure 
 me into the room, perhaps because my imitations of 
 animals, and of the two servants, and the " faces " I could 
 make, amused them; or perhaps because there was a 
 spice in tempting me to disobey the mistress of the 
 house. 
 
 As for me, having nothing to do, it was an excitement 
 to sit on the floor of the workroom, when Madame was 
 safely out of the way, listening to the girls' gossip, while 
 I toyed with cut ends of ribbon and scraps of the famous 
 rose-patterned brocade or paper. 
 
 Voices would drop to a whisper when a group dis- 
 
8o To M. L. G. 
 
 cussed a topic of peculiar interest, and then, because I 
 guessed it was something I ought not to hear, I hung on 
 their words with open ears. If their favorite conversa- 
 tion was as " disgusting " as Madame pronounced it, the 
 worst things they said must have passed me by, for I got 
 no lasting harm from workroom chatter. All that lin- 
 gered in my mind, and, maybe, influenced my life, was 
 the girls' tireless talk about love and lovers, their own 
 and other people's. 
 
 At the old boarding-house, my first home, the young 
 actresses who used to meet in each other's rooms hardly 
 ever dwelt with interest on the subject of men, except as 
 newspaper critics, theatrical managers, or actors, good or 
 bad. Their never-failing topic was " shop " : the " hits " 
 they had made, or hoped to make, the " notices " they 
 got for their acting, the way in which " stars " behaved to 
 them on the stage. Love was apparently an affair of 
 secondary importance to those girls of the theatre, but to 
 these who earned their living differently, it was every- 
 thing. They all had " gentleman friends " who took 
 them out in the evening, and their tongues never flagged 
 in the repetition of the word " he — he — he." 
 
 I voted this tiresome at first ; but by and by I felt in 
 it the far-off call of romance. I began to ask myself 
 what there was in " being in love," which interested all 
 these grown-up girls so intensely. " Boys," as they 
 called their own special young men, in telling of their 
 conquests, were of incredible importance. The love they 
 talked of was not the same as the love of fathers and 
 mothers, or of one girl for another. It belonged entirely 
 to " boys," creatures with short hair who wore troupers, 
 and could have hair growing on their faces if they liked, 
 
To M. L. G. 81 
 
 when they were big. I wondered so much and so often, 
 that at last the mysterious subject of love and boys, 
 which seemed to be inseparable, was at the back of all 
 my thoughts, like the fragment of a tune one tries to 
 catch. 
 
 I found it interesting to know that I was a girl, and 
 that there were boys in the world; that just because 
 they were different, boys would care about me in some 
 odd way, because I was a girl, and that I would care 
 about them. 
 
 I had never wasted much thought upon boys, when I 
 lived at Ma's, or with my father and mother, though I 
 often played with them in the street. The only differ- 
 ence I knew was that boys were stronger and rougher, 
 and made fun of girls for liking dolls. Now I saw boys 
 with new eyes, but instinctively I scorned the little ones 
 of my own age. They did not exist for me. They 
 hardly seemed to be boys. But the house next door 
 was taken at this time by a widow with two sons. The 
 elder was twelve, which for me, at six, was to be almost 
 grown up ; and the younger was ten. They both had 
 bullet heads, with very short brown hair, bright, bold 
 eyes, and blunt noses. They were a good deal alike, 
 but it was with Lenny, the elder, that I decided to fall 
 in love, perhaps because he was already in long trouters, 
 like a man, and his brother Freddy in short knicker- 
 bockers. 
 
 The first time I saw these boys was before they had 
 come to live in the house next door, and while the 
 furniture was arriving in big vans. They stood in the 
 street, looking on, whistling, with their hands in their 
 pockets. 
 
82 To M. L. G. 
 
 I did not know their names then, but afterwards I 
 heard them shouting to each other in the back yard,, 
 which was exactly like Madame's and most of the other 
 houses on our side of the street. There were high 
 wooden fences between the yards, and the day of the 
 moving in, being Saturday, the boys were at home. 
 They climbed up on their side of the fence to look over, 
 staring gravely at me. It was early summer, and I was 
 playing menagerie with some earthworms I had dug up 
 out of the damp ground. I called the worms snakes, and 
 kept them in penny wooden tubs. (Afterwards one 
 died and dried into a crisp little corpse, because I had 
 covered the tub, and forgotten it for days. I repented 
 my neglect with sick horror, and felt that I was a murderess, 
 who would perhaps go to hell — the hell of red fire which 
 Rose described.) 
 
 " You're a funny girl, playing with worms," Lenny 
 called down from his high perch. 
 
 " They're not worms," I said. " They're snakes. 
 This is a menagerie." 
 
 " Pooh ! " said Lenny. " Did you ever see a menag- 
 erie?" 
 
 " Yes," I was proud to answer truthfully. " My father 
 took me to one." 
 
 " Where's your father now ? " asked Freddy. 
 
 " He's dead," I returned, stiffening. 
 
 " Is it your mother you live with ? " he went on. 
 " Our girl says she's a quack." 
 
 " I don't know what a quack is, but she isn't it," I as- 
 sured him. " I stay with her. I'm not any relation, but 
 she's my aunt." 
 
 " She can't be your aunt, stupid, if you're no relation," 
 
To M. L. G. 83 
 
 Freddy sneered, while Lenny kept silence, looking with 
 more interest at the yard than at me. It was a mean 
 strip of grass, but Madame had planted roses to climb up 
 the fence, and there were no clothes-lines, as in the next 
 dooryard. She hated unsightly things, and went to the 
 expense of sending her linen to a laundry. 
 
 " She is my aunt ! " I persisted, though I knew she 
 was not. But I felt that Madame and I were being 
 attacked. 
 
 " I don't believe it. And anyhow, you're Protestants. 
 I wouldn't be a Protestant!" Freddy taunted me. 
 
 Suddenly I hated him, and longed to do him a mis- 
 chief. But Lenny took his brother by the collar, and, 
 catching him unawares, made him lose hold on the fence 
 and tumble over on the other side. " Serve you right ! " 
 grumbled my champion. " What's the good of teasing 
 a kid?" 
 
 My heart went out to Lenny. I decided to fall in love 
 with him. " At last I know what love is," I said to my- 
 self. And I remember the thrill I felt as I trembled 
 with joy. I thought Lenny's brown, short-nosed face 
 the handsomest I had ever seen. The glorious difference 
 between a boy and a girl was revealed to me. A boy 
 was a hero, and you worshipped him. I longed to have 
 my idol love me as I loved him, but I did not know how 
 to make him do it. I adored him for protecting me, and 
 for knocking Freddy off the fence, but I was ashamed 
 that he had called me a kid. I envied girls who were 
 bigger than I, envied them so desperately that I hated 
 them, the whole world over. Not the grown-up ones, 
 for they were already old, and did not count, but girls of 
 Lenny's age, whom he would respect. 
 
84 To M. L. G. 
 
 "I'm not a Protestant!" I exclaimed, not knowing 
 what the word meant, except that it was intended as an 
 insult. 
 
 " Aren't you ? We don't care two cents whether you 
 are or not," he said, indifferently, and slid grandly off the 
 fence, on his own side, disappearing from my sight. 
 
 I never received any further civilities from Lenny, 
 except that, when Freddy would begin to yell " Prot- 
 estant ! " from the depths of his own yard, his voice 
 would break off abruptly, as if a hand were pressed over 
 his mouth. Still, Lenny remained my hero, and I built 
 up an exquisite romance, like a wall shutting us both 
 away from the outer world. I told myself stories, better 
 than those with which the work-girls regaled each other. 
 I whispered them to my pillow at night, after I had gone 
 to bed, before Madame came up, and especially when 
 she was out with her Jewish friend, at the theatre. The 
 thrilling tales of our love would often be continued, 
 sometimes ' improved upon, in my dreams, until almost I 
 believed that they were true. 
 
 On the days when the romance seemed most real, I 
 would climb up on my side of the fence, to gaze wistfully 
 at Lenny's yard ; and if the boys were there I was in- 
 variably snubbed. Lenny pretended not to notice so 
 small and unimportant a thing, and Freddy derided me 
 ruthlessly. Once, however, when the younger boy had 
 been insulting, to make up for it Lenny held out a new 
 stick of chewing-gum. " Catch ! " he said shortly. I 
 did catch, and toppled over backwards in the act, but 
 without hurting myself seriously. For days I lived on 
 this memory. As I splashed in my bath (one of the 
 great pleasures of my new life), I would sing to myself, 
 
To M. L. G. 85 
 
 *' I'm in love with Lenny ! I'm in love with Lenny ! " 
 As I walked, my feet kept time to that refrain. It was a 
 beautiful and distinguished thing to be in love with a boy. 
 For weeks I was satisfied with thia secret joy, but at last I 
 began to need more fuel for the fire. I wanted Lenny to be 
 in love with me ; wanted it so much that it had to be, or 
 seem to be. When I went to the workroom where the 
 girls talked of love, I talked of mine ; and their surprised 
 interest tempted me out of my old reserve. In a kind of 
 madness I invented anecdotes about the next-door boy 
 and me. I said that he loved me, and spent all his 
 money in buying me candy, quantities of candy, wonder- 
 ful, unheard-of candy, made to look like fruit and flowers 
 and jewels. Nearly every day he brought me some, I 
 went on ; but when the girls asked to see a sample, I had 
 to say that Lenny had ordered me to eat every crumb 
 myself, and never, never to show his presents to any one, 
 for if I did he would not speak to me again. That very 
 night, as if in punishment, something disagreed with 
 me, and I was so ill that the doctor was sent for. I 
 was kept in bed next morning, and one of the girls 
 retailed the story of the candy to her employer, suggest- 
 ing that it had upset me. Madame, astonished, came to 
 me with questions. Cold with terror and remorse, I re- 
 fused to answer. She then, before my eyes, scribbled off 
 a note to the lady next door, requesting that the boys 
 should give no more candy to her little niece. The letter 
 was sent across by hand. Lenny and Freddy, confronted 
 with it, swore that they had never given me anything, or 
 had anything whatever to do with me. On hearing this 
 from their mother, Madame forced me to confess that I 
 had fibbed ; and my sense of disgrace and shame was 
 
86 To M. L. G. 
 
 such that, if I had known how, I would have killed my- 
 self. Never again, though I lived with Madame till I 
 was thirteen, was I quite happy or light-hearted in my 
 play. The back yard was spoiled as a playground by 
 my own wrong-doing. Out of school hours and on holi- 
 days I avoided it, after the day when my sin found me 
 out, and I seldom ventured into the street without a 
 guilty beating of the heart, lest I might meet the boy 
 whose name I had taken in vain. If I did encounter 
 him, or Freddy, I hung my head and hurried past nerv- 
 ously, with my eyes on the ground, smarting under the 
 sting of the fancied scorn and reproach, which, probably, 
 the boys were too indifferent to feel 
 
 I think that no jilted girl ever suffered sharper pain 
 than I, at seven years old. Grown-up people forget the 
 tragic despair of children. 
 
 Yet, if it had not been for Lenny and Freddy, I be- 
 lieve that Madame would have let me live on in igno- 
 rance, without any schooling. She had brought me into 
 the house, and kept me there, for the same reason that 
 people keep canaries, or sleeve dogs. Apart from her 
 own use for me, she did not think of me at all, unless 
 thoughts were put into her head by others. 
 
 It was a taunt from Freddy which made me want to go 
 to school. " Who doesn't know how to read or spell ? " 
 he shouted at me, as he hung over the fence. " Who 
 doesn't even know its letters ? " 
 
 He had hit upon the truth. I was seven years old 
 and had never been taught the alphabet. Lenny and 
 Freddy had no doubt been going to school for years, and 
 there were girls in the street who trotted away with 
 books under «-heir arms, every morning, except Saturday 
 
To M. L. G. 87 
 
 and Sunday. I was ashamed of my ignorance, and that 
 night when Madame came to bed earlier than usual, I 
 was crying. She asked me, somewhat crossly, what was 
 the matter, and I whimpered that I wanted to go to 
 school, like other children. Then she laughed, saying it 
 was just the contrary with most girls and boys. They 
 cried because they were obliged to go to school. Still, 
 she seemed impressed, and after she had taken down her 
 hair and put on her nightgown (an elaborate and expen- 
 sive one, like everything she wore), she promised that she 
 would " see about it." Next morning, when she found 
 me awake, staring at her from the white crib that was 
 already too short, she said that she had been thinking 
 over the idea of my going to school. There was no one 
 to take or bring me back, so she did not see how I could 
 possibly go, but if I wanted to begin learning things, I 
 could do so. There was a nice old lady, who had taught 
 her to play the piano when she was a young girl, and 
 once in a while they saw each other, to this day. She 
 would send a note to Miss Minnie, who would be only 
 too glad to come to lunch, and " perhaps the poor old 
 thing knew enough to be a governess." 
 
 I should have preferred school, because there I could 
 have played with other children. Still, there was the 
 awful thought that I might by accident have been put in 
 the one attended by Lenny and Freddy. Even if not, I 
 might have met them in the street, coming and going, as 
 perhaps all schools began and let out at the same hour. 
 Altogether, there were compensations in having a gov- 
 erness, as the principal thing was to learn spelling and 
 reading, so as to deserve no longer Freddy's reproach of 
 being a dunce. 
 
88 To M. L. G. 
 
 I was afraid Madame might forget her promise, but 
 she did not. As usual, when she made up her mind to 
 do a thing she was prompt and businesslike, which was 
 one secret of her success. Miss Minnie came to lunch 
 next day, with Madame and me, in the rose-colored din- 
 ing-room, which was like an exaggerated bonbon box. 
 Evidently the visitor had seen the house before, yet she 
 was exclamatory in praises, and cooed humbly but affec- 
 tionately over Madame, whom she called Maggie. As 
 she had been acquainted with Madame for years, she 
 must have known all about the subject which was a mys- 
 tery for the work-girls. They wondered, in whispers, 
 which I occasionally overheard, whether Madame was a 
 real widow or a " grass widow," or whether she was un- 
 married, and " Madame " only by courtesy, or because it 
 was the " smart thing " in her business. If Miss Minnie 
 knew any secrets which her patroness wished to keep 
 hidden, I am sure she would have had her tongue cut out 
 rather than tell, for her humble soul was as loyal as that 
 of some devoted animal, and one had only to watch her 
 gazing at " dear Maggie '' with her big eyes, to read her 
 faithful love and admiration. 
 
 Those eyes of Miss Minnie's were like the eyes of the 
 monkeys I had seen in my one menagerie, and never for- 
 gotten. In shape they were like, with the roundness, and 
 tight corners, and in their light yellow-brown color, un- 
 der large lids, with thin, scarcely visible eyelashes. Her 
 face was like a monkey's, too, with a low forehead, a flat, 
 turned-up nose, and a long upper lip, with prominent 
 teeth, and gums which showed when she laughed — as 
 she did very heartily, about nothing. Only, the monkey 
 she resembled must have been an affectionate and de- 
 
To M. L. G. 89 
 
 voted one, who had been a pet, and perhaps deserted, so 
 that it had become wistful and sad. 
 
 She was grateful for the smallest favor, and was in rap- 
 tures over the present of a dress and hat from Madame, 
 the day when she came to luncheon. The things had 
 been beautiful, and becoming to Madame, but they had 
 been half-spoiled in a rain-storm, so that Madame would 
 have scorned to wear them again. To Miss Minnie they 
 seemed a dream of Paris perfection. She almost cried 
 with joy at the thought of their being hers, and as she 
 tried them on before one of Madame's long mirrors, I 
 felt for her something of pity, something of the hard con- 
 tempt children have for their ciders who make themselves 
 ridiculous. 
 
 The big picture hat, which had framed Madame's 
 brown hair graciously, was ludicrous on her locks, that 
 were thin, and had begun to turn from pale auburn to 
 gray. The aesthetically made gown gave her round- 
 shouldered, flat-breasted figure the look of a scarecrow, 
 especially with the feathered hat fallen on one side. 
 
 I think that Madame had a vague fondness for the 
 little woman, and would perhaps Rave taken her for a 
 hired companion, if Miss Minnie had not been so unat- 
 tractive to look at, and so spasmodic in her manner. As 
 she was, she would have " got on Madame's nerves," if 
 constantly about, and she was too dowdy to live in so 
 decorative a house. But as a governess for me she was 
 suitable, and Madame was not obliged to have her con- 
 tinually under her eyes. She was engaged to teach me, 
 between nine-thirty and twelve. These were Madame's 
 business hours, which she spent with her clients, but oc- 
 casionally, when she was particularly good-natured, or 
 
90 To M. L. G. 
 
 something had made her happy, she would raise Miss 
 Minnie to the seventh heaven by inviting her to lunch, 
 and talking, with some slight reserve, of old times. 
 
 Miss Minnie knew very little about music, very little 
 about anything, and what she did know she had not the 
 art of imparting to others. All her methods were old- 
 fashioned, such as she had been accustomed to in her 
 youth, and she had no idea of any changes since. But 
 she was so kind, and so grieved at anything which she 
 felt was failure on her part, that I grew fond of her, and 
 always did my best. At least, she was a lady, and had 
 a refined manner which was not made up of affectations, 
 such as Madame assumed to impress her clients. But 
 the thing which most interested me in her was her ability 
 to read upside down. 
 
 She had learned the letters thus, standing at her teach- 
 er's knee, so that reading upside down was more natural 
 to her than the right way, which she had been obliged 
 to pick up later. She was ashamed if she were caught 
 holding a book with the top of the page towards her, and 
 laughed uneasily, as if she had been doing something 
 wrong. 
 
 About my grammar she was very particular, which 
 was fortunate, as Madame had no ear for it. 
 
 " A little girl who doesn't speak correctly is as bad as 
 one who doesn't brush her teeth," Miss Minnie laid down 
 as law. After that, I was punctilious in conquering my 
 mistakes, for I had a horror of bad teeth, and the com- 
 parison caught my imagination. Also she assured me 
 that if I made slips in grammar I should never get a 
 husband ; and my great desire at that time was to grow 
 up and marry a big boy handsomer and richer and clev- 
 
To M. L. G. 91 
 
 erer than Lenny. I wanted to drive past Lenny with my 
 husband and two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, in 
 a splendid carriage, while Lenny and Freddy walked wist- 
 fully by on the sidewalk. Then they would be sorry for 
 everything they had made me suffer, and Lenny would 
 regret all his life that he had not really given me the 
 candy. 
 
 Eager to learn the alphabet, and how to spell and read, 
 and so no longer to deserve the taunt which rankled in 
 my mind, I put my whole soul to my work. After a 
 month of poor Miss Minnie's amateur instruction, I could 
 read whole sentences of words with one syllable, and 
 could add up to six times six. By and by came geography, 
 which I insisted on learning from a globe, and a minia- 
 ture one was bought for me. But the moment it came, 
 Miss Minnie happened to mention that our world was a 
 unit among many others revolving round the sun, and 
 after that I could think of nothing except astronomy. 
 Madame allowed Miss Minnie to buy a book for me, 
 called " The Heavens Through a Child's Eyes," and the 
 door of a great, blue, star-paved fairy-land was opened for 
 me. Still later, we took up history, reading such plays 
 of Shakespeare's as concerned the periods I had to study. 
 But that did not begin till I was twelve, and soon after, 
 all my new interests were brought to an end so suddenly 
 that my mental development was arrested, as if blinds 
 had been drawn down over the windows of my brain. In 
 the rooms within, which had just begun to be furnished, 
 the work of the decorators was stopped. Dust and moth 
 corrupted all, and after a long time, when the windows 
 were thrown open to light and air, nearly everything had 
 to be done over again. 
 
92 To M. L. G. 
 
 Meanwhile, I was happy with Miss Minnie, learning 
 eagerly what she could teach, except music, which I could 
 not master. I could play by ear, and if a note were wrong 
 I felt it jarring through nerve after nerve, yet I could not 
 learn to play the piano by rule. 
 
 Miss Minnie, who had set her heart on teaching me all 
 she knew herself, would not give up easily. " If you 
 could just play for your friends to dance, when you get 
 to be a young lady, you'd thank me on your bended 
 knees ! " she repeated so often that I was tired of the 
 phrase, especially the part about the " bended knees," 
 which somehow irritated me unspeakably. But I never 
 tired of hearing her play her old-fashioned, favorite 
 waltzes, mostly by Strauss. 
 
 I could not help dancing when the " Beautiful Blue 
 Danube " rippled under her little blunt fingers. It was 
 nothing to me that it was old-fashioned. I thought it 
 beautiful, and danced to it so instinctively that kind Miss 
 Minnie said I ought to have lessons. 
 
 She knew a dancing teacher, who was, in her eyes, a 
 great genius. In fact, she lived in the same boarding- 
 house with him, and played the dance music for his 
 pupils, for a tiny fee. But I am sure she would gladly 
 have worked for nothing, for the poor lady was in love 
 with Mr. Fanning. Unknown to himself, he supplied the 
 element of romance in her life. 
 
 She lived up at the top of the house in Gramercy Park, 
 and did not mind a box of a room at the back, because 
 it was a " good address." Her hard sofa was a bed by 
 night, and she had a Japanese screen in front of her 
 wash-stand, also Japanese fans dotting the faded wall-paper 
 like gigantic butterflies. 
 
To M. L. G. 93 
 
 " You see, it really isn't uncomfortable, and it gives me 
 a parlor of my own," she explained to me proudly, as I 
 visited her, and ate very dry cake out of a box orna- 
 mented with shells and sea beans. " I couldn't possibly 
 receive gentlemen in my bedroom ; but here I can have 
 Mr. Fanning, and any pupil who may wish to make in- 
 quiries, come and call upon me." 
 
 Madame was willing to pay for my dancing lessons, 
 and Miss Minnie took me to the class, twice a week in 
 the afternoon. It was a wonderful excitement to me, for 
 there were more than a dozen pupils, boys and girls ; and 
 when I was sure that Lenny and Freddy were not among 
 them, I looked forward to the dancing days so eagerly 
 that I hardly slept the night before. 
 
 Miss Minnie thought Mr. Fanning " such a distin- 
 guished looking man, and so like Cardinal Richelieu, 
 being French on his mother's side." But I saw in him 
 only a very thin, rather short, yellow-faced man with oily 
 black hair, beady eyes, a hook nose, a black pointed 
 beard, and jerky limbs, that were like those of a " Jump- 
 ing Jack " when he danced. He had polite manners, af- 
 fecting a French roll of the " r," and though his classes 
 were held between three and five in the afternoon, he 
 was always in full evening dress. There were spots on 
 his coat sometimes, which worried Miss Minnie because 
 he had no one to attend to him properly, and she could 
 not muster up courage to point out the spots or offer to 
 wash them off with benzine. We could tell, by the same 
 signs, how long he wore his stiff dress shirt, and before 
 he discarded his ready-made white ties they would turn a 
 pale gray. 
 
 Miss Minnie suffered tortures of jealousy because of the 
 
94 To M. L. G. 
 
 eldest pupil, a rich grocer's daughter, who was sixteen 
 and had black eyebrows with light brown hair, and round 
 cheeks like apples. Children know such things by in- 
 stinct, I suppose. I knew, and was sorry for her, because 
 my unfortunate love for the scornful Lenny had taught 
 me to be sympathetic. When Miss Minnie asked me 
 anxiously if I thought Nella a beauty, I answered no ; 
 that she was a common-looking girl, with horrid big 
 ankles. Then Miss Minnie would be almost happy till 
 the day of the next dancing class, when she could not 
 help seeing Mr. Fanning pinch Nella's arm as they 
 finished a " two-step." 
 
 He would dance with all his girl pupils in turn, to 
 criticize their progress, but most often with those he liked 
 best. Nella was his favorite because she was a big girl, 
 and flirted with him ; but I came next, for I was light on 
 my feet, and he never had to tell me things twice. But 
 some of the smallest girls were so shy that they could not 
 help crying when he led them out before the whole class. 
 One, named Jenny Elmore, was my dearest friend, 
 though we never saw each other except at Mr. Fan- 
 ning's. She was like a timid little fawn, but was able to 
 keep back her tears, she confided to me, by thinking very 
 hard of the Bible, before they had begun to fall. 
 
 I had never read the Bible, had indeed hardly ever 
 heard it spoken of, but I was so interested to know it 
 had power to keep people from crying, that I begged 
 Miss Minnie to lend me hers. She had one on the table 
 in her room, where it always lay between the shell box 
 and a copy of " East Lynne." It was a cheap Bible, but 
 old, and the date of Miss Minnie's birth was scratched 
 out in it. The print was so bad, and the leaves so thin. 
 
To M. L. G. 95 
 
 it was hard to read ; yet I did read all, except what I 
 called the " dry part, full of names." Though I was in- 
 terested in much that I read, and asked Miss Minnie a 
 great many questions about the Old and New Testa- 
 ments, I was never able to understand why thinking of 
 the Bible could keep Jenny Elmore from crying. Never- 
 theless I never forgot the recipe, and often I have suc- 
 cessfully kept back tears by remembering Jenny Elmore 
 and the Bible at the critical instant. 
 
 Jenny had a big brother, Clarence, who was thirteen 
 when I was ten. He had the same fawn eyes as his 
 sister, and a slow, beautiful smile that kept time with the 
 graceful laziness of his movements. I loved him as an 
 art student loves a highly prized masterpiece in a dealer's 
 window. Never did I tire of looking at him from under 
 my eyelashes, and the hope died hard that he would ask 
 me to dance. It was Mr. Fanning who ordered him to 
 do so once, and even that was a suffocating joy. But 
 Clarence cared for nobody in the school except Nella, 
 and I heard him say to her, " I shan't come any more if 
 he makes me dance with those kids." 
 
 My ears tingled at the words, and I began to long to 
 grow up. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 OFTEN I have wondered what I should have 
 turned out to be, if I had grown up under 
 Madame's care. With her, I should have had 
 a certain amount of luxury, and she would have sheltered 
 me as well as she could without giving herself trouble. 
 None of the things which made my life hardest to write 
 about would have happened, and yet — I doubt if you 
 could have loved me. I think my soul would never 
 have waked up. It would have been stifled by Madame's 
 rose perfumes. If I might go back again, and choose, I 
 hardly know which I should choose. It does not bear 
 thinking about. 
 
 My life in Madame's exotic bower of roses was an 
 interlude. If I got no other good from it — except the 
 saving of my health, and a smattering of education — at 
 least I learned a love of cleanliness which no after ex- 
 perience could ever kill. And yet the sensuous pleasure 
 in sweet, clean things, and the memory of daintiness I 
 carried away with me from Madame's house, put an edge 
 on temptation for me later. 
 
 I said that Madame had one friend, whom she allowed 
 to call, and with whom she went to restaurant dinners 
 and to plays. He was a Jew, who seemed old to me, 
 though he was probably not much over forty. He had 
 a great deal of money, but so had other men who 
 admired Madame, and with them she would have nothing 
 to do because they were " common." 
 
 96 
 
To M. L. G. 97 
 
 Mr. Heinrich was not common, and at home, in Ger- 
 many, he was a baron, he told her. He had a wife, from 
 whom he was separated, but not divorced. I used to 
 hear him talking about his wife to Madame, when he 
 came to take her out in the evening. " That woman ! " 
 he would say bitterly, in his guttural, yet agreeable voice, 
 which had a foreign roll of the " r " that was very 
 different from Mr. Fanning's. I knew, somehow, that if 
 the woman died, he and Madame would be married. 
 
 When I was between twelve and thirteen, Madame 
 was going to take me to a matinee one afternoon. I 
 had a new dress and hat, and was very happy. Besides, 
 it was May, and this brought a stirring in the blood 
 which intoxicated me with joy that I never understood, 
 though I looked for and expected it in the spring. Just 
 as we were starting out, a boy ran up the steps and 
 handed Madame a telegram. She read it, and I, watch- 
 ing her, saw her face covered with a flush, which grew 
 brighter and brighter. She stopped in the doorway 
 for a minute, the telegram in her hand. When she did 
 not speak, I grew half frightened, and impatient, for wc 
 were starting late. 
 
 " Do come ! " I said. " It's nothing bad, is it ? " 
 
 "It's — it's something good," she answered, slowly. 
 " But I can't come. We won't go to the matinee after 
 all." 
 
 It was a play that I wanted to see, for the work-girls 
 talked about it, and said it was the " sweetest thing " 
 they had ever seen. It made them all cry, and there 
 was a little girl in it about my age. 
 
 I begged Madame to go, but she hardly listened. 
 Without paying any attention to me, she turned and 
 
98 To M. L. G. 
 
 went indoors. She had the tickets, so I followed, still 
 hoping. / 
 
 " Do go ! " I begged. " Or if you can't, let Wilhel* 
 mina take me." Wilhelmina was the good-natured ofle 
 of the two cooks, who let me stir her cake for her, and 
 eat the scrapings with an enormous iron spoon. 
 
 Suddenly Madame turned on me. " Oh, shut up ! " 
 she said, sharply. " I want to think ! A good many 
 worse things may happen to you than missing a silly old 
 matinee. Go away and let me alone." 
 
 I turned without another word, and went up-stairs to 
 the top floor, into the deserted workroom, for it was 
 Saturday, after two o'clock, and all the girls had gone. 
 Madame had sat down in the empty show-room, which 
 was nearest to the front door. I thought she would stay 
 there a long time, poring over her mysterious telegram, 
 and I wanted to be as far away from her as possible. 
 
 In all the years I had been with Madame, she had 
 hardly ever been cross, at worst only a little snappish, if 
 I bothered her, or if I were ill, for she loathed illness, 
 and had no patience with it. But now I felt deeply 
 injured. I thought she was cruel, and wicked, to speak 
 to me like that, and to keep me from going out in my 
 new things to the matinee. I wished that I could make 
 her sorry, by fainting away or even dying, all alone in 
 the workroom, where the curtains were drawn down. 
 
 The air was stuffy there, for the girls had left the 
 windows shut, and there was a heavy odor of humanity, 
 mingled with the luscious scents used in Madame's 
 preparations. It seemed as if it would be easy to faint, 
 but I could not, though I held my breath, and rolled up 
 my eyes, trying to make myself giddy. 
 
To M. L. G. 99 
 
 I grew very tired of sitting there, but I wanted so 
 much to frighten Madame, and make her sorry for her 
 cruelty, that I would not go down. I sat in the close 
 workroom, with the door shut, not stirring, but with my 
 ears pricked up, listening for some sound on the stairs — 
 Madame coming in search of me. A second thought 
 made me throw myself on a long bare bench which ran 
 along the wall. I thought if Madame found me prostrate 
 there, she would repent, and perhaps apologize for her 
 wickedness. As I lay on my face, with my new hat 
 pushed back, my hair, which had grown very long again, 
 trailed on the floor among the scraps of paper and ribbon 
 which the girls had left lying about. It looked aban- 
 doned and sad, like the hair of some drowned creature in 
 a picture ; but I forgot my sulkiness for a little while, in 
 admiring its length and thickness, and the way it curled 
 at the ends. I did not care for its color, but people 
 walking behind me in the street often said, " What won- 
 derful hair that child's got/' so I knew it must be pretty. 
 
 The afternoon passed away, very slowly. Still I would 
 not move, hoping that Madame might come. At last it 
 was evening, and in the twilight the workroom was full 
 of strange echoes and little squeakings, such as never 
 came by day. I was very hungry, and a little afraid. I 
 remembered in what an odd tone Madame had said, " A 
 great many worse things may happen to you than miss- 
 ing a matinee." 
 
 Her voice sounded ominous, like a warning, as I re- 
 called it. I thought that perhaps the worse things had 
 begun to happen already, that perhaps she had meant 
 something in particular. I could bear my exile no 
 longer ; and cramped from lying so long in one position, 
 
loo To M. L, G. 
 
 my new dress creased, I went slowly and with dignity 
 down-stairs. Sounds of voices came to me from the 
 boudoir. I recognized the voice of Mr. Heinrich talking 
 in an earnest, even excited tone, with Madame. But he 
 hardly ever appeared so early. I could not remember 
 his coming until time to dine, or take Madame out to 
 dinner, unless they went first to look at an exhibition or 
 sale of pictures. For Mr. Heinrich was a judge of pic- 
 tures, as well as of music. He would say, " They are 
 my two passions — after one other which comes above 
 all." And he would look at Madame with what I 
 thought a silly look in his handsome, almond-shaped 
 eyes. 
 
 Nearly always I had seen him in evening things, for 
 Madame was very exacting, and I had heard her tell him 
 she expected to be treated with as much respect as if she 
 were a queen. Now, however, he was in day clothes. 
 They two were sitting together in the boudoir, both 
 leaning their elbows on the table. Mr. Heinrich was 
 showing Madame some papers, and their heads were 
 close to each other. His was large, and looked heavy, 
 for his throat was rather long and thin, and would have 
 seemed thinner, if it had not been well hidden by a thick 
 black beard. Usually he had a stately, leisured manner, 
 and in an evening overcoat he had, with a long flowing 
 cape, he looked patriarchal, like a Biblical figure. But 
 this evening his gestures were excited and hurried. Sud- 
 denly he bent forward, seized Madame's face. between 
 his hands, and kissed her. 
 
 I shivered a little at sight of the kiss, for he had a long 
 aquiline nose with a cold tip, as I knew, for he had once 
 kissed me, a long time ago. And he had very full, red 
 
To M. L. G. 101 
 
 lips between his straggling moustache and beard. It was 
 the thought of the fat, soft lips that set me shivering, for 
 ever since Maud had seized and kissed me at the old 
 boarding-house, fat red lips had seemed no less than hor- 
 rible to me. I had read a story in the " Arabian Nights " 
 about a ghoul, who ate grains of rice by day, and bodies 
 at night, and I knew she must have had thick, blood- 
 filled lips like Rose, and Maud, and other black people 
 — and Mr. Heinrich. 
 
 Madame laughed a stifled laugh, under the kiss, and 
 tried to push his hands down from her face, a» they sat 
 at opposite sides of the little round table. I saw on the 
 third finger of her left hand a splendid new ring, dia- 
 monds and rubies, her favorite stones. 
 
 Then, as if my fascinated stare signalled them, they 
 both turned and looked round at me, as I stood in the 
 door. I thought for an instant that Madame would be 
 angry, but she smiled quite pleasantly. She had forgot- 
 ten all about her burst of crossness and my resentment, 
 and she had never missed me. My long martyrdom in 
 the workroom had been all in vain. 
 
 Mr. Heinrich rather liked me, as he did not know what 
 I felt about his cold nose and red lips. He smiled, too, 
 and did not appear to mind my having seen him kiss 
 Madame. 
 
 " Come here and wish us joy, little Missy," he said. 
 " Your dear Madame is going to be my Baroness. I'm 
 a baron, you know, and now I'm a happy widower. 
 Everything is going to be all right at last." 
 
 As he spoke, Madame good-naturedly made room for 
 me on the big lounge on which she sat, by the little table. 
 She gave me her left hand, with its manicured pink nails. 
 
io2 To M. L. G. 
 
 and let me examine her new ring. I had not forgiven 
 her about the matinee, but I was afraid I might forgive 
 her by and by, and was annoyed at my own softness, be- 
 cause I wished to be angry for a long time. 
 
 " Do you think I shall make a nice baroness, dear ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Yes," I said, though I did not know what it was to 
 be a baroness. And I was too hungry and tired to won- 
 der what would become of me when she married Mr. 
 Heinrich. 
 
 Weeks passed, and though the Baron came every day, 
 nothing was settled about the wedding ; or if it were 
 settled, every one outside was kept in the dark. Madame 
 did not speak to me of her plans, before getting up in the 
 morning as she had done. There was something on her 
 mind, which she did not care to talk over with me, and I 
 felt uneasily that whatever it was, I was connected with 
 it. She had long conversations after closing time with 
 Miss Smith, the manageress, or head assistant, the oldest, 
 but handsomest, of the " young ladies," who was closeted 
 with Madame for hours in the consulting room every 
 day. One Saturday afternoon, instead of going out to 
 amuse herself as usual, Madame stayed in the house. 
 Miss Smith stayed too, after lunching with Madame and 
 me, a thing that had never happened before, as Madame 
 stood on her dignity with those she employed. They 
 had half a bottle of champagne, though Madame thought 
 wine and spirits bad for the complexion, and hardly ever 
 drank them. 
 
 Miss Smith grew more and more excited, looking 
 handsomer than I had seen her, until I thought her al- 
 most as pretty as Madame. Only she was of a Jewish 
 
To M. L. G. 103 
 
 type, and was getting a faint moustache, like a line deli- 
 cately marked with a crayon on her short upper lip. 
 They touched their glasses together, and Madame said, 
 " Success to Madame St. C ! " 
 
 " And to the Baroness ! " returned Miss Smith. 
 
 Immediately after luncheon, which lasted longer than 
 when we were alone, there was a loud ring at the bell, 
 and the maid who opened the door for clients came to 
 announce that two gentlemen had called. They had 
 sent up cards, but neither Madame nor Miss Smith 
 looked at them. They did not appear surprised that vis- 
 itors had come. 
 
 The maid, Clara, who was pretty, like every one in 
 Madame's employ, went on to say that the gentlemen 
 were in the reception-room. She had wonderfully 
 bright, inquisitive eyes, which seemed to pierce through 
 things as gimlets do. 
 
 " Bring them to my boodore," said Madame, smiling 
 at Miss Smith, who turned red under the film of White 
 Rose Balm, which she used to make her dark skin fair. 
 
 Presently I saw the two visitors coming up-stairs. 
 One was very smartly dressed, and wore a tall silk hat 
 that glittered beautifully. He was a Jew, and youngish, 
 much younger than Madame's Baron. The other might 
 have been a Jew also, but he looked like a business man, 
 and had a small packet of folded papers in his hand. 
 
 " Go and tell Wilhelmina to make you some peach 
 ice-cream for dinner," Madame said to me. " I shall be 
 going out. And you can have jelly cake with it, if you 
 want to." 
 
 I liked ice-cream and jelly cake better than anything 
 else to eat, and I liked Wilhelmina. But I was not 
 
104 To M. L. G. 
 
 elated, for I knew very well that I was being sent out of 
 the way. 
 
 Clara was in the up-stairs kitchen with Wilhelmina 
 when I arrived. They were talking so eagerly that they 
 did not hear me at the door, and I caught the words 
 " Jew backer, putting up money to take over the busi- 
 ness," before they turned and saw me. 
 
 " What is a Jew backer ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, he might be a gentleman friend of Miss Smith's 
 
 • — I mean Madame St. C 's," said Wilhelmina, who 
 
 was less discreet than Clara. 
 
 " Is Miss Smith going to be married ? " I went on. 
 
 They both laughed, a cackling kind of laugh, and 
 looked at each other. 
 
 " Ask us something easier," returned Clara. 
 
 I was a little irritated at being laughed at, for I thought 
 my question a simple one, and not at all funny. 
 
 " You said she'd be Madame St. C , and so did 
 
 Madame," I reminded them. 
 
 " Anybody can be Madame who wants to be, so far as 
 I can tell," Wilhelmina explained. " It's good for busi- 
 ness. Now, you can just run away, or else say what you 
 want. Clara and I have got something better to do than 
 answer silly questions." 
 
 I was too proud to persist. Besides, suddenly I seemed 
 to see quite clearly behind their inuendocs. Miss Smith 
 
 was going to call herself Madame St. C and take 
 
 the business when our Madame married. This proved 
 that what I had vaguely suspected was true. Madame 
 meant to go away. 
 
 The visitors stayed a long time. It must have been 
 two hours later when I heard loud laughing and talking 
 
To M. L. G. 105 
 
 in the corridor outside Madame's rooms. By that time 
 I was in the bedroom, lying down with a novel which 
 was very exciting, but not exciting enough to keep my 
 thoughts from wandering to Madame and her plans. 
 
 When the voices were silent, the door of the bedroom 
 was thrown open, and Madame came in. She looked 
 flushed and tired, yet pleased. 
 
 " Ah, that's a good thing," she exclaimed, with a long- 
 drawn sigh of relief. " They've gone." She flung out 
 her arms, and stretched herself, standing. " Get up and 
 unhook me, that's a good girl," she went on. 
 
 For the last three years I had helped her a good deal 
 about dressing and undressing, for she had no maid of 
 her own. There would hardly have been room in the 
 house to put one up comfortably, owing to the space 
 given to clients, and, besides, Madame was so brisk and 
 vigorous that she liked to do most things for herself, all 
 but mending, which Clara did. 
 
 I unhooked her frock behind, and when she had taken 
 off her satin corsets, she got me to help her into a lace 
 dressing-gown. Then she lay down, flat on her back, 
 on her wide, springy bed, which had the softest pillows I 
 have ever seen. 
 
 " Scratch my arms," she said, " and I'll tell you lots of 
 interesting things that. you'll like to hear." 
 
 I drew a chair close to the bed, and making my lap 
 higher with a sofa cushion from the adjoining boudoir, I 
 laid one of her beautiful bare arms on it. 
 
 It was no new thing to be asked to scratch her arms, 
 though usually it was later, just before she was ready to 
 dress for dinner, or in the night if she had what she 
 called " the jumps," and could not sleep. I scratched 
 
io6 To M. L. G. 
 
 very gently, drawing my fingers slowly up and down the 
 whole length of the arm, from shoulder to wrist, and 
 over the back of the hand. Slowly, too, she would turn 
 her arm round, so that I might end up with the inner 
 side of it, and the upturned palm. This operation soothed 
 and rested her, as rubbing soothes a cat, and she loved 
 to have me scratch her legs too, from the knee down to 
 the ankle, and over the instep. She would get me to 
 pull off her thin silk stockings, which were like a deli- 
 cate, shiny film over the pale pink flesh ; and as I 
 scratched she would look with never-failing pleasure at 
 her bare feet, of which she was very proud, because the 
 toes were not deformed, and every day she reddened and 
 polished their nails. 
 
 This time, as I scratched her arm, she lay with closed 
 eyes, not speaking for a few minutes ; then, without 
 opening her eyes, she began to tell me the things she 
 had promised to tell : how she had been waiting to marry 
 the Baron until her business was settled ; how at last it 
 was all arranged. Miss Smith would buy it, and she her- 
 self would be free to go with the Baron to Germany for 
 the honeymoon. They would travel in Europe for a 
 year, and maybe more, and they would live in New 
 York, in future, only part of the time. And then she 
 went on to say that I was to hold her bouquet at the 
 wedding, and have a lovely costume, with dress and 
 hat, and shoes and silk stockings, all of a color to 
 match. 
 
 This pleased me, but not as much as if I had not had 
 other important things to talk of. 
 
 " Are you going to take me with you to Europe? " I 
 asked ; and I thought that my voice sounded queer, like 
 
To M. L. G. 107 
 
 Dearie's used to sound when it trembled as she told Boy 
 not to run up and down-stairs. 
 
 " Oh, no," she said. " The Baron thinks you're a 
 very nice little girl, but he wouldn't care for that." She 
 loved to speak of Mr. Heinrich as " The Baron." 
 
 " Then I am going to live with Miss Smith ? " I asked. 
 
 " That wouldn't do, either," Madame went on, still 
 with her eyes shut, as if she did not care to have mine 
 meet hers. « Miss Smith doesn't love children. Besides, 
 she may make changes in the house. The Baron and I 
 have thought of a nice plan for you, which I'm sure 
 you'll like." 
 
 I was not so sure, but I waited. 
 
 " You've often said you'd love to go on the stage," she 
 began again. " The Baron and I both think you ought 
 to make an actress. You're always mimicking some one 
 or other. I believe you've got real talent, and so does 
 he. I never saw your father, for he didn't act much in 
 New York, but I've heard he could have made a splendid 
 actor if he hadn't been too lazy, and he might have got 
 good New York engagements if he had had any ambi- 
 tion. The trouble is, he didn't know people with influ- 
 ence ; but the Baron and I have talked things over, and 
 
 thought of a Mrs. F , who takes care of girls who 
 
 want to go on the stage, and gets them engagements. 
 She used to be an actress herself, long ago. Now she's 
 a dramatic agent. We've arranged for you to live with 
 her. And because you've been a good girl, and I'm fond 
 of you, I'll pay your board there and all your expenses, 
 till you're sixteen, if you don't get an engagement so you 
 can support yourself before that." 
 
 At this she opened her eyes and looked at me, for, as 
 
io8 To M. L. G. 
 
 Dearie would have said, it was my " cue " to thank her. 
 I was really grateful, for I was old enough now to under- 
 stand how little claim I had ever had upon Madame, and 
 how I owed everything to her generosity, since my 
 mother would not even hear my name. But because I 
 had never been able to love her, I was more critical than 
 I could have been if affection had glossed over her little 
 faults and peculiarities. Although only a child still, I 
 read Madame with unblinking eyes, through her various 
 affectations. 
 
 " Thank you, Auntie," I said, as warmly as I could. 
 " I'm sure I ought to get something to do before that. 
 I'll try hard." 
 
 " Sixteen is time enough," she assured me, kindly. " I 
 can afford to pay the little you'll cost, I'm sure, and the 
 Baron approves of the idea. He's got heaps and heaps of 
 money, and I'm not poor myself. When we come back 
 and take a house in New York, or perhaps an apartment 
 in some big hotel, you must come and see me. You'll 
 be almost a young lady by then, for two or three years 
 make a lot of difference at your age." 
 
 Then she went on quickly to tell me that Mrs. F— — 
 was fond of girls, and had three daughters living with 
 her. There had been others, but they had gone on the 
 stage, and several had been very successful. 
 
 In my mind I saw Mrs. F , like the " Old Woman 
 
 in the Shoe," a living representative of whom I had once 
 seen at a bazaar: a big child dressed up in cap and 
 spectacles, and a crossed fichu, a switch in her hand with 
 which to strike the brood of dolls that were crowded with 
 her into a Titanic slipper. 
 
 The idea of a great change in my life, of living with 
 
To M. L. G. 109 
 
 other girls, and of learning how to be an actress was very 
 exciting, and made me feel almost grown up. I had just 
 been reading a delightful book, with a heroine at a 
 boarding-school, however, and I would have much pre- 
 ferred being sent to such a school as was glowingly 
 described. But perhaps, I thought, it would cost more, 
 and besides I could not learn at a boarding-school to go 
 on the stage and support myself. I knew I should hate 
 to be a governess, like Miss Minnie. Anything would be 
 better than that, even to be a cook ; though lately I had 
 been praying again, at Miss Minnie's request, and had 
 added to a prayer of praise from some old volume, 
 " Thank God I am not deformed, or a cook." 
 
 I was too keenly interested in the unknown future and 
 in picturing what it would be like, to feel actively un- 
 happy. Yet Miss Minnie's face of distress when she 
 heard what was to happen to me, and that I was to have 
 no more teaching except for the stage, saddened me 
 somewhat. Besides, I loved Madame's rose-haunted 
 house, and realized dimly that there would be nothing 
 half as beautiful in my new life. At night I would wake 
 up with a start, and a weight of depression would lie 
 upon my breast, till slowly I slipped away into sleep 
 again. At those dark moments it seemed to me that I 
 had instead of a heart a great, misshapen, cold-boiled 
 beet, exactly like those I often saw, very red and floating 
 in purplish vinegar, in Wilhelmina's kitchen. 
 
 The thought that I was going to be " flower girl " at 
 Madame's wedding did not comfort me. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 MADAME was married in the afternoon, not in 
 church, but in her own boudoir, where a 
 shocked Congregationalist minister performed 
 the ceremony, looking, in his severe black, like a crow in 
 a rose garden. The Baron was a crow too, but sleek and 
 well-fed. I was used to the sight of him in that pink 
 bower. 
 
 He had sent at least a bushel of roses, and Miss Minnie 
 and Clara and I had decorated the boudoir. I wore a 
 pink silk dress, and a Leghorn hat smothered in roses. 
 For the first time I had silk stockings, and they were 
 pink, too, matching my pink shoes, which were orna- 
 mented with huge silver buckles that reflected all the 
 pink things, and looked as if they also were pink. 
 
 Only the Baron and the younger Jew who was Miss 
 Smith's " gentleman friend," Miss Smith herself, now to 
 be known as Madame St. C , the new Baroness's suc- 
 cessor, and Miss Minnie — red-nosed, blotched with tears, 
 awful to behold in a green dress of Madame's — were in- 
 vited to the wedding. A splendid feast came from a 
 confectioner's, and there were piles of white, silver-tied 
 boxes of wedding-cake, one for each of the guests, one 
 for each of the " young ladies " and work-girls, who were 
 to be kept on by Miss Smith. 
 
 My things, as well as the bride's, were already packed. 
 Her trousseau — such finery as she cared to buy before 
 reaching Paris — wrapped in tissue-paper and sachet bags, 
 
To M. L. G. in 
 
 was folded away in beautiful new trunks, with her initials 
 and a baron's coronet on the ends. There were coronets 
 embroidered on her under-linen and handkerchiefs ; and 
 one of the Baron's wedding presents was a huge dressing- 
 bag fitted with gold-topped bottles and gold-backed 
 brushes, all monogrammed and coroneted. I never saw 
 Madame look so happy as when she gazed at her display 
 of coronets, a few days before the wedding. I think she 
 was picturing her future return to New -York as a Baron- 
 ess, when her career as " Madame " would be forgotten 
 by society, or condoned because of her husband's title 
 and fortune. 
 
 I had not yet seen Mrs. F , with whom I was to 
 
 make my home for the next two or three years. Ma- 
 dame had said it would be better to meet her for the first 
 time after the wedding; and when I saw her, I guessed why. 
 
 It was Saturday, and the house was quiet. When the 
 bride and groom had gone, Miss Smith and her friend went 
 too. I was left alone with Miss Minnie, who had cried 
 continuously during the ceremony, and had soaked two 
 very small handkerchiefs. She helped Clara put away 
 the boxes of cake that were for the " young ladies " and 
 the " girls " ; and while she was fussily engaged in this 
 work, sniffing every moment, the door-bell rang. 
 
 We had known it would ring, for Mrs. F had 
 
 promised to call for me before five o'clock ; still, Miss 
 Minnie seemed as much surprised and flustered as if she 
 were upset by something entirely unexpected. 
 
 After all, it was not Mrs. F who had arrived, but 
 
 her husband, of whom Madame had never spoken. He 
 would not come up-stairs, but sat waiting for me just 
 inside the front door. 
 
112 To M. L. G. 
 
 I took a last look at the pretty rooms on the floor 
 where I had lived with Madame, and with a lump in my 
 throat, kissed Miss Minnie good-bye. 
 
 " Remember you're to come and see me when you 
 can," she said, tears streaming down her cheeks, making 
 a kind of glaze over the reddened skin. " I'm always at 
 home on Sundays." 
 
 " Yes, I'll try to come, and tell you all about every- 
 thing," I answered, hugging her. But I never did go. 
 Everything was different. Already my dancing lessons 
 had been stopped ; and Miss Minnie and I drifted out of 
 each other's lives. 
 
 She accompanied me timidly down -stairs, to put me in 
 
 charge of Mr. F , whose existence was of so little 
 
 importance that I had not even been told of it. 
 
 He was sitting on a chair in the vestibule ; a small, thin 
 man, hollow-chested, and dressed with extreme neatness 
 in the worst possible taste. He wore a short alpaca 
 coat, over a white waistcoat, which was frayed along the 
 edges, and on his almost bald head a tall silk hat, which 
 came down nearly as far as his prominent ears. After- 
 wards, when I knew him better, I observed that his hat 
 rose on his head, like a boat on the tide, when his hair 
 remained uncut for a long time. That day was his 
 monthly date for having it almost shaved. 
 
 Once I had seen a face carved out of a turnip, done by 
 a boy in our street, who was clever at vegetable sculp- 
 ture. Mr. F 's narrow white face reminded me of 
 
 the turnip, with its flat nose and long chin, and little dim 
 eyes like holes scooped out. He spoke in a low, mum- 
 bling voice, explaining that he had come in his wife's 
 place, to take me home. 
 
To M. L. G. 1 13 
 
 Miss Minnie and I kissed each other again. I shook 
 hands with Clara; and Wilhelmina, whom I had bidden 
 farewell, waved at me from the workroom window as I 
 looked up from the street. 
 
 My trunk was to be sent ; but Mr. F carried my 
 
 bag, a present from Madame, which had once been hers. 
 We walked until we came to a street where* there were 
 trolley cars. In one of these we went across town, and 
 then, changing to the " elevated," dashed down town for 
 
 a number of blocks. I sat beside Mr. F , but he 
 
 made no attempt at conversation, and though his jaws 
 worked constantly, showing a play of muscles in his thin 
 cheeks, as if he were chewing something, he did not 
 open his lips except to tell me when it was time to alight 
 from the train, or which way to turn in the street. 
 Neither did he look at me, as though I were a person 
 with features to be remembered if he wanted to recog- 
 nize me again. When his eyes turned in my direction 
 for any reason, their gaze seemed to slide over and past 
 my face, as water slides over a round, polished surface 
 without leaving any drops. He sat gazing straight 
 ahead, as the trolley car took us across town, and again 
 in the crowded elevated, his jaws working just percepti- 
 bly, with an expression even more remote from the 
 world than mere absent-mindedness. The notion flitted 
 into my mind that it was the look a ghost's face might 
 have, in haunting the place where it had lived in the 
 body, as Rose and Maud had told me many spirits did : 
 a look of knowing that it was forever out of human 
 affairs, and that nothing of any interest or joy could 
 possibly come to it in this world. 
 
 I was not hurt that Mr. F did not talk to me, or 
 
1 14 To M. L. G. 
 
 appear to know that I was with him. Without under- 
 standing why, I pitied him deeply. 
 
 His first words were spoken when we had walked a 
 short distance, after the quick rush in the elevated. 
 " Here we are. We go up-stairs," he said, at the corner 
 of a noisy street where there were shops and offices, 
 some of which were closed, because it was Saturday 
 afternoon. 
 
 We had stopped in front of a brick building, where 
 a florist did business on the ground floor ; and above^ 
 many names were painted on large or small sign-boards ■ 
 names of lawyers ; doctors who cured diseases by means 
 of patent medicines or electricity; dressmakers and 
 corset-makers, and others that I have forgotten. But 
 my eye quickly picked out among them the name of Mrs. 
 F , Dramatic Agent. 
 
 Over a side door was another, smaller sign-board, with 
 her advertisement instructing the public to enter there 
 and find her offices on the second floor. 
 
 " Is this only the office, or is it your house ? " I dared 
 to ask, as Mr. F opened the door. 
 
 " It's both," he said, and stood aside with patient, 
 weary politeness, for me to go first up the dirty wooden 
 stairway. The thought came to me that this man was 
 used to standing aside for every one to go ahead of him ; 
 and that it was not good for men, or even for women, to 
 have lost all self-assertion. 
 
 At sight of those stairs, and as the close smell of the 
 house (a smell made up from many faded odors) struck 
 into my lungs, memories crowded back to me. The old 
 sordidness of life, as it had been when I was a child, 
 seemed to take form and rise before my eyes like a hugej 
 
To M. L. G. 115 
 
 smoke-wreathed Genius boiling up out of a bottle. De- 
 tails of existence in the two theatrical boarding-houses, 
 features of the houses themselves, which I had seemed to 
 forget, turned themselves over in my memory, as one 
 comes upon old dresses packed away in trunks that have 
 stood for years in a garret. 
 
 My interest in the future collapsed, like a child's bal- 
 loon when it is pricked. I felt as if I must run away, 
 and get back to Madame's at once. But there was no 
 longer a Madame for me. She was a Baroness, on her 
 way to Europe, and nothing was left of her except the 
 clothes she had given me, and the address of a banker 
 in Paris. I told myself, with a stab of homesickness, as 
 if for a home burnt down and destroyed off the face of 
 the earth, that 1 would have to make the best of things 
 here for a while. Then, when there came a sting of 
 tears behind my eyes, I thought of Jenny Elmore and the 
 Bible. As usual, the recipe answered its purpose, and 
 by the time we had got to the second floor the tears had 
 dried. 
 
 It was very hot, and smelt of leaking gas, in the nar- 
 row corridor outside Mrs. F 's rooms. Also, it was 
 
 dim with a perpetual, dusty twilight, for there was no 
 other light except what filtered through a dirty transom 
 over the front door, and a little that found its way up from 
 below. 
 
 The front room was an office of the agency, and had 
 a great deal of black lettering on a yellow door. Farther 
 
 on was another door, with Mrs. F 's name on it again, 
 
 and the one word, ■■ Private." Beyond, were three more 
 doors, two along the side of the corridor, and one at the 
 end. On these there was no lettering ; but many names 
 
n6 To M. L. G. 
 
 and sentences were scrawled in pencil, and there were 
 quantities of rough sketches, caricatures of men and 
 women with big heads, or enormous feet, lovers embrac- 
 ing each other, and goblin children with thumbs to their 
 noses, or tongues sticking out. I had time to study 
 these for a moment, dark on the dirty yellow paint, as 
 
 Mr. F fumbled to unlock one of the doors with a 
 
 latch-key he wore on a black tape, like a wide shoe-string. 
 
 There was silence on the other side, and when he had 
 got the door open, I saw that the room into which it led 
 was empty. 
 
 It might almost have been the parlor in one of my old 
 homes, except that it was evidently a dining as well as a 
 living-room. There was a queer family resemblance in the 
 furniture of this room to others once familiar to me. Even 
 the smell was the same. It was like getting back into the 
 past through the door of a dream. Often, at night, I had 
 gone back through that door, though each year less often, 
 as the memories were blurred by new impressions ; but 
 always I was relieved to wake up and find that I had 
 been dreaming. Now, it was all real, and there was no 
 door through which I could run away, and escape to 
 something better. 
 
 The window looked out on the side street. There was 
 a red blind, half pulled down, and hanging crooked, be- 
 cause the roller was coming out, at one end. In the 
 middle of the room was a table, covered with a spotted 
 red cloth, which could be washed, but evidently had not 
 been for some time. In the middle was a pile of little 
 fringed napkins of the same color, lying crumpled up. 
 There were books and illustrated papers, too, in con- 
 fusion, and some had fallen on the floor. I saw pictures 
 
To M. L. G. 117 
 
 of policemen arresting black men, and women being 
 murdered. There was a huddle of chairs and sofas, 
 covered with torn reps and horsehair ; tiny tables pushed 
 against the wall, with dishes piled on bound volumes of 
 magazines ; and there were a number of old-fashioned 
 cabinets and cupboards, filled to overflowing with all 
 kinds of indescribable things that protruded through 
 half-open glass doors. Photographs, big and little, 
 framed and unframed, but all of actors and actresses, 
 were hung or tacked on the walls, mostly crooked, and 
 stuck round the frame of the mantelpiece mirror, just as 
 they had been in the old boarding-houses. On chairs 
 and sofas hats and jackets had been flung, and were trail- 
 ing on the floor, that was covered with grayish carpet 
 from which the pattern was almost worn away. So full 
 was the room of furniture and fallen odds and ends, that 
 there was hardly space to move. 
 
 Mr. F opened a door into an untidy bedroom, 
 
 with one bed, that had been half made up in a hurry. 
 Since then, somebody had evidently lain on it, for there 
 was a deep dent in the middle, which showed that the 
 bed was of feathers. The clothing of a man and a woman 
 hung from hooks on the wall, and nothing was in order. 
 
 Through this room I was led to another, of about the 
 same size, and of much the same appearance, except that 
 there were two beds, close together ; and hanging or lying 
 about, a quantity of light-colored dresses and hats such 
 as young girls might wear. There was only one bureau 
 or dressing-table, and a very small wash-itand, littered 
 with bottles. Besides these objects, there was no other 
 furniture, with the exception of a trunk covered with a 
 red table-cloth, and two chairs, one of which had the back 
 
n8 To M. L. G. 
 
 broken off. A faint, stale smell of drainage, and of un- 
 aired woollen things pervaded the whole flat. 
 
 " Mrs. F and the girls will be in before long, I 
 
 guess," my guide said, in his remote voice; and set down 
 my bag on one of the beds, neither of which had been 
 properly made. 
 
 I had to think again of Jenny Elmore and the Bible. 
 But in my heart resentment stirred against Madame. 
 Always I had known that she did not love me, and more 
 than once I had been glad, because of my unconquerable 
 coldness for her. But at this minute I realized, as I never 
 had before, how indifferent she was, when her need of me 
 was past. When I had been with her, a part of the pic- 
 ture in which she was the central figure, Madame had 
 grudged no expense for me. Now, it would matter noth- 
 ing to her if I degenerated in body and mind, taking on 
 the color of my surroundings, like a chameleon : her eyes 
 would not be offended by the disgusting sight. If she 
 had sent me to boarding-school I should have been a 
 
 burden on her and the Baron. With Mrs. F and her 
 
 daughters, I would be removed to a different world. 
 
 These thoughts filled my heart with bitterness. I was 
 hardly thirteen ; but as I stood alone in the frowsy room 
 
 which I was to share with Mrs. F 's girls, I felt old, 
 
 and as if I would grow up to be wicked. 
 
I 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 DID not want to make the best of things. I could 
 not bear to begin unpacking my bag, and I left it 
 
 on the bed where it had been put by Mr. F . 
 
 Feeling the dumb anger of one who had been shut up in 
 prison without having committed a crime, I sat on the 
 chair without a back, waiting for I knew not what. By 
 and by I ceased to feel at all. A huge fly was bumbling 
 against the window-pane, and my whole interest in life 
 concentrated in him. I thought that he was very silly, 
 trying to get out, when nothing he could do would help 
 him, and I said to myself that, if God were looking at me, 
 He would not have to think as scornfully of me as I was 
 thinking of the fly. I did not mean to try and get out. 
 
 Half an hour may have passed while I watched the fly, 
 dully, and then the door opened, without a knock. A 
 woman stood looking at me. She was so tall and stout, 
 and her big black hat had such a spreading tuft of 
 feathers, that she seemed a giantess, filling the whole 
 doorway. 
 
 For a minute neither she nor I spoke. We were judg- 
 ing each other, I less deliberately than she. My eyes 
 told me that she was a mountain of flesh and good- 
 nature ; but something behind my eyes said that she was 
 terrible. I felt the thrill of what she hid under the smil- 
 ing wrinkles round her eyes, as a sensitive person might 
 feel a cat crouching behind a velvet curtain. Her eyes 
 were pale as moonstones, and expressionless beneath 
 
 119 
 
i2o To M. L. G. 
 
 long, prominent lids like a crocodile's. Under her big 
 hat, her hair was thin and streaked with gray. Though 
 her clothes were suitable only for a young woman, she 
 seemed to have no vanity, for she was not made up at 
 all, and she stooped forward so that her double chin ap- 
 peared to melt into her great bust. Her silk mantle and 
 elaborately trimmed dress looked expensive, like her hat ; 
 yet they had the air of not being made for her. After- 
 wards I found out that she got everything from a 
 superior second-hand clothes dealer, who bought from 
 ladies' maids, and did a large business with theatrical 
 people. 
 
 I knew that this must be Mrs. F , and I thought 
 
 that the dislike I conceived for her was because of her 
 white fat, and her great eyelids and double chin; for 
 always I have disliked double chins more than any other 
 disfigurement on man or woman. Yet I felt dimly that 
 there was some other reason, more mysterious. One is 
 not afraid of double chins; and I was afraid of Mrs. 
 F . I felt dominated by her. 
 
 " Well," she said, in a deep voice, " so you've come ? 
 My girls ought to be in pretty soon. I guess they've 
 been around on an ice-cream hunt with some of their 
 friends, after the matinee." 
 
 I had no other greeting from Mrs. F . She did 
 
 not say that she was glad to see me, or that she hoped 
 I might be happy. I realized that personally I was of 
 slight importance to her, and that she saw no necessity 
 to put herself out for me. Still, she lingered, unfasten- 
 ing her cream silk mantle, and taking the pins out of her 
 hat, which instantly fell to one side on her thin hair. 
 When she moved, her body billowed all over, with every 
 
To M. L. G. i2i 
 
 slow step. I thought of Mr. F , and wondered why 
 
 they had married each other. 
 
 " Was it a nice wedding ? " she inquired, in a careless 
 tone, as if she had known me a long time. 
 
 I said yes, it was very pretty, and was surprised at 
 my shyness, for I was not used to being shy and self- 
 conscious, even with strangers. She hardly listened, and 
 had apparently lost interest in the subject, for immedi- 
 ately she went on to say that I was tall and well-developed 
 for my age. " I expect we'll get you something to do 
 before long," she added. 
 
 " Do you mean on the stage ? " I asked. Her eyes 
 were fascinating me. They were almost white, with 
 thin dark rings round the iris, and very small pupils, 
 like little black holes pricked with pins in the pale gray. 
 It was difficult to look away from them. 
 
 " Yes, of course. That's what my business is, to put 
 folks on the stage and get them places once they're on," 
 she explained. " My dramatic agency mayn't be the 
 swellest in New York, but there ain't another that can 
 beat it. I'm too busy to train you, or any of my girls, 
 but I see that you get training. They're all in good 
 summer engagements now." 
 
 " Is it three daughters you've got, Mrs. F ? " I 
 
 asked, almost stammering in my queer new timidity. 
 
 " Ye-es," she replied, drawling. And she gave me 
 a strange look from under the corners of her drooping 
 eyelids. 
 
 Just then two girls came in. They were both rather 
 pretty, and much older than I had expected, because 
 Madame had told me that they were about my age. I 
 thought that they must be at least fifteen, and it struck 
 
122 To M. L. G. 
 
 me as odd that neither one should look older nor younger 
 than the other. Yet they were so unlike, it did not 
 occur to me that they might be twins. One was dark 
 and thin, with bright eyes and a face like an eager bird. 
 The other was plump, with frizzy brown hair, and the 
 deepest dimples I ever saw. Her mouth pursed itself 
 constantly, so as to display them. Both girls were rouged 
 and powdered, and had their eyelashes blackened. They 
 wore their hair down their backs, under frilled, childish 
 hats, though their dresses came nearly to their insteps. 
 They seemed to be great friends, and I felt like an out- 
 sider, very young and insignificant. I longed to be as 
 old as they were, and have a large bust and a squeezed-in 
 waist. I made up my mind that it would be delightful 
 to wear a corset. 
 
 Mrs. F and the girls did not speak to each other, 
 
 not even to give a cheery " hello," such as Madame 
 usually threw to me when she came in. They glanced at 
 each other coolly, and I thought the girls' eyes looked 
 
 insolent. But as soon as Mrs. F had gone slowly 
 
 billowing out, shutting the door loudly, their faces 
 changed. They smiled at me, with hardly any conde- 
 scension. " New Kid " they called me, and asked each 
 other " which side I would be on." 
 
 Although they did not put the question to me, they 
 looked as if they expected me to answer, and, as I was 
 longing to know what they meant, I ventured to ask. 
 Then they both laughed. 
 
 " I wonder if we can trust her ? " they said, again to 
 each other. 
 
 " Yes, you can," I replied emphatically. 
 
 " Well, you'll have to take sides here," said Julia, the 
 
To M. L. G. 123 
 
 dark one. " Kit and I've been betting whether you'll 
 be on ours or the enemy's. But I warn you, you won't 
 get much good out of the enemy. They're all for them- 
 selves." 
 
 " Who is the enemy ? " I begged her to tell me. 
 
 " The old cat and the young one," said Julia. 
 
 " She means Mrs. F and Fifi," Kitty explained. 
 
 But there was no time to explain more, if she had in- 
 tended to go on, because at that minute the door opened, 
 and a third girl came in, whistling a tune sweetly and 
 cleverly. 
 
 She stopped whistling when she saw me, but began 
 again, taking up the air where she had left it off. She, 
 too, appeared to be exactly the same age as the others. 
 A bunch of black curls was tied back with a butterfly 
 bow of red ribbon. She had a drooping Leghorn hat, 
 with a wreath of poppies, and a white lace dress, slightly 
 soiled, but more expensive-looking than Julia's or Kitty's 
 frocks. She was inclined to be too fat already, but her 
 waist was slender, and, as she could breathe only at the 
 top of her lungs, her full breast rose and fell like a wave. 
 I thought that very attractive ; but, though this girl was 
 handsomer than the others, I disliked her at once. She was 
 dark, darker than many Spanish women I have seen since, 
 and had moist lips as red and polished as coral ; yet there 
 was an indefinable likeness between her and Mrs. F . 
 
 Julia and Kitty stopped talking for an instant when 
 she broke in ; but began again, in. loud voices, as if to 
 drown her whistling. She scattered her hat, her long 
 white silk gloves, her handkerchief, and bag about the 
 untidy room, and then sauntered to the door, but checked 
 herself there, as if on a sudden thought. 
 
124 To M. L. G. 
 
 " You've got to take her in with you, Kit," she said. 
 " It's no good pretending to forget, 'cause I'm not going 
 to have a strange girl in my bed, that's settled." 
 
 " You're a selfish cat, Fifi," said Kit. " You know 
 perfectly well that our bed's smaller than yours. You 
 want the earth." 
 
 " I won't change beds, and I won't have a stranger ; so 
 if Julia don't want to sleep with me, you can all three 
 squash in together," was the answer; and I no longer 
 had any difficulty in deciding which " side " I would be on. 
 
 I expected the other two to make a firm stand against 
 the " enemy," but to my surprise, Kitty turned her back 
 and Julia shrugged her shoulders, merely saying, " Have 
 it your own way, pig." 
 
 Fifi took up her whistling again, and skipped out of 
 the room, giving the door a bang. 
 
 " Sweet angel, isn't she ? " said Julia. 
 
 " Sometimes I think it wouldn't be murder to smother 
 her with a pillow, and sit on her face," added Kitty, 
 looking fierce in spite of the dimples. 
 
 They both glared at the door, which had hardly ceased 
 quivering after the slam. From the next room came the 
 
 sound of loud laughter, Mrs. F 's voice and Fifi's 
 
 together. The two voices were oddly alike. 
 
 " Well, what are you thinking ? " Julia asked me. 
 
 " I was wondering why you let her have her own 
 way," I admitted frankly, for I was not afraid of Julia or 
 Kitty. Already we were allies, and it was necessary to 
 understand the situation. 
 
 " Because, when you know a thing's got to be, you 
 look like a fool if you make a fuss," Julia answered. 
 " What Fifi wants goes in this house. The old cow 
 
To M. L. G. i2f 
 
 would only come in and roar and raise hell, and we'd 
 have to give in." 
 
 Kitty burst out laughing. " The kid is shocked," she 
 chuckled, putting the thumb and third finger of her 
 right hand into her two dimples, with a trick she had 
 when she wished to break a laugh off in the middle. 
 
 " No, I'm not," I contradicted her, eagerly. " Only 
 it's funny to hear you talk about your mother and sister 
 the way you do." 
 
 " Mother — and sister ! " they both echoed, scornfully. 
 
 " Well — aren't they ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Good lord ! " Julia exclaimed. " I didn't know you 
 were as green as that ! " 
 
 I hurried to tell her that my information came from 
 Madame. " She said Mrs. F had three daughters." 
 
 " She's had a lot of daughters like us, and will have 
 more, I guess," said Julia, with cutting sharpness. " How 
 old do you suppose I am ? " 
 
 " Fifteen," I guessed. 
 
 " You've hit it. And Kitty ? She's fifteen too. So's 
 the pig, Fifi. Now did you ever hear of three sisters 
 being all the same age, unless they were triplets ? " 
 
 » No — o," I replied, ashamed of what seemed like 
 stupidity. 
 
 " Neither did any one else. I thought you'd know 
 what everybody knows. Kitty and I are no relation to 
 
 each other, or to the F s'. Fifi's the only child the 
 
 old cow ever had, so far as I've heard, and she's no rela- 
 tion to the gentleman of the house. The cow was good- 
 looking once, they say. Fifi's father was a Portuguese 
 opera singer. He's disappeared into space, about fifteen 
 years ago, I should think." 
 
126 To M. L. G. 
 
 I tried to look as if these explanations of family 
 affairs did not surprise me, for I was sure that not to 
 know about such things would make me ridiculously 
 childish in the eyes of the girls. 
 
 " Did Mrs. F adopt you both when you were 
 
 babies ? " I asked as boldly as I could. 
 
 " Yes, she loved babies so much, she thought no home 
 was complete without 'em," said Julia; but Kitty scolded 
 her for teasing me, and advised her to tell me the facts 
 plainly, if she wanted me to know them. 
 
 " I don't care much whether she knows them or not," 
 Julia grumbled. However, she went on in her bitter, 
 
 strident way, to explain that Mrs. F had another 
 
 business, separate from her dramatic agency, yet indirectly 
 connected with it. Between the two girls, who kept on 
 interrupting one another, each flinging a few disjointed 
 facts at me, I was able to piece fragments together. I 
 made out that actresses who were not married occasion- 
 ally had babies. That when there were no relatives to 
 take the babies, they could be adopted by women like 
 
 Mrs. F . She, and others in the same line of business, 
 
 would for a certain sum of money take charge of the 
 
 children, and bring them up after a fashion. Mrs. F 
 
 had been doing this for a great many years, ever since 
 
 she grew too fat to sing in opera, and married Mr. F . 
 
 Some people said that they were not really married. 
 Others said he had been paid to marry her, and get her 
 out of the way of a rich man she had blackmailed. Any- 
 way, Mr. F dared not call his soul his own. He was 
 
 a dead man, only that she made him work, kept his nose 
 to the grindstone, and grudged him tobacco. She 
 grudged things to everybody, except Fifi, her idol. For 
 
To M. L. G. 127 
 
 Fifi the sun rose and set. Mrs. F had sacrificed all 
 
 girls to her own girl, since Fifi was born. There had 
 been six or seven others, daughters of women not mar- 
 ried, with one or two exceptions ; now and then a widow 
 wanted to take a second husband, and had to find a home 
 for a troublesome baby. The girls were all on the stage. 
 Some were successful ; others had gone west and disap- 
 peared. One had died, after a scandal which had caused 
 a " society divorce." Julia and Kitty were not supposed 
 to know the names of their mothers, but they did know, 
 or thought they knew, and did not hesitate to mention 
 names. Indeed, they seemed proud, rather than ashamed, 
 for both women were successful. One was still " star- 
 ring," and I had seen her act. The other had married, 
 and left the stage. I could hardly believe that the story 
 
 the girls told me concerning Mrs. F and themselves 
 
 was true, but I did not dare suggest that they were mis- 
 taken. I still think that many details must have been 
 embroidered by their imagination. 
 
 We spoke in low tones, and paused sometimes to listen 
 for the laughter and murmur of voices in the next room. 
 
 I half expected Mrs. F to break in upon us, and say 
 
 that she knew what we were talking about, but Julia and 
 Kitty, who saw my eyes wander to the door, assured me 
 that Mrs. F would not mind what they told me. 
 
 " She ain't ashamed of anything," Julia said. " She 
 doesn't care whether you know or not. What harm can 
 you do to her ? We hate her, and she hates us, but we 
 go on living here till we can get an engagement in a road 
 company, because there's nowhere else to go ; and you'll 
 have to do just the same. She won't let Fifi take any- 
 thing out of New York, but she'll find us something on 
 
128 To M. L. G. 
 
 the road as soon as she can, and bring along another girl 
 from the country." 
 
 When I asked what the " country " meant they both 
 began wildly talking together again, telling me about a 
 
 farm which belonged to a brother of Mrs. F 's. Her 
 
 " daughters " were kept there, the girls explained, till 
 they were old enough to take children's parts on the 
 stage. Then they were brought to the city, sent to school 
 for a while, trained to sing or dance if they had talent, or 
 put into " productions " of some sort, so that they might 
 learn to act. 
 
 " We've been here, in and out of engagements, for five 
 years," Julia said, " but we've never got anything decent 
 yet, because Fifi's always had the best child's part the old 
 cow can grab. And outsiders come next ; because we're 
 paid for, anyhow, so she goes for a good commission." 
 
 I felt deeply, though vaguely dispirited. The girls 
 made the world seem a horrible place, more horrible than 
 I had known it could be, for at the old boarding-houses, 
 I was too young to be impressed by scandals. I said 
 that, if Julia and Kitty went " on the road," I hoped I 
 might go with them ; but they replied indifferently that 
 it was not likely we could all get into the same company. 
 They were old enough to play ingenues now, but I would 
 have to begin at the beginning, and work slowly up. 
 
 Already I felt heartsick at the thought of their leaving 
 me alone with Mrs. F and Fifi. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE F s' flat had been meant for offices, and 
 had few conveniences for family life. There 
 was no proper kitchen, no bath, and no place 
 to keep anything. A woman came in the morning to 
 wash dishes and do a little cooking. Other work we did 
 ourselves, or left undone, such as bed-making. We never 
 swept the floors, but when rolls of dust collected, we 
 brushed them under the beds. Most of the food we ate 
 was sent in ready cooked, or came out of tins, and there 
 were no regular meal times. 
 
 I missed the clean white bathroom more than any- 
 thing else at Madame's pretty house ; and having learned 
 to love a hot or cold plunge, I could not be content with 
 a little perfunctory splashing. I spent what seemed to 
 the other girls a ridiculous time in washing ; and they 
 laughed at me because, being used of late to dressing 
 alone, I was shy about showing my body. I would build 
 up a screen of the two chairs, draped with my clothes, 
 to hide me as I stood on a towel sponging myself from 
 head to foot. But before many weeks had passed, the 
 jokes made by the others on my " modesty " frightened 
 it away. I tried to be bold, and became so. We three 
 ran about without any clothing on, in the warm weather, 
 and paraded from room to room in our chemises. The 
 girls brought back from the theatre where they were 
 playing queer stories and scandals, which they explained 
 to me, if there were anything obscure, but I pretended 
 
 129 
 
130 To M. L. G. 
 
 to understand the most baffling " second-meanings," for 
 to be " innocent " was to be affected, or silly, at Mrs. 
 
 F 's. The girls were not bad girls, but there was no 
 
 vileness of which they were ignorant, and they thought 
 it "swell" to talk as they heard women talk in the 
 dressing-rooms. The theatres where they acted were 
 third-rate, and " Oh, hell ! " and " My God ! " were the 
 exclamations oftenest on their lips. It was a reminder 
 of old times to hear these expressions, but I had grown 
 fastidious and did not care to pick them up, though I 
 imitated the older girls in many ways. 
 
 As a child I had sworn strange oaths when I wished 
 to make the boarders laugh ; but when my lady of Cali- 
 fornia said that her little girl would have been whipped 
 rather than swear, I broke myself of the habit. I longed 
 to be like her little girl. Then came the years at Ma- 
 dame's ; and with her, though I learned few good things 
 except a love for cleanliness, I grew to value beauty, or 
 what I believed to be beauty, in everything, even in 
 speech. Madame avoided all that was rough or coarse ; 
 and it was easy for me to copy the carefully built up 
 refinement of her ways, because of that natural thirst for 
 beauty which was born in me. Though the girls teased 
 me unmercifully and named me " Primmy," I would not 
 talk in their strange jargon. Fifi was harder upon me 
 than the others were, and often Julia and Kitty joined in 
 defending me from her attacks. It was a principle of 
 theirs to unite in disagreeing with Fifi. As for me, they 
 could count upon me to be on their " side." Yet we 
 were not always quarrelling in our dreary bedroom. No 
 love was lost between us and the " enemy," but when it 
 suited us, we agreed tacitly to a kind of armed truce. 
 
To M. L. G. 131 
 
 As weeks and months drifted aimlessly on, I accus- 
 tomed myself to the makeshifts and discomforts at Mrs. 
 F 's, and no longer noticed them. I took every- 
 thing for granted, just as I had learned to take the 
 luxuries at Madame's. Most of the lessons I had learned 
 from Miss Minnie I forgot, or seemed to forget. My 
 intellect was curled up, fast asleep. 
 
 Early in the autumn, Mrs. F found me an " en- 
 gagement." I was to dance with a band of children in 
 a big spectacular production at a cheap but popular 
 theatre ; and I revelled in the rehearsals. I never tired 
 or felt bored, as the older people did. I could have gone 
 on forever. The smell of the theatre excited me, and I 
 was always sorry to leave. Memories came back, not 
 only of the time when I used to go behind the scenes 
 every evening with Boy and Dearie, but of older days 
 when I sat in dress-baskets, or slept in them on soft piles 
 of clothing, and was carried on to the stage as a large 
 baby, in somebody's arms. 
 
 Julia and Kitty were both in the same " show," as 
 they called it, though in real parts, whereas I had only 
 to dance and sing in a children's chorus. But Fifi was 
 promoted to a fashionable theatre, one of the best in 
 New York, and had several lines to speak. She was a 
 boy, in a costume play, and was mentioned by critics, 
 acquaintances of Mrs. F . We all envied her in- 
 tensely, though we would have put our hands in the fire 
 rather than she should know. Julia and Kitty said that 
 Fifi could not act, and never would ; but photographs of 
 her taken in the new part were very pretty and alluring. 
 Seeing them made me want more than ever to grow up. 
 
 Julia, who was thin, rubbed cocoanut oil on her neck, 
 
132 To M. L. G. 
 
 night and morning, to make it fat, and I did the same, 
 hoping that it would force my figure to develop in a 
 hurry, so that, like Fifi and Kitty, I might have womanly 
 curves and roundnesses. After a while, the oil really 
 seemed to make a difference in my shape, or I imagined 
 it ; and I was delighted to think that my dresses were 
 becoming too tight over my chest. 
 
 At the theatre everybody in the big company petted 
 me, and called me " Gipsy," or " Kid." I thought no 
 more of sitting on the young men's laps than if their 
 knees had been chairs. They pulled my long hair, and 
 even pinched my calves sometimes, to see if they were 
 really plump, or if I had on " fats." They liked to make 
 me take out my little bitten wad of chewing-gum, to sip 
 their beer, or beer mixed with gin and lemon, a favorite 
 drink at the theatre, for I would twist my face into funny 
 grimaces at the queer taste ; and a very little alcohol flew 
 to my head. Then I would babble silly things, which 
 set the men laughing. But they treated me as a child, and 
 I believe they would have protected me from real harm. 
 
 The spectacular piece was a huge success ; and after 
 running all that winter and early spring in New York, it 
 was sent on the road for the summer. ' A great many of 
 the chorus people were discharged, to save expense, but 
 to our frantic joy, Julia and Kitty and I were kept on. 
 
 Mrs. F told us that we must thank her for this, but 
 
 Julia said it was " no such thing." We were wanted by 
 the management ; and anyhow, there would have been 
 
 no reason for gratitude. Mrs. F took a commission 
 
 off our salary. Also she would put two other girls from 
 the country in our places, but not three, because Fifi 
 clamored to have a whole bed to herself in future. 
 
To M. L. G. 133 
 
 The morning we learned that we were to go, we joined 
 hands and danced round the room, without any clothes 
 on, like young Bacchantes, our long hair whirling round 
 our naked shoulders. 
 
 We played nowhere less than a week when on tour, 
 and were a fortnight in some towns. We three herded 
 together in one room at hotels, and I was so happy that 
 I laughed all day. I began to grow, very fast, and de- 
 cided to put up my hair, and have my skirts let down. 
 At a town in the middle west I asked our landlady to 
 find a cheap dressmaker who could make me some new 
 frocks ; and a Miss Plum came to sew for me, sitting to 
 work in our bedroom. She was only eighteen, but so 
 plain that I knew she could never have fun in her life, as 
 Julia and Kitty and I had. Miss Plum's face was yellow 
 and covered with pimples ; but I felt such a passionate pity 
 for her, that when she had finished my work and was 
 going away, I resolved to kiss her good-bye. I hated to 
 do this, because her complexion was disgusting, and I 
 did not really like her at all. But the kiss was to show 
 the poor girl that I thought myself no better than she, 
 and I expected her to be thankful. It was almost a re- 
 ligious rite. On the contrary, she was shocked. 
 
 " Well, I never thought I'd live to be kissed by a show 
 actress ! " she mumbled, her unwholesome face turning a 
 dark red. 
 
 This was the first snub I received on account of the 
 profession I had proudly entered. I could not under- 
 stand, and I lay awake brooding over it nearly all that 
 night, feeling hurt and ashamed. It was some time be- 
 fore the wound healed, though I never spoke of it to any 
 one. When I thought of the spotted cheek which I had 
 
134 To M. L. G. 
 
 screwed up courage to kiss, and saw again the enraged 
 look in Miss Plum's boiled gooseberry eyes, I shivered, as 
 superstitious people shiver when some one " walks over 
 their graves." It seems a small thing now, and prepos- 
 terously funny; yet I can't help feeling that it was a 
 little pathetic, remembering how miserable it made me 
 then. 
 
 Not that I was unhappy long. Almost everything 
 made me want to sing for joy. The bare thought of un- 
 happiness for myself or others was like standing on the 
 edge of a black pit, looking down into unimaginable 
 depths. I was not unselfish in little things, yet I used to 
 fancy that to save any one else from great sorrow, I 
 would gladly die. And to wake up in the dark night 
 sometimes, with a voice murmuring in my ears : " All the 
 world is full of unhappiness; many people are never 
 happy. Perhaps you will fall down into that black pit of 
 despair when you're older," was like death. Such a voice 
 never spoke in the daytime, and if I heard any echo of it 
 in the sunshine I could easily say to myself, " Pooh ! it 
 doesn't matter what happens when you are older ! " For 
 I was sure that nothing was of the least importance in 
 life, after thirty ; and besides, it was too bad to be true, 
 that I could ever be really unhappy. 
 
 I enjoyed every minute, except those occasional bad 
 moments in the night, which seemed like presentiments, 
 and they came seldom. I had a queer impression that 
 the dark thoughts were the ghosts of dead bats, which 
 flapped through the window and hovered over my head, 
 until my will was strong enough to drive them out. 
 
 Rather strangely, the kiss I gave Miss Plum, and the 
 snub I gotfrom her in return, left a more lasting impression 
 
To M. L. G. 135 
 
 than anything else in my first tour. It is odd that I re- 
 member comparatively few events ; and in looking back 
 see only a confused jumble, with here and there an 
 incident, like a star that twinkles through a wild mass of 
 cloud rollicking along in the wind. 
 
 It is only after we reached Chicago that I see clearly 
 again. 
 
 We arrived late, just in time to eat, unpack a little, 
 and go to the theatre, not far from the hotel where Julia 
 and Kitty and I had a room. But next day, for the first 
 time, I put on one of the long dresses which Miss Plum 
 had made two weeks before. I had yearned to wear it 
 ever since it was finished, but had not been able to screw 
 up my courage, knowing that I would be teased by every 
 one in the company, I being the youngest, and fair game 
 for all. In thinking it over, I decided to wait till Chicago, 
 for everybody was looking forward to the biggest city of 
 the tour, and would be too busy to pay much attention 
 to me. People would hardly notice the difference at first, 
 I hoped, and afterwards, when remarks were made, I 
 could say, " Why, I've been wearing this dress a long 
 time." 
 
 Julia and Kitty knew what was going to happen, be- 
 forehand, but were singularly indifferent. I could not be- 
 lieve that their first long skirts had seemed as interesting 
 to them as mine did to me. 
 
 Having settled on what to do, I waked early, thinking 
 about the frock, and how I would wear my hair under 
 my best hat, which was more grown-up looking than the 
 " sailor " I travelled in. I was ready to go for a walk 
 while Julia and Kitty were still in bed, and too sleepy to 
 look at me. 
 
136 To M. L. G. 
 
 My heart beat fast as I stepped out into the corridor, 
 and I glanced around anxiously, hoping none of our peo- 
 ple would be there. I was relieved to meet no one, 
 except a servant or two of the hotel. They took no 
 notice of me, and I did not know whether to be pleased 
 or disappointed. 
 
 On the stair-landing above the first floor was a huge 
 mirror, reaching from the floor nearly to the ceiling, and 
 framed in faded red velvet. I saw myself in it, " a 
 grown-up young lady " at last. 
 
 " Oh, Lily Merritt ! " I said involuntarily, under my 
 breath ; and was surprised at myself, because it was years 
 since I had played with Lily Merritt, the girl in the glass, 
 or had even thought of her. 
 
 " I believe you are pretty, Lily Merritt ! " I told that 
 girl ; and I was suddenly so happy that I did not care 
 who saw me, or who tried to tease me about my done-up 
 hair, or my dress which came down to my insteps. I 
 was sure that I looked nice ; and it was glorious to be 
 grown up at fourteen. 
 
 In the street, I kept glancing at my reflection in the 
 shop windows, and when young men stared at me, I could 
 have danced with joy. At last, I was no longer a little 
 girl. No one could call me "kid." I should have as much 
 fun as Julia and Kitty, and " make mashes," as they did. 
 
 To " make a mash " was to have a boy or young man 
 follow you away from the stage entrance, or speak to 
 you in the street, and sometimes send you candy or 
 flowers, at the theatre. Julia and Kitty had a great many 
 such adventures, over which they chuckled in our bed- 
 room at night, and perhaps exaggerated a little. I had 
 never had any yet, and envied the older girls. 
 
To M. L. G. 137 
 
 That very day came my turn. A young man paused 
 behind me as I looked into a shop window, and asked if 
 I would let him " buy me a hat or something ? " I said, 
 " No. Go away ! " promptly ; yet I tingled with pleasure. 
 My chief reason for wishing such a thing to happen had 
 been that I might report it to Julia and Kitty ; but after 
 all I was ashamed to tell what the man had said, for fear 
 they might believe that I was only " making it up." 
 
 One night in Chicago, a very pretty girl whom we had 
 not seen before came and stood in the wings at the 
 theatre. She seemed much interested in my scenes, and 
 I was flattered, noticing that her eyes were often on me. 
 
 She stood about with H , the stage manager, and they 
 
 talked together in whispers, though he always scolded us if 
 we chattered in the wings. 
 
 Since leaving New York I had had a part, with two 
 lines to speak, having been promoted for the " road." I 
 was a boy, in tights, and though at first it had been 
 strange and not quite pleasant to show my legs, half the 
 other girls in the company, including Julia, were wearing 
 the same kind of costume, and I soon grew used to it, 
 as I had grown used to bathing before three pairs of 
 
 eyes, at Mrs. F 's. I thought that Mr. H 's 
 
 pretty friend was admiring my pale blue costume, as she 
 looked at it so intently and often ; but that night I re- 
 ceived a message bidding me to the stage manager's 
 room ; and there I was quickly undeceived. 
 
 H was a youngish man, dark and small, with one 
 
 white lock in his black hair. He had a soft manner 
 when he was not angry, but if anything happened to upset 
 him, he raged about the stage, pulling as if at a mous- 
 tache, though his had been shaved off, and sputtering and 
 
138 To M. L. G. 
 
 swearing. Whenever he was excited, he stammered 
 oddly, and this he began to do as I came to the door. I 
 wondered if I had done anything wrong, and was to be 
 scolded. But he began to speak to me kindly, and I was 
 so interested in his queer stammer, that he had talked 
 for some time before I realized what he was saying. 
 Then, suddenly, I understood that I was not to go on 
 any farther with the company. 
 
 H explained that an understudy for several of the 
 
 principal characters was wanted, and I was too young to 
 be trusted for such work. Expenses had to be kept 
 down, and the management did not wish to carry an 
 extra person. Now, a girl could be got who would play 
 my part, and do the understudying as well, for the same 
 money. Legally, I could not complain if I were given 
 two weeks' notice, or the equivalent salary ; but for Mrs. 
 
 F 's sake, and my own, the management would do 
 
 better than that for me. A " society girl " was just going 
 out as a star, with a company in repertoire, and wanted 
 
 an ingenue for several small but good parts. H was 
 
 a friend of Miss L 's business manager, and had 
 
 " fixed it up " with him for me, provided I were approved 
 by the star. 
 
 " But there's n-n-nothing in that," he assured me. 
 " Sh-she'll like you all r-right." And he went on to say 
 that he had made an appointment for me to call on Miss 
 L the next morning at ten o'clock. 
 
 When he was embarrassed, not only did he stutter, but 
 brought in the word " around," over and over again, in a 
 curious and senseless way, which was like a kind of mad- 
 ness. 
 
 " You're mighty 1-lucky, and — and — a-round," he 
 
To M. L. G. 139 
 
 said, " to g-get such a chance at y-your age, and 
 around. You might have g-gone on for years, and 
 around, w-without s-six 1-lines to s-speak. N-now, when 
 
 you g-get back to New York, and a-round, Mrs. F 
 
 can m-maybe fit you out w-with a bang up part in a first- 
 r-rate theatre, right away, and — and around." 
 
 The news that I was not to go on with the company 
 was a heavy blow. I had all I could do to keep the tears 
 from my eyes, for I was fond of Julia and Kitty, and 
 liked everybody. But I had a kind of stubborn pride 
 which made me feel that the thing of most importance 
 
 was not to let H see that I cared. I thought of the 
 
 inevitable Jenny Elmore, and by and by, as he went on 
 painting my new prospects in bright colors, I was a lit- 
 tle comforted. His soft, wheedling manner hypnotized 
 me into believing that " the management " was really 
 
 considering my interests. I parted from H almost 
 
 cheerfully, and by the time I found Julia and Kitty, I 
 was so excited that I hardly knew whether to be sad or 
 glad. 
 
 They gave each other a long look, with raised eye- 
 brows. 
 
 " It's settled then, anyhow," said Julia. 
 
 " We might have known it would be the Kid," said 
 Kitty. 
 
 The " Kid " was my name in the company, given me 
 by the leading man, a fine actor who need never have left 
 New York, if he had not loved champagne too well. 
 
 I begged the girls to tell me what they meant. The 
 mystery was too good to keep, though neither of them 
 really wished to hurt my feelings. 
 
 It seemed that the pretty girl who had looked at my 
 
140 To M. L. G. 
 
 scenes from the wings was Mr. H 's mistress. He 
 
 had wanted her to go out with our company, but she had 
 the offer of something better than he could secure for her. 
 She was English, and had sung in a London music hall ; 
 but for some reason had failed to please Chicago au- 
 diences in the vaudeville theatre where she had been en- 
 gaged. Her story was that the manager made love to 
 her, and " our people " had begun to whisper among 
 themselves, when they saw her in the wings, that " some 
 one would have to go." Julia and Kitty had heard noth- 
 ing, until after I had been sent for by H . Then one 
 
 of the other actresses staying in the hotel had told them 
 who the pretty girl was, and what was likely to happen. 
 Each was afraid that she might be the sacrifice. And I 
 could see that, though Julia and Kitty liked me well 
 enough, their relief on their own account overcame their 
 
 regret on mine. What they told me about H and 
 
 the English girl showed me of how little importance I 
 was to the " management," and this talk made me feel 
 that it was an enviable thing to be loved, on any terms, 
 
 by a man in H 's position. I was hurt to the heart 
 
 that they sympathized so slightly with me, and so little 
 minded losing me. But I was too proud to let them see 
 this. I began to pretend that I was glad to go. And I 
 remembered things I had heard Madame say about 
 women ; that they never cared truly for each other. Not 
 that I was a woman yet, but I was beginning to think of 
 myself as one. The emotional side of me was develop- 
 ing, and I was glad to realize it. I told myself that I 
 hated the English girl, and imagined a tragic scene be- 
 tween us, in which I dominated her, as Queen Mary dom- 
 inates Queen Elizabeth in the play of " Mary Stuart." I 
 
To M. L. G. 141 
 
 made up my mind that I would say something terrible to 
 the girl on the stage that night, if she came to watch me 
 again in the wings ; that perhaps we would strike each 
 other, while every one looked on and tried to separate us ; 
 that she would cower before me ; and the nice leading 
 man, who had named me " the Kid," would say, " There's 
 the making of a great actress in that child ! It's a shame 
 
 she should get the chuck for a d d foreigner." I 
 
 knew, of course, if he applied any adjective, it would be 
 
 " d d," as that was the stock expression. It was too 
 
 much trouble to invent anything fresh. 
 
 Just as I had expected, the new girl did come into the 
 wings, at the same time as the night before. But she 
 looked so pretty and pleasant that I could not hate her 
 after all. When my scene was over she was alone. 
 
 H was not with her. This was my opportunity, and 
 
 I was ashamed of myself because I had no wish to seize 
 it. I thought that I must be weak, and perhaps even 
 cowardly, not to feel angry when I saw the girl. 
 
 My heart seemed to grow very big in my breast when 
 she followed me and spoke my name. I turned on her 
 brusquely, but her gentle eyes and lovely smile disarmed 
 me, in spite of myself. She said that she felt dreadfully 
 at hearing I was leaving on account of her. She had 
 
 supposed, from what Mr. H said, that there was 
 
 room for her as understudy, without any one having to 
 go. Now, she supposed, it was too late to change, but 
 would I please to believe that it wasn't her fault ? 
 
 She was quite a common girl, with a Cockney accent. 
 She called herself " Mye " instead of " May," and said 
 " stige " for " stage " ; yet her tones were sweet and flute- 
 like. I had never met an Englishwoman before, and, 
 
142 To M. L. G. 
 
 after the nasal voices I heard all around me in the com- 
 pany, hers seemed sweet as I imagined a nightingale's to 
 be. I did not know that her accent was bad, and, as I 
 reluctantly softened towards Miss Tooley, I secretly re- 
 solved to imitate her soft way of talking. That same 
 night I began to practice what I called a " creamy voice," 
 with long " a's " and less roll of the " r's " than I had. 
 
 Forgiving the English girl, and admiring her manner 
 of speaking, did me a great deal of good. I felt soothed, 
 as one feels after taking some quieting medicine to cure 
 a headache. 
 
 As my anger died, a little of my first excitement and 
 pleasure in the thought of a real part came back. The 
 next morning I was almost happy again, and in a good 
 mood to go and call upon Miss L . 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 said that Miss L was a " society ama- 
 teur," and I expected to see her in a beautiful 
 home of her own, with an adoring father and 
 mother. I imagined that her parents were rich, and had 
 provided the money to put her on the stage as a star. 
 The picture I painted in my mind was magnificent, and 
 I was disappointed to find that the star lived in a private 
 hotel or boarding-house. But it was a very different 
 boarding-house from any I had known. The hall had an 
 imitation oak wainscoting, and red paper on the walls, 
 nearly covered with blue china plates. A man servant, 
 with a white necktie and black tail-coat, opened the door 
 for me, and I was ushered into a large public sitting- 
 room to wait while my name was sent to Miss L . 
 
 In a few minutes the man came back. " Miss L 
 
 will see you in her private parlor," he said. I was glad 
 that I had put on my prettiest dress and hat. 
 
 " Front room, next floor, right hand side," the servant 
 directed me, as I went up-stairs alone. My heart beat 
 fast as I knocked at the door. " Come in," a woman's 
 voice called. I thought it sounded sweet and young, 
 
 and hoped it was Miss L 's. The door-knob was 
 
 hard to turn, and I fumbled at it vainly. Then I felt it 
 being sharply twisted the opposite way, and the door 
 sprang open. It was a small, nervous-looking man who 
 had come to my help. He had indeterminate features, 
 which might have been modelled of putty, and thick- 
 
 »43 
 
144 To M - L - G - 
 
 lidded eyes that blinked constantly, as if an eyelash had 
 been caught in. A lock of brown hair hung straight 
 over his forehead, and catching sight of it, he would 
 squint and push it aside hastily. But immediately it fell 
 back again. 
 
 Another man was lounging in a large easy chair. He 
 stared at me, but did not move, as I came in. This did 
 not surprise me, for the men I knew never got up as a 
 sign of politeness to women. 
 
 I took an instant dislike to this second man. He was 
 big and loose-limbed, with beautiful hands, of which he 
 seemed to be proud, for he had them spread out on the 
 arms of the red plush chair, and gazed at them with in- 
 terest. They had filbert-shaped nails, which were bright 
 pink and brilliantly manicured. He might have been 
 about forty-five, and the muscles of his chin had begun to 
 drop. His light hair, parted in the middle, had receded 
 a little from his high forehead. His nose was a beak, and 
 his mouth small and mean. If a girl had such blue eyes 
 and red and white complexion they would be admired, 
 but his seemed disgusting to me. He was well-dressed, 
 much better than the little man, and appeared satisfied 
 with everything about himself. 
 
 I saw the two men first, because Miss L was at a 
 
 distant part of the room, and had her back half turned to 
 me, as she searched a pile of manuscripts on a table. As 
 I entered, she found what she wanted, and came forward. 
 At once I felt as if I should love to do anything she 
 might ask me to do. 
 
 There was about her a vague resemblance to my dear 
 lady of California, whose face and teachings I had never 
 forgotten. Exactly where lay the likeness I could not 
 
To M. L. G. 145 
 
 have told, but I think now it could have existed only in 
 expression, and the manner of wearing the hair. Be- 
 sides, my dear friend had been a lady in breeding and 
 
 Miss L was a lady too. I had not met many ladies ; 
 
 hardly any, indeed, except these. 
 
 After association with the girls and young women of 
 
 our travelling company, Miss L 's way of doing her 
 
 hair, and her simply-made dress, struck me as almost 
 Quakerish. She had golden-brown hair, not dyed or 
 bleached, which waved naturally, and broke into little 
 rings on her forehead. It was drawn back into a knot at 
 the nape of her neck, as my dear lady had worn hers. 
 She was pale, without any powder that showed. Her 
 nose was finely chiselled and very delicate ; her mouth 
 sensitive, and rather large. When she smiled, her eyes, 
 though not remarkable for shape or size, were like blue- 
 gray stars. To me, with her graceful manner and dainty 
 air, she was an ideal of romance come alive. I wondered 
 how old she was, and fancied that she must be about 
 twenty-six. If I were in her place, I thought that I 
 should beam with pride and joy at being a star in a com- 
 pany of my own. But though Miss L 's smile turned 
 
 her gray eyes to shining jewels, when her face was in 
 respose it fell into tired lines. She said " Good-morning " 
 to me, and asked a few questions in a sweet voice, but it 
 did not sound gay or vital, as a woman's voice should 
 when all her ambitions are granted. 
 
 She introduced me to the two gentlemen, and told me 
 
 that Mr. S (the little man) was the author of a play 
 
 she was taking out, the only modern one of her reper- 
 toire. It was founded on a novel of Chicago life which 
 be had written, for he was a Chicago journalist, and his 
 
146 To M. L. G. 
 
 book had been a success. I had never heard of il, but 
 that was not strange, because the only novels I read were 
 trashy stories in cheap editions, bought in the train, or 
 borrowed from other girls in the company. I hardly 
 knew that better novels existed, except those of Dickens, 
 which I had read with Miss Minnie. 
 
 The big man was Mr. W , and occasionally Miss 
 
 L called him " Harry," hesitating as she spoke the 
 
 name, as if she could not accustom herself to using it. 
 What he was to her, or the company, I could not make 
 out, but she appealed to him often, and apparently his 
 opinion was of more importance than that of the author. 
 
 She turned to Mr. W when the smallest thing had 
 
 to be decided, and there was a pretty deference in her 
 manner, like timidity disguising itself under spright- 
 liness. 
 
 I thought that he saw and enjoyed her anxiety to please 
 him, but he took no trouble in return. Sprawling at ease 
 in the big chair, he was like a well-fed lion watching a 
 white gazelle ; not wishing to eat it, but amused at its 
 
 fear of being eaten. If Miss L had not called him 
 
 " Harry," I should have guessed him to be a rich uncle, 
 of whose criticism she was afraid. When she said to him 
 that it seemed as if I might do very nicely in the part of 
 Susie, he replied indifferently, " One amateur more among 
 many, what does it matter ? " 
 
 Miss L blushed so violently that tears came to her 
 
 eyes. But she smiled, and answered that, at least, ama- 
 teurs were enthusiastic and anxious to do well. 
 
 It was already arranged for me, by our stage-manager, 
 
 that if Miss L decided to engage me, I should have 
 
 the same salary I had been earning in the old company. 
 
To M. L. G. 147 
 
 It was very small, and I should have two new dresses to 
 buy, but I did not worry. I was sure that I could man- 
 age somehow, and already I had a feeling of loyalty 
 
 towards Miss L . She apologized for not offering 
 
 more money, explaining that this was her first experiment 
 as a star. Her business-manager had luckily secured 
 dates allotted to a favorite actress, whose tour had to be 
 cancelled on account of illness. 
 
 As she talked, other members of the company, began 
 to arrive. They had rehearsed several times, but the 
 ingenue newly engaged to play Susie had been released 
 to join a larger company. Because she had left at a 
 day's notice, the part was open for me, and something 
 
 told me that H 's friend was the girl in question. 
 
 Afterwards I learned that this guess was right. 
 
 The rehearsals were being held in Miss L 's sitting- 
 room, until a theatre should be free. I gathered this 
 fact from the stage-manager, who was the first to come, 
 
 and who talked a good deal to Mr. W and the author, 
 
 while Miss L greeted the assembling company po- 
 litely, as if each person were her guest. This, I felt in- 
 stinctively, was the mark and manner of an amateur. 
 
 All the others were amateurs, or new recruits to the 
 
 profession, except Herman C , the stage-manager and 
 
 "heavy man." Each mannerism and gesture of his be- 
 spoke the actor, sure of himself and his superiority to the 
 rest. He was not more than thirty, but no one else ap- 
 peared to be over twenty-six, and he was easily the mas- 
 ter, by reason of his experience and personality. He 
 gave somewhat the same impression of dominating force 
 
 that Mrs. F gave, although he was a handsome 
 
 young man, and she was a middle-aged mountain of 
 
148 To M. L. G. 
 
 womanhood. Herman C was six feet tall, broad- 
 shouldered, very fair, but strong-looking, though rather 
 too stout for his age, cold-eyed, with cruel nostrils, and 
 jaws of iron. It was interesting to see how every other 
 member of the company looked up to him and admired 
 
 him, even the leading man, Cyril R , who was taller, 
 
 and ten times handsomer than Herman C . 
 
 Indeed, Cyril R was the handsomest man I had 
 
 ever seen. He was like a great, beautiful girl who had 
 cropped her dark curls short, and disguised herself as a 
 man. His features were perfect as those of a statue ; his 
 curved eyelashes were half an inch long, and he had a 
 trick of nickering them as a flirtatious girl does. Though 
 his hair, his brows and lashes were almost black, his skin 
 was marble fair, and showed no shadow of beard on its 
 clear whiteness. He was not quite an amateur, for he 
 had played small parts during one season, with a Shake- 
 spearean star ; but evidently he looked up with reverence 
 to Herman C . 
 
 The two other young men, almost boys, and the three 
 girls were members of a Chicago school of acting, and 
 this engagement would be their first professional experi- 
 ence. They were nice-looking and well-mannered ; well 
 dressed, too. I realized in a few minutes that all were 
 
 of a different world from mine, except Herman C . 
 
 Disliking him, I nevertheless felt that he was nearer to 
 me than any of the others. 
 
 I was the youngest, yet my stage experience made me 
 feel older than the three girls who chattered and laughed 
 like school children. They knew each other well, they 
 and the two youths, for they had played together as the 
 pupils of an old actor who had given up the stage to be 
 
To M. L. G. 149 
 
 a teacher. Their clothes were neat and plain ; the girls 
 wore small hats and tailor frocks. Instinctively I knew 
 that they had been brought up by fathers and mothers 
 who loved them, in comfortable homes. Compared with 
 these girls, who were between eighteen and twenty, I felt 
 myself to be meretricious and " actressy." My idea of 
 what was desirable to wear suddenly changed, for it had 
 been founded on the taste of Julia and Kitty, my only 
 friends. I made up my mind that in future I would 
 wear small hats, and not bunch out my hair so much at 
 the sides. I felt ill at ease, and anxious lest those well- 
 brought-up young people might despise, and join together 
 against me, because I was not what they would con- 
 sider a lady ; but to my great relief they were gracious. 
 I began to understand that they respected me because I 
 was already on the stage, just as they respected Herman 
 C for his experience. 
 
 All the others were well up . in their parts. I had to 
 read mine, but I put my soul into it, for I wanted to 
 
 please Miss L , and show the big, sprawling " Harry" 
 
 that, if I were only " one more amateur among many," I 
 had some idea of acting. At the end of the rehearsal, 
 
 Miss L said that I had done excellently, better than 
 
 the girl who was to have been Susie. Her words made 
 my heart beat with joy ; yet I was not entirely happy. 
 I felt instinctively that the play would not be a success ; 
 and I had a conviction that Miss L felt this too. 
 
 We opened in Chicago, and had poor notices. The 
 papers said that Miss L was amateurish and monot- 
 onous, that S 's play was dull and the company 
 
 " slight-waisted." Everybody tried to pretend that criti- 
 cisms did not matter, yet all were depressed and nervous 
 
150 To M. L. G. 
 
 about their own acting, except, of course, Herman C- 
 
 His part, that of the villain, had not attracted much 
 attention from the critics, but at least he was not abused. 
 Strange to say, " Susie " pleased them, and I had several 
 lines of praise in most of the papers. Miss L gen- 
 erously congratulated me, though she looked sadder and 
 
 more anxious than before ; but Herman C said that 
 
 Chicago newspaper men were fools. 
 
 Neither the author of the play nor " Harry " travelled 
 with us, when we started for our tour in the West. 
 
 Harry saw Miss L off, however, and they had a long, 
 
 whispered conversation in the train. As soon as he was 
 gone, and we had begun to move out of the big railway 
 
 station, Cyril R went and sat by Miss L , in the 
 
 compartment which she was to have all to herself. 
 Mine, which I shared with a girl named Katherine 
 
 K , was near the star's. Inadvertently, I glanced up 
 
 from a book I was reading, and saw Miss L and 
 
 Cyril gazing at each other. A curious thrill ran 
 through me. I had never seen such a look in human 
 eyes as in theirs, which seemed drowning in each other's 
 light. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THERE can never have been a more emotional 
 company than ours. From the first, the sense 
 of failure hung over us like a cloud, yet the 
 rumor had gone round that there was plenty of money, 
 and that no matter what bad business we did, the tour 
 would not be stopped. 
 
 Harry was the " angel," or backer. That secret, if it 
 were a secret, was told me before the opening night, by 
 
 Charlie M , who played Susie's lover. Harry was 
 
 supposed to be an old friend of Miss L 's people, 
 
 who were apparently all dead. And Charlie said that as 
 our " angel " was one of the richest men in Chicago, 
 everything ought to be " all right for us," whatever hap- 
 pened. But as the tour went on, there began to be 
 whisperings. The company feared that just the one 
 thing had happened which might prevent everything else 
 from being " all right." 
 
 One evening I heard Herman talking to Cyril in the 
 wings, during a wait they had together. " You're a 
 
 d d fool," he said, in his low, vibrating voice. " The 
 
 old man's sure to find out." 
 
 " How will he find out ? " asked Cyril. " Who is there 
 would tell him? " 
 
 Herman shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 It would have been charming to see how those two — 
 the star, and her handsome stage lover — worshipped 
 each other, if it had not been for that cloud of unnamed 
 
 I5 1 
 
152 To M. L. G. 
 
 fear brooding over us. But the cloud, as if it were elec- 
 trical, seemed to influence our emotional natures. We 
 were palpitating with one passion or another. Not one 
 of us had a tranquil hour. 
 
 I worshipped Miss L , who made a pet of me, and 
 
 asked me to call her Alma. If I had not adored her, I 
 should have been in love with Cyril, who was so beauti- 
 ful to look at, that I could hardly keep my eyes off him. 
 I was fond of drawing, though I had never had lessons, 
 and I could catch a likeness easily. I bought a little book, 
 
 and nearly filled it with sketches of Cyril R . When 
 
 I had not the book with me, half unconsciously I drew 
 his profile in the air with one finger. That was the be- 
 ginning of the habit which amused you, when you first 
 knew me. I remember how you asked me what I 
 was doing with my moving finger, and whether I was 
 writing in the air. I was drawing your profile. I wish 
 yours had been the first I drew ! But ever since my love 
 
 of beauty bewitched me with Cyril R 's features, I 
 
 have always caught myself drawing in the air profiles of 
 interesting faces. I seem to feel with my finger that the 
 likeness is perfect ; but faces I don't care for, or dislike, 
 have no distinct features for my eyes. I cannot hold 
 them in my memory even long enough to sketch them in 
 the air. 
 
 I enjoyed cultivating a romantic regret, because I had 
 no right to love Cyril. He belonged to Alma, and it 
 would have been disloyal to want him for myself. But 
 between worship of her and admiration of him, which 
 touched pain, my emotions were played upon like the 
 strings of an ^Eolian harp by contrary winds. One of the 
 other girls was desperately in love with Cyril. Another 
 
To M. L. G. 153 
 
 humbly loved Herman, who — had he cared for any one 
 but himself — would have liked to attract Alma, if only 
 for vanity's sake. Even I could see that, as perhaps my 
 bent for acting made me very observant. I could not 
 help watching people, and speculating about their mo- 
 tives and actions, just as I could not help mimicking them 
 if they were peculiar, or sketching them if they were in- 
 teresting. 
 
 Charlie had fallen in love with me, and I took a wicked 
 pleasure in torturing him, because he was my first victim, 
 and because he was not the beautiful Cyril, who loved 
 our star. Katherine loved Charlie, and Charlie treated 
 her with an almost insulting indifference. We were all 
 playing at cross purposes, all morbidly interested in our 
 own feelings. The girls, including myself, cried very 
 easily. Hardly a night passed that there was not hys- 
 terical sobbing in one or other of the dressing-rooms. 
 Alma and Cyril thought only of each other. Their love 
 made them radiant, and it was as if they set a tune to 
 which we all danced. Our own affairs were so absorbing 
 that we thought comparatively little about our parts ; and 
 as we had bad business everywhere, our acting seemed 
 hardly to matter. It was as if we were travelling for our 
 own amusement, not to produce plays. 
 
 When we had been touring for a month, Alma began 
 to have strange nervous attacks. She started at every 
 sudden sound, and fainted sometimes between acts at the 
 theatre. Whether she received disturbing letters, or 
 whether she worried over the poor " business," no one 
 knew, but her anxiety was contagious. The atmosphere 
 was electrical. We expected something to happen. She 
 and Cyril were more devoted to each other than ever. 
 
154 To M - L - G - 
 
 They came to the theatre together, and went home to- 
 gether. Herman had the manners of a sulky bear. He 
 and Cyril hardly spoke to each other, though they had 
 started with an intimacy at first. 
 
 One night, in a large town as far west as the Rockies, 
 
 Mr. W walked into the theatre. We knew that 
 
 Alma had not been warned of his coming, for, seeing 
 him in the wings, she fainted on the stage, and the cur- 
 tain was hastily rung down. It was he who picked her 
 up in his arms, carried her to her dressing-room, and shut 
 the door. 
 
 I would have thought that nothing could keep Cyril 
 from her ; but after all, Herman's hand on his arm was 
 enough to hold him back. And with that magnetic 
 grasp all Herman's old influence on him seemed to return. 
 We could hear Harry's voice, loud and harsh, behind the 
 thin door, when Alma had come to herself. We could 
 hear her sobbing and wailing, but Cyril stayed in his own 
 dressing-room, which he shared with Herman. 
 
 The curtain was kept down a long time, until boys 
 began to stamp and whistle, out in front. Then Herman 
 rang up, Cyril by his side, ready to go on, his beautiful 
 face looking frozen. I had a scene to go through with 
 him. He played it without a mistake, his eyes travelling 
 sometimes, as if fascinated, to Herman, who watched him 
 from the wings. Then it was time for me to give Alma 
 her cue to come on. I could see that she was not in her 
 entrance, and I did not know what to do. Slowly I spoke 
 the words which should have brought her on the stage ; 
 still she did not appear. 
 
 I had not much experience, but I knew enough to say 
 something — anything that came into my head, rather 
 
To M. L. G. 155 
 
 than be silent. Cyril played up to me, and we " faked " 
 (as actors call it) for a few minutes, wildly, he looking 
 strange and dazed, yet somehow dogged. Then I saw 
 Alma hurrying towards her entrance. She walked un- 
 steadily, as men walk when they are drunk. 
 
 I gave her the cue, and was half afraid she would not 
 take it up, but she did, quickly enough. Her voice 
 sounded old, yet she forgot none of her lines. When 
 she had to speak to Cyril, she lifted her eyes to him in 
 appeal or despair, but he lowered his long eyelashes in 
 the girlish way he had, and would not return her look. 
 
 Their great love scene (always so impassioned that 
 romantic girls in the audience applauded it invariably) 
 went for nothing that night. Not one pair of hands was 
 clapped. I, supposed to be asleep in a conservatory, 
 peeped between half-shut lids at the auditorium, and 
 
 saw W in a box. The theatre was half empty and 
 
 full of echoing noises. I thought anxiously of his money, 
 and how it was being poured out, with little return. 
 
 While I was dressing to go home, at the end of the^ 
 play, a note was brought me by the call-boy. It was 
 from Alma, scribbled in pencil on a torn bit of pro- 
 gramme. She wrote: "Be in my room to-night, and 
 in bed, when I get back. I'll give you time to undress. 
 Will explain afterwards." Her key was wrapped in the 
 paper. 
 
 We were all stopping in the same hotel, but Alma 
 had one of the best rooms. Mine was at the top of the 
 house, and very small and hot. I had iKatherine for a 
 roommate, but lately she never spoke to me if she could 
 help it, on account of Charlie. 
 
 Katherine was not on in the last act, so when I flew 
 
156 To M. L. G. 
 
 in to get my nightgown and tooth-brush, she had begun 
 to undress. Before I was ready to go, the other girls 
 came, and tried to make me tell them what Alma had 
 written, for they all seemed to know about the note. 
 But I would not answer. I hurried away, leaving the 
 three to talk over the situation. They looked eager, 
 like hungry young birds who have been given a choice 
 morsel of food to divide. 
 
 I was in Alma's bed, when she opened the door and 
 switched on the light. Hearing Harry's voice, I pre- 
 tended to be fast asleep. 
 
 " You see," she said, in the odd-sounding voice, which 
 was not like hers. " I told you the truth. Good-night." 
 
 " I see what you want me to see, and I've seen a lot 
 more you don't want me to see," he growled. " You've 
 made your own bed, and now you've got to lie in it." 
 
 They were talking at the door, and without another 
 word the big man walked away. Alma gave a little 
 gasp, as if she would have called him back, but it broke 
 off short, inarticulately. She must have stood looking 
 after him for a minute, perhaps expecting him to turn 
 back. When he did not, she came in, and softly shut 
 the door. As I heard her locking it, I opened my eyes 
 wide ; but I was so frightened at the look on her face 
 that I shut them again, lest it might distress her to think 
 I had seen. She supposed that, after all, I must really 
 be asleep, and moved softly, meaning not to wake me. 
 Then, as if she could bear it no longer, she came to the 
 bed, and laid her hand on mine, which was outside the 
 covering. Hers was burning. 
 
 " For God's sake — for God's sake," she stammered in 
 a kind of moaning whisper. 
 
To M. L. G. 157 
 
 I sat up and wound my arms around her, as she let 
 herself drop limply on the bed. Her head fell on to my 
 shoulder, and as her face pressed against my breast, I felt 
 my nightgown wet with her hot tears. 
 
 " What can I do?" I asked; but she did not answer. 
 
 For many moments she sobbed, strangled sobs, and 
 then, without my having dared to speak again, she began 
 to falter out a broken story. 
 
 In this way she told me things which had been the 
 common gossip of the dressing-rooms. I think Herman 
 
 C had spread the scandal. But he knew only the 
 
 part concerning " Harry." I heard now, for the first 
 time, how poor and alone Alma had been, and that it 
 was Harry's suggestion to send her out as a star with a 
 company of her own. It was true that he had known 
 her people. He had lent her money to pay for lessons 
 in the dramatic school where Charlie and the three girls 
 had studied. Alma was the star pupil, and left soon 
 after the others came. She had tried to find an engage- 
 ment and failed. Then Harry had offered to finance 
 her, as a star, for a long tour. At first she had not 
 meant things to go beyond friendship between them, but 
 he was stronger than she. By the time the tour was 
 arranged, and the company engaged, he made her see 
 that he meant to have his price. Rather than let every- 
 thing fall through at the last moment, and lose the 
 chance of being near Cyril, with whom she had fallen in 
 love at first sight, she had paid the price. At first, she 
 was grateful to Harry ; yet afterwards she felt nothing 
 but repulsion for him. She feared him, too, and knew 
 that she was in danger, but was ready to risk everything 
 for Cyril. " I would have given up the whole thing 
 
158 To M. L. G. 
 
 before starting out," she said, " if that hadn't meant 
 parting from Cyril, perhaps forever. I think he cares for 
 me, too, for even Herman can't make him keep away 
 from me, though he tries." 
 
 I told her that I hated Herman, and believed he had 
 secretly sent word of what was going on to W . No- 
 body else in the company would have been so cruel. 
 But Alma did not care what Herman had done. She 
 cared only for what he might do, and forgot her fear of 
 Harry, and his threats, in her dread that now Herman 
 would take Cyril from her. Harry was returning to 
 Chicago at once. They had had a terrible scene, and he 
 had told her that he would send no more money. Alma 
 had nothing of her own, and did not know what would 
 become of her, or any of us. Still, she repeated that she 
 could bear anything if only Cyril would be true. 
 
 I did my best to comfort her, but I felt in my heart 
 that everything was over. I remembered how Cyril had 
 looked down rather than meet her eyes, and how coldly 
 he had played his love scene, though she had begun it 
 more passionately than ever, in spite of Harry's presence. 
 I thought that Cyril was not brave enough, or strong 
 enough, to stand against the rich financier, who could do 
 him harm in his profession. Now that Herman's warn- 
 ings to him had come true, it seemed to me that Cyril 
 was chilled and cowed by the danger. 
 
 I saw no wrong in Alma's being the mistress of a man 
 like Harry. She was the best woman I had ever known, 
 since my lady of California, and whatever she did was 
 right. My idea was that every girl who wanted to suc- 
 ceed must get some man to help her up the ladder, unless 
 she had rich relations. It was part of the game of life, 
 
To M. L. G. 159 
 
 I had learned, and my only regret for Alma was that 
 her ladder seemed likely to be pulled down because of 
 Cyril. I began to realize that he was not worth the fall, 
 and, from half loving, I despised him. But I dared not 
 say this to Alma. I saw that it would only make her 
 suffer more. 
 
 I wondered if " Mye," the English girl, would fall in 
 love with the leading man in the old company, and if she 
 
 did, what H would do when he found out. The 
 
 thought cleared away any resentment that I had left 
 against " Mye " ; and whatever happened, I was glad to 
 be with Alma. 
 
 The next few days were terrible for us all. There was 
 not enough money to take us out of town, and when 
 Johnson, our business-manager, telegraphed in despera- 
 tion to Harry, no answer came. There were no salaries, 
 and we could not pay our hotel bills. The proprietor 
 seized our luggage, and we were unable to make the long 
 " jump " to the next place where we were due to play. 
 Then Johnson, on the pretense of going ahead to ar- 
 range ways and means, left us in the lurch, taking such 
 money as he had, to get back to Chicago. 
 
 Alma ate nothing, and lived on a little milk. She 
 kept her room, and would not show herself outside the 
 door. HeV face fell into hollows, and her beauty and 
 youth were dimmed. None of the girls would come 
 near their once adored star, whom they had caressed and 
 flattered in happier days. She was in black disgrace 
 with the whole company, for what they called her " self- 
 ishness." Herman had " warned her of what would 
 happen, but she would not let Cyril alone ! " Nobody 
 blamed Cyril. It was all Alma's fault that supplies were 
 
i6o To M. L. G. 
 
 stopped. One day she sent me to beg of Cyril that he 
 would come and speak to her, if only for a minute. I 
 went to his door, but Herman was in the room, and 
 sharply refused in Cyril's name. Cyril himself was silent. 
 " Tell her it's impossible," Herman said, in his hard voice. 
 In his gray eyes there was a light that showed a cruel 
 pleasure. 
 
 " She must write to W and ask to be forgiven," 
 
 he went on. " She's treated W damn badly. As 
 
 for Cyril, she tempted him through his man's weakness. 
 You can say all this to her, from me. And tell Miss 
 
 L everything is over between her and Cyril. Cyril 
 
 doesn't wish to look at her again. He's thoroughly dis- 
 gusted with her, like the rest of us. The only thing she 
 can do, if she doesn't want him to hate her, is to help us 
 out of the scrape she's got us into. We look to her to 
 do that." 
 
 I softened the message, but I could not change its 
 meaning. When Alma had heard, she sat quite still for 
 a minute. Then she asked if Cyril had spoken at all. 
 I said no. Or if he had looked at me ? I had to say no 
 to that question too. Cyril had pretended to read a 
 book, which trembled in his hand, and had let Herman 
 talk for him. 
 
 " Thank you, dear," Alma said suddenly, in a brisk, 
 changed voice. " That's all I wanted to know. Now I've 
 some letters to write. You can run away." 
 
 She got up from the bed on which she had been sit- 
 ting, and taking my face between her two stone-cold 
 hands, kissed me with lips like ice. " Good-bye, my 
 only little friend," she whispered, her voice fading into 
 huskiness again. She put me gently out of the room, 
 
To M. L. G. 161 
 
 and immediately after, as I lingered in the corridor, her 
 key grated in the lock. 
 
 I was vaguely frightened, and did not like to leave her ; 
 but when, after a few minutes' silence, I heard sounds 
 over the half-open transom as of splashing water, I felt 
 relieved. I thought that Alma must have been crying, 
 and if she had stopped to wash off the tears, she must be 
 better. 
 
 I went to my own room, but Katherine and the other 
 girls were there, gloomily talking over our troubles and 
 prospects. No one wanted to send home for money. 
 The whole company sympathized with Herman in think- 
 ing that the star was to blame ; and that it was her duty 
 to save us. I would not listen to the hateful things the 
 girls said of Alma, and, after blurting out what I thought 
 of their cruelty, I rushed off again, slamming the door to 
 annoy them. 
 
 I do not know what drew me back to Alma. She had 
 sent me away. I wanted to go to her, but dared not. 
 Yet I could not rest far from her. Something, about 
 which I was almost superstitious afterwards, took me to 
 her corridor. It was as if a hand grasped my dress and 
 pulled me there. I have no understanding of such things, 
 and no formed theories ; but it seems to me not impos- 
 sible that a thought- current sent from one mind may 
 have power to draw another mind, already in sympathy 
 with it. You and I spoke a little of that subject once ; 
 but we did not get very far. There were so many things 
 that cried to us to talk of them, while there was time. 
 
 I paused in front of Alma's door, listening. I said to 
 myself, if I heard her crying again, perhaps I might beg 
 to be let in ; but there was not a sound. Not the faint- 
 
162 To M. L. G. 
 
 est rustling. Not a crackle of paper, as if she were writ- 
 ing the letters she had told me she meant to write. Not 
 a breath. Not the slight creak of a loose board under a 
 footfall. 
 
 It seems to me that there are many different kinds of 
 silence. The silence out-of-doors is full of a million little 
 delicate sounds, which are like the breathing of flowers 
 and grass and trees, and the talk of insects, or filmy, un- 
 seen creatures secretly visiting each other. Indoors, an 
 ordinary silence is made up from a patchwork of tiny 
 noises, too ; a movement of curtains in some faint breeze, 
 wheezings of wood, and I do not know what of homely 
 stirrings. But, whether I was supersensitive, or whether 
 there were really a telltale mystery in that silence which 
 seemed to steal out like the fumes of incense from Alma's 
 room, I cannot say. I can tell you only that it played 
 on my nerves as a bow plays on the strings of a violin. 
 I had to knock and call to Alma, though I knew she 
 might be lying down asleep, forgetting her troubles. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 It was cruel to wake her if she rested, but I knocked 
 again, and then again, loudly. 
 
 The silence on the other side was thick and heavy, like 
 a fall of feathers or snow. The thought came to me that 
 it would be as still as that in the country of the moon. 
 
 I tried to get in, but the door was locked, as I was 
 sure it would be. Suddenly, a rage of fear ran through 
 me from head to feet, like fire bursting out from behind 
 a barrier. I did not know what to do. But as I looked 
 around, I saw a chair and a table in the corridor. I 
 picked the table up, though it was heavy, and set it down 
 before Alma's door. On it, I put the chair. 
 
To M. L. G. 163 
 
 When I had climbed up, I could peer over the tran- 
 som, which was still half open, as all our transoms were, 
 because of the heat. 
 
 Alma's bed was opposite the transom. She was lying 
 there, dressed in a white dress, which was the only gown > 
 except the one she wore when I saw her last, which the 
 landlord had left her in taking away her trunks. 
 
 It was a very pretty and delicate dress, and my first 
 thought was to wonder why she had put it on just to lie 
 down, instead of slipping on a wrapper. But instantly 
 a dreadful idea sprang into my mind. I seemed to feel 
 it flash in, as if my brain had suddenly been lit up with 
 electricity. 
 
 She had pulled down the window blind, but it was pale 
 gray, like the wall-paper, and thin. The light that came 
 into the room was like moonlight, and Alma, in her white 
 dress, on the white coverlet, might have been a figure cut 
 out in marble. Beside the bed was a small table, with 
 two sealed letters on it ; nothing else except her stylo- 
 graphic pen. 
 
 I cried out " Alma ! " once more ; yet she did not stir. 
 Then I scrambled down, and the chair pitched off the 
 table with a crash. I would not stop, but ran quickly to 
 Cyril's door. In my excitement, I threw it open without 
 knocking. Cyril was not reading any more. Herman 
 was still with him, and they were playing some game of 
 cards. It struck me as horrible that they should be 
 amusing themselves. 
 
 " You have killed her," I said. " She is dead." 
 
 They both sprang up, and Cyril's cards fell on the 
 floor. He stood staring at me, his face blanched and 
 beautiful. But Herman's face grew red, and his eyes 
 
164 To M. L. G. 
 
 were hard and narrow. " It would be like her beastly 
 selfishness if she's gone and committed suicide," he said 
 in a voice like breaking ice. 
 
 I could have struck him. But there was no time to 
 waste, and I ran ahead of them both, to Alma's door. 
 
 " You'll have to burst it open," I said. " The key's in 
 the lock." 
 
 " If we do, there'll be a hell of a row," mumbled Her- 
 man. " Wait a minute. Let me think." 
 
 Cyril did not speak. A film of tears covered his eyes, 
 like a crystal case. I think he was afraid to let the tears 
 fall, because Herman would sneer at him. 
 
 We were all silent for a minute. Then Herman asked 
 me if I thought I were small enough to crawl through 
 the transom, if he put two chairs on the table, one on top 
 of the other, and steadied them well. If I could do that, 
 and drop down on the other side, it would be a good 
 thing. I could unlock the door, and if Alma were not 
 dead, after all, we might save a scandal. 
 
 " I'm Cyril's friend, and I don't want any scandal for 
 
 his sake," Herman said. " You're Miss L 's friend, 
 
 and you don't want one, for hers." 
 
 I thought for a few seconds, and then told him that I 
 would try. I was cold and trembling, yet not with fear 
 for myself. I felt sure that I could get through the tran- 
 som ; but I was afraid of finding Alma dead. 
 
 Herman and Cyril brought back the table and chair I 
 had climbed on before, and found another chair, a very 
 light one, from an empty room near by. They wanted 
 to help me up, but I hated them so bitterly that I would 
 not let them touch me. I shook off their hands, and 
 they only steadied the chairs as I climbed. 
 
To M. L. G. 165 
 
 It was not nearly as easy to get through the transom 
 as I had thought it would be, because of the way the 
 glass was swung. But the opening was quite large, and 
 I was slim. I was determined not to fail, and I did what 
 I had to do, somehow. When I hung on to the 
 frame, and jumped down on to the other side, I made 
 so much noise that I thought people would come run- 
 ning from down-stairs to see what had happened ; but 
 there was no one in the room underneath, and nobody 
 came. 
 
 I knew that the men outside expected me to open the 
 door at once, but I left it locked when I had picked my- 
 self up from the floor, and went softly over to the bed. 
 I meant, if Alma were only asleep after all, not to open 
 the door ; but when I bent over her, and saw how white 
 and strange her face was, I knew that she must be dead 
 or dying. She looked calm and lovely, not as if she had 
 suffered ; but there was a peculiar expression which I 
 cannot describe, except that it seemed to belong to an- 
 other world. 
 
 I tiptoed back and unlocked the door. It would have 
 seemed wrong to step heavily. 
 
 Herman and Cyril were there, waiting. They had put 
 away the table and chairs, and the instant the door was 
 opened they came in and closed it behind them. It was 
 Herman who pushed Cyril in and shut the door. Cyril 
 looked ghastly, and would have hung back if Herman 
 had not forced him in ahead of him. But he could not 
 make Cyril go to the bed. If he had tried to do that, I 
 think Cyril might have collapsed. Herman would have 
 shaken Alma by the shoulder, to see whether she 
 breathed, or opened her eyes, if I had not cried, " Don't 
 
166 To M. L. G. 
 
 be rough with her ! If you are, I'll scream, and call the 
 landlord." 
 
 I suppose he was afraid of being turned out of the 
 hotel and made uncomfortable, in case of new trouble, 
 and scandal about a suicide. 
 
 He put his head down to her breast and listened. " I 
 think she's alive," he said. " She must have taken 
 something, but there's no smell of laudanum or chloro- 
 form." 
 
 " Chloral, perhaps," Cyril whispered, in a stifled voice. 
 " She had some, I know, to use when she couldn't sleep." 
 
 " It doesn't matter. We'll learn what it was, sooner or 
 later," said Herman. " The first thing is to get a doctor. 
 Go out, old man, and bring one. Don't ask in the hotel. 
 Inquire outside. And hurry." 
 
 No doubt Cyril was glad to go. He rushed away 
 without a look at the bed. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, Herman pushed the electric 
 bell. I, standing by Alma's bedside, wondered what he 
 meant to do. 
 
 Soon a maid came, and he asked for hot water and 
 
 mustard. Miss L had been taken ill, he said, and we 
 
 wanted to put her feet in a mustard bath. 
 
 Alma was always very pleasant to servants, and the 
 girl made haste to bring the things. There was a great 
 tin can of water, and a heaped cup of mustard. But 
 Herman had told the maid a falsehood. When she had 
 left the room, he mixed cold water with the hot, making 
 it tepid. Then he stirred in mustard, and said to me, in 
 a low, hard voice, that I would have to help him give 
 
 Miss L an emetic. If we waited, did nothing, she 
 
 would die before the doctor came. 
 
To M. L. G. 167 
 
 He held her up, her head falling back, and made me 
 pour the disgusting liquid slowly into her mouth ; but it 
 ran out, all over her pretty dress, and over the bed, 
 staining the pure white muslin and the pillows and 
 coverlet bright yellow. I felt very sick, as if I should 
 faint. 
 
 While we were .doing this dreadful thing, Cyril came 
 back with a tall, cadaverous man. They walked in hastily, 
 and softly, without knocking, and Cyril would have gone 
 out again, if the doctor had not told him to stay ; he 
 might need help. 
 
 " Have you found out what she took ? " the tall man 
 asked. He carried a bag, like all the doctors I remem- 
 bered. 
 
 " No," Herman answered. " I've looked, but there's 
 nothing in the glass, and I don't see any bottle." 
 
 " Well, we must do the best we can," the doctor said. 
 " It's certainly some sleeping stuff, very likely chloral or 
 chlorodyne. That's one of the easiest drugs to get, in 
 small quantities." 
 
 I told myself, in a dull way, that it would be just as 
 well to remember this, in case I ever wanted to kill my- 
 self. One could get chlorodyne, little by little, and save 
 it up, till one had enough. 
 
 The doctor injected something into one of Alma's 
 arms. I am not sure what it was, but I think it must 
 have been brandy. The room smelled of brandy. He 
 poured something into her mouth — only a few drops ; 
 but whatever it was, it did not dribble out as the mustard 
 water had. 
 
 " She's coming to ! " he said at last. " That's all right ! " 
 
 He and Herman got Alma off the bed, and with their 
 
1 68 To M. L. G. 
 
 arms round her waist and shoulders, began dragging her 
 up and down the room. They had to bear her whole 
 weight. She hung in their clasp, her feet trailing, not 
 walking at all. Her head fell on one side, and her hair 
 slid down, in a long braid, which slowly unplaited itself 
 as they walked her back and forth. . By and by her eyes 
 opened. She groaned faintly, and then was violently 
 sick. 
 
 It was all like a hideous dream. 
 
 They would not let her stop walking, though she 
 begged to rest, and moaned that it was cruel to bring her 
 back to life. When she became fully conscious, after a 
 long time, she saw Cyril, and called him, in a weak 
 voice. But Herman said harshly, " Go, Cyril. You 
 aren't needed here now." And very quietly Cyril slipped 
 out. 
 
 If I had had a spark of admiration for him left, it 
 would have died then. For all his beauty, he seemed to 
 me a worm. 
 
 Alma was very ill that night, delirious sometimes. 
 Herman and I took turns in sitting by her. I did not 
 want him to come, but he insisted, coldly. He said that 
 it was best for him to know what she was saying. The 
 woman was only pretending to be out of her head, so as 
 to excite our sympathy, he stated in a loud voice, but no 
 one could possibly have any sympathy for her now. As 
 if she hadn't done enough harm before, she had finished 
 the thing by selfishly trying to die and leave her com- 
 pany to shift for itself. 
 
 Once, when she seemed to understand what he was 
 saying, Alma faltered, in a queer little bleating voice, 
 that she had written a letter to Harry. She had begged 
 
To M. L. G. 169 
 
 him to do for the company when she was dead what he 
 would not do for her when she was alive. " I was dying 
 for you all," she quavered. 
 
 " Pooh ! That's hysterical nonsense, and you know 
 it," Herman answered harshly. 
 
 When I cried out, " You are a brute to speak to her 
 so ! " he said, " It's the only way to treat hysteria. I'm 
 cruel to be kind." 
 
 Next day he telegraphed to Harry, but, as it had been 
 when Johnson wired, no answer came. 
 
 Such jewellery as Alma owned, she had given Johnson 
 to sell for her, thinking to use the money, as far as it 
 would go, for the company's hotel bills ; but Johnson 
 had taken it to pay his own fare back to Chicago. She 
 had nothing left, except one ring, which had been her 
 dead mother's. She had meant never to part with it, 
 but when there was no reply from Harry, the landlord 
 refused any further grace for us, unless she gave some- 
 thing on account. I was the one whom Alma selected 
 as a messenger to try and pawn the ring, or sell, if a 
 pawnbroker offered too little. Knowing how she valued 
 her mother's gift, however, I would not give it up irrev- 
 ocably. I had never been to a pawnbroker before ; 
 and if I had gone on my own business, I might have 
 been easily browbeaten by the insolent young Jew who 
 hectored me. As it was, I fought for Alma's rights, 
 and came out of the sultry den at last with fifty dollars. 
 Forty I gave, at Alma's request, to the landlord. The 
 remaining ten we kept to pay doctor's bills, Katherine 
 having chosen this time to fall ill (I was hard-hearted 
 enough to believe) in the hope of arousing Charlie's sym- 
 pathy. If that was her idea, she seemed partially to sue- 
 
170 To M. L. G. 
 
 ceed ; for Charlie, as well as the others, had gone over to 
 the enemy. He, like Cyril, was completely dominated 
 by Herman ; and Herman's order was : alienation from 
 the star, until she found some way of liberating "the com- 
 pany. I alone was for Alma ; and Charlie's calf-love for 
 me died under the lash of my sharp tongue. He deserted 
 me for Katherine, and spent most of his time reading 
 Swinburne to her, when she decided to be convalescent. 
 
 I think poor Alma tried very hard to die, during the 
 dreary days that followed her pitiful failure. No human 
 soul could go deeper down into the valley of humiliation 
 than she, and keep life and reason ; for she saw herself as 
 those others saw her, not tragic, not even pathetic, but 
 shamefully ridiculous. Nothing could have excused her 
 attempt to die, except success. 
 
 I was seldom away from her, for I had left Katherine's 
 room for hers ; and Alma talked to me frankly, in mo- 
 ments when she must have felt that, if she did not open 
 her heart, she would go mad. 
 
 " If they'd only let me die, everything would have been 
 right for you all," she repeated, over and over. " Harry 
 would have sent money, when he got the letter I wrote. 
 He's superstitious. He would have been afraid my spirit 
 might haunt him if he refused ; for in the letter I told 
 him I was dying just to get my people out of trouble. I 
 said I wouldn't rest in my grave unless he helped 
 them." 
 
 She was so weak from mental suffering and lack of 
 food that she dozed a good deal, and talked in her sleep. 
 At such times she lived through the moments of her 
 death agony — for such it would have been if we had not 
 waked her in time. Often she would bid me good-bye, 
 
To M. L. G. 171 
 
 just as she had when she sent me away, meaning to take 
 her own life when she was alone. 
 
 " Let me see — let me see ; the letters, I must write," 
 she would murmur. " To Harry first. I want Cyril's to 
 be the last thing I touch in this world. I'll say that I'd 
 like to be buried in the white dress. I'm all washed and 
 ready for my coffin. Oh, God, forgive me. I don't 
 mean to be wicked. I must save them, somehow. I 
 can't think of any other way. Oh, horrible ! I don't 
 want to drink the stuff. I'm young. I might have been 
 happy. But it's all over. It's the best thing. Will God 
 hear me if I pray ? Shall I die on my knees, or shall I 
 lie down on the bed?" 
 
 If I live to be very old, I can never forget any of those 
 ravings of hers. Each word stabbed my heart separately. 
 It seemed as if I must bleed pity. And I hated every 
 one in the company, above all Herman and Cyril. My 
 only comfort, as I sat by Alma's bed, I found in invent- 
 ing dreadful punishments for them, some awful retribu- 
 tion which would ruin their future careers. 
 
 In two or three days Alma insisted on trying to get 
 up. There were things that she must do, she said. 
 When I had helped dress her, and pin up her long hair, 
 she asked to see the landlord ; and keeping me in the 
 room, told him that she had a plan to pay everything. 
 He was not a particularly good-natured person, but she 
 was so pitiful to look at, such a wreck of the charming 
 girl he had last seen, that the man's face and manner 
 softened. He promised to trust her for a few days. 
 
 When he had gone out, she explained to me what the 
 plan was. It seemed that there was an important mag- 
 nate living in the town, on whom she meant to call. He 
 
172 To M. L. G. 
 
 was interested in mines and railroads, and was besides a 
 successful politician. Some of his most intimate friends 
 were theatrical stars. It was supposed that he had 
 financed more than one company. Alma had never 
 met, never even seen him, but she thought that he had 
 probably been in the audience, when we had presented 
 
 S 's play, for he was known as a great " first nighter." 
 
 Her attempt at suicide had been hushed up ; nevertheless, 
 the troubles of the company had given plenty of copy to 
 the local newspapers during the week ; and Alma hoped 
 that, if she went to this man's office, curiosity, if nothing 
 else, might induce him to receive her. 
 
 " What are you going to ask him to do ? " I inquired. 
 
 " I'll trust to luck," she said wearily. " He might have 
 a generous impulse, and lend me money enough to send 
 everybody back to Chicago — or get them passes, or 
 something. I could work it out in time, if he'd take me 
 as secretary." (She had been a typist and stenographer 
 after her father's death left her poor.) " Or, when I get 
 another engagement on the stage, I'd pay him back." 
 
 There did not seem to be much room for hope. The 
 man was known to be hard in business ; and for the mo- 
 ment Alma had lost her good looks. She could not win 
 him with the bribe of her beauty, unless he had seen her 
 before, and knew what she could be. Still, the case was 
 desperate. 
 
 Alma left the hotel for the first time in many days, 
 wearing the white dress in which she had meant to die. 
 It had been washed, and the horrid stains had all come 
 out. But its daintiness, and the youthful style in which 
 it was made, accentuated her sick paleness and the sharp- 
 ened outline of her features. Her black hat was of a pic- 
 
To M. L. G. 173 
 
 turesque shape, with a long plume. It had framed her 
 face deliciously when she was well ; but with her sad, 
 hollow eyes, shadowed underneath, and her limp hair, 
 which had lost its life and lustre, she was like a ghastly 
 caricature of her old self, done in chalks by some cruel 
 French artist. 
 
 I walked with Alma to the building in which the poli- 
 tician had his offices, but she preferred not to have me 
 with her when she pleaded with him. Now the hour had 
 come, she was half fainting with suspense. I was afraid 
 for her, as I stood watching the thin white figure carried 
 up in the lift. 
 
 For a long time I wandered back and forth, on the op- 
 posite side of the street, staring at things in the shop 
 windows, which I did not really see, because Alma's face 
 floated before my eyes. 
 
 At last, after half an hour which seemed twice that 
 time, she came out through the big open doorway where 
 all the names of the office occupiers were printed in gold 
 letters on each side. She looked rather better, for there 
 were hot spots of color on her cheek-bones, and her lips 
 were red, as if she had bitten them. 
 
 "Well?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh," she sighed, heavily, " it was just as bad as I 
 thought it would be, at first. Then it was a little easier, 
 for he promised to think things over. He may advance 
 the money and give me something to do, to work out 
 the debt. But don't talk to me any more, just now. 
 I've had all I can stand." 
 
 We walked back to the hotel without speaking, Alma 
 leaning on my arm. 
 
 Next day the great man called on Alma. I was in 
 
174 To M. L. G. 
 
 her room when his card came up. He was waiting in 
 the public parlor, and she went down-stairs to see him, 
 her head hanging. He must have stayed nearly an 
 hour; and towards the end of the interview, the land- 
 lord was invited in for a consultation. Alma mentioned 
 this afterwards, when she asked me to go and tell the 
 company from her that she had been " able to make 
 
 things right for them." She was going to stay in , 
 
 and do secretarial work, in payment of money advanced. 
 To-morrow they would all be sent home, with enough 
 in their pockets to pay for food and sleeping berths. 
 The salary owing she could not give them, but hoped 
 she might be able to do so, some day. 
 
 " Do you think I'll go off like that and leave you ? " 
 I exclaimed, indignantly. But she stopped me with a 
 tired gesture. " You must go," she said. " For my sake. 
 I can't keep you here. Dear little friend, for heaven's 
 sake don't argue, unless you want to kill me." 
 
 I said not another word, but went as she had bidden 
 me to go, and told the company, assembled in Herman's 
 room, what had been arranged for them. 
 
 They were all delighted. Only Cyril looked ashamed. 
 
 Saying good-bye to Alma was the greatest grief that 
 had come to me then; even greater than Boy's death, 
 because that had been so sudden, and I was too young 
 to understand fully. 
 
 On the way back to Chicago, in the train, the people 
 for whose sake she had stayed said to each other openly 
 
 that she had stopped in to be the politician's 
 
 mistress. Herman knew a great deal about the man, 
 and told his eager listeners that he was a person who 
 had " only one use for women." Instead of being grate- 
 
To M. L. G. 175 
 
 ful and pitying Alma as, at worst, a tragic martyr, they 
 seemed to despise her for what she was doing. I heard 
 the words " secretarial work " spoken scornfully by Her- 
 man, and the three girls tittered. 
 
 I came out of this episode with a low opinion of men. 
 Old or young, ugly or handsome, I thought them all the 
 same at heart. I made up my mind that never would I 
 love as Alma had loved Cyril, because no man was worth 
 such love. I decided that I would use men, but would 
 never let them use me. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MRS. F advanced money to pay my way 
 east, from Chicago to New York. She would 
 deduct the amount, as well as her commis- 
 sion, from the next salary I earned. 
 
 The night I came back I was obliged to go to Mrs. 
 
 F 's flat, because I had no money, and knew of no 
 
 one who would take me in. After the freedom of the 
 last few months, the shabby room shared with Fifi and 
 two strange girls was disgusting to me. Fifi was more 
 disagreeable than ever, and the new girls were not so 
 pretty or pleasant as Julia and Kitty. I lay awake the 
 first night, making up my mind that I would get away 
 as soon as possible, whatever happened. 
 
 It was a bad moment for finding engagements, and six 
 
 hateful weeks passed before Mrs. F could get me 
 
 anything to do. Even then, it was a part with only two 
 lines to speak ; but it was in a new play, by a popular 
 author, and the theatre was a good one, if a little old' 
 fashioned. The salary was very small, but I could live 
 
 on it. The management promised Mrs. F that my 
 
 name should appear on the bill, and it was a great thing 
 to be in New York. Fifi was engaged for the same 
 production, but for a part in which she expected to 
 make a " hit." She was pleased to be so far above me. 
 I was to come on only in the third act, a ballroom scene, 
 and while the people of the play were dancing a cotillion, 
 a murder was being committed in another part of the 
 
 176 
 
To M. L. G. 177 
 
 house. The woman supposed to be killed had never 
 been seen by the audience, but had been constantly- 
 spoken of by the other characters. She was rich, old, 
 very eccentric, rather mysterious, and had once been a 
 beauty. Having lost her looks, but not her vanity, she 
 had shut herself up for years, letting no one see her 
 ravaged face, except her own maid, and a lawyer engaged 
 in drafting her will. That document was of immense 
 importance to the hero and heroine, and the mystery 
 surrounding the life of the old woman was meant to 
 focus upon her character the interest of the audience, 
 though she was never seen. 
 
 I came early to the first rehearsal, and heard the 
 actors run through the play with the author and stage- 
 manager. Though the parts were only read, and no 
 one attempted to act, I felt the thrill which the audience 
 would feel in the dramatic situation unfolding around 
 this hidden old woman. 
 
 In the third act, when the time was drawing near for 
 the murder, the rehearsal was stopped by some misun- 
 derstanding about a scream, which was supposed to in- 
 terrupt the cotillion. The author laid great stress upon 
 this scream, and was vexed because neither the star nor 
 the stage-manager had remembered his advice to engage 
 an actress especially for it. 
 
 " The whole end of the act depends on that scream," 
 he insisted. " It will have to be a tremendous effect, or 
 it will fall flat." 
 
 He was a very successful man, who had made money 
 enough from his plays to build a beautiful house up-town ; 
 but this was his most serious attempt at drama. His 
 other works had been mostly comedies. Both the star 
 
178 To M. L. G. 
 
 (a matinee idol) and the stage-manager were anxious to 
 please the author. They assured him that it would be 
 easy to find a woman who could scream well. 
 
 " Where is she ? " he demanded, shortly. <* It takes a 
 real actress to scream, I tell you." 
 
 The stage-manager, who was English, said that he 
 would *' sample " some of the " extra ladies," and if no 
 one among them gave satisfaction, a special woman could 
 be engaged later. He called one of the older and more 
 intelligent girls who were " on " for the cotillion, and or- 
 dered her to try a scream. 
 
 She came forward conceitedly and obeyed, but the 
 scream was a dismal failure. It sounded like a penny 
 whistle in the big, empty theatre. 
 
 " Good heavens, girl, don't you know you're being 
 murdered ? " exclaimed the stage-manager. 
 
 " Horribly murdered," added the author. 
 
 " You are frightened almost to death before you are 
 touched," the stage-manager went on, graphically. " You 
 realize you're going to be killed, unless you can yell loud 
 enough to bring some one to your help. Everything 
 depends upon that shriek. Put your heart into it. Put 
 your soul into it." 
 
 The girl screamed again, and her voice cracked. The 
 author shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands. 
 Another of the young women was summoned, then 
 another, and another. Their efforts to scream like a per- 
 son being murdered were ludicrous. The star and the 
 leading lady laughed silently in the wings, their shoulders 
 shaking. The latter was " dared " to show how the 
 scream ought to be uttered, and took the dare with gay 
 confidence in her own powers. But, clever actress as she 
 
To M. L. G. 179 
 
 was, her scream was not effective. It sounded young 
 and thin, and had no real thrill of horror in it. I would 
 not have believed that to scream could be so difficult. 
 
 Suddenly an old memory rushed back to me. For an 
 instant I was a little child, sitting up half undressed, in 
 a tumbled bed, hearing the thud , thud of a falling body, 
 and one nightmare shriek that broke off short on its 
 highest note. 
 
 The impression was so strong that I was lost in it. 
 Then, as suddenly as I had plunged into the past, I rose 
 again to the surface of the present. The stage-manager's 
 eyes were on me. Mine were on him. Without know- 
 ing it, I had called to him with my eyes. They had 
 something to tell him. 
 
 " Come here," he said. " You look as if you thought 
 you could do the trick." 
 
 I obeyed, and came down centre to where he stood 
 with the author of the play. I was not at all nervous. I 
 knew I could scream exactly as Ma had screamed when 
 she fell to her death. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " exclaimed the author, impatiently. " What's 
 the good of bothering with a kid of that age ? She'll 
 pipe like a cricket. I want some one to scream like an 
 old woman." 
 
 " I can scream like an old woman," I said, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " All right. Scream ahead, and let's hear what you 
 can do," the stage-manager commanded. 
 
 I shut my eyes, and saw the ugly room, with me hud- 
 dled in bed, and Henry standing by the door. I 
 screamed as Ma had screamed, just before she broke her 
 neck. 
 
180 To M. L. G. 
 
 When I stopped short, with a kind of gurgle, as she 
 had stopped when her spine cracked, every one was quite 
 still. Then the author of the play said under his breath, 
 " Good God ! " 
 
 I could hear my heart beating, but not because I was 
 nervous about what they would all think. It was only 
 beating as it did when Ma's scream broke off, and 1 
 felt sick, as I had felt when I ran in my bare feet to 
 the head of the stairs, where the oilcloth was cold and 
 torn. 
 
 When no one spoke to me, I looked around. The star 
 had his eyes fixed on me. Other people were staring at 
 me too. After a few seconds, the stage-manager said, 
 *' Where did you learn to scream like that ? " 
 
 " I heard some one do it once," I answered. 
 
 " When? " the author asked. 
 
 " When I was a little girl." 
 
 Then he wanted to know what was my age now. I 
 said that I was " going on fifteen." " Going on fifteen " 
 sounded to me much older than fourteen. 
 
 "Are you satisfied with her?" the stage-manager in- 
 quired, in a dry tone. 
 
 '* My God, yes," he answered. 
 
 The stage-manager looked at me. " She's got two 
 lines to speak," he said. " If she does the scream, she 
 can't be on in this scene." 
 
 " Two lines. Great heavens ! " grumbled the author. 
 He was a curious, spasmodic man, boiling with emotions 
 Once he had been an actor, but had not succeeded. He 
 had felt so much that he could not make other people 
 feel. 
 
 " Which would you rather do?" asked the stage-man- 
 
To M. L. G. 181 
 
 ager, *■ come on for the cotillion, in a smart dress and look 
 pretty and speak the two lines you were engaged to 
 speak, or scream ' off,' and never be seen at all ? " 
 
 " I would rather scream," I said. 
 
 His face and the author's both brightened. They 
 glanced at each other. I saw that they were interested 
 in me. But it was true. I would not have given up the 
 scream for anything. 
 
 " You understand, I suppose, that you can't have your 
 name on the programme if you do the scream ? " the 
 stage-manager explained carefully. " That would spoil 
 the effect for the audience. An old woman, a great 
 character, though she's never seen, screams when she's 
 being murdered." 
 
 " I know," I said. " I've been listening to the play." 
 
 " Oh, she's been listening to the play," echoed the 
 author. 
 
 It was arranged that I was to scream, and one of the 
 other girls who had only one line to speak got my two. 
 I was to draw the same salary as before. 
 
 Every day after that they made me shriek when the 
 cue came. They would never let me off the scream, even 
 though the principals were simply walking through their 
 parts. Perhaps the stage-manager did not want me to 
 get out of practice. But I did not tire of my scream. 
 Always I saw the little horrid room, with the flaring gas- 
 light, and Henry at the door, clenching and unclenching 
 his hands. 
 
 One day the author said, " That's the scream of an old 
 woman with a short, fat neck." And he asked me curious 
 questions about my " model " ; but I would not tell him 
 much. I hated to speak about Ma, and those old days ; 
 
182 To M. L. G. 
 
 I hardly knew why, except that it made me feel sick, and 
 that my hands grew cold. 
 
 Others asked me questions, too, and the star talked to 
 me a little sometimes, when his great scene after the 
 scream was over. He assured me that such a scream as 
 mine would " work up the scene immensely." The men 
 spoke to me oftener than the women did. The leading 
 lady had not noticed me at all, and Fifi said it was be- 
 cause she thought me forward and common. It may be 
 that I was both ! 
 
 On the first night I came to the theatre before the cur- 
 tain went up and asked permission of the stage-manager 
 to stand in the wings, out of every one's way. 
 
 " What do you want to do that for ? " he asked. 
 Ever since the first rehearsal he had treated me very 
 kindly. 
 
 " I want to hear the whole piece, and what they are 
 saying about me," I answered. 
 
 He was busy, but he stopped for an instant. " About 
 you ? What do you mean ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Why, about Aunt Teresa," I explained. That was 
 the name of the old woman who never appeared, yet 
 dominated the play. 
 
 " All right, stand where you can hear all you want to," 
 he said. " I shouldn't wonder if you'd do more than 
 scream some day. You've got what they call • tempera- 
 ment,' as well as intelligence and concentration." 
 
 I knew he meant that I would be a good actress, and 
 I was delighted. Not so much because I was ambitious, 
 as because I liked to be praised. I felt that I could act, 
 and I loved acting better than anything else in the 
 world ; but I was not like Joan of Arc among her sheep, 
 
To M. L. G. 183 
 
 I heard no voices calling me to glory. I loved acting 
 because it was in my blood, inherited from my parents. 
 And I suppose it was true that I had what is called " tem- 
 perament." 
 
 I think I screamed better on the first night of the play 
 than I had at rehearsals, just because of my " tempera- 
 ment," and the wonderful thrill that goes with a first 
 night. 
 
 After my scream, there was a hush in the theatre ; no 
 applause ; but it was the stillness that actors know means 
 more than applause. I was glad, not for myself, because 
 I was too excited to think of myself then, but for the act. 
 It was a fine act, and I felt that I had helped it to make 
 the right impression. 
 
 There was another afterwards, a fourth ; and that was 
 good, too, but less intense, and perhaps let the play down 
 a little. Still, it went well ; and in the dressing-room, 
 which I shared with several other girls, I could hear a 
 thunder of applause. The curtain went up and down, on 
 five or six calls. Just before the leading people came off 
 the stage, I left the theatre, and hurried back to my hated 
 
 room at Mrs. F 's. Already a plan for getting away 
 
 from her was growing in my head. Two of the girls 
 who dressed with me at the theatre were pleasant and 
 jolly. We were making friends, and I hoped that they 
 would be willing to have me " chum " with them. They 
 two shared a room in a building where artists lived, and 
 by day they often acted as models. Their room had been 
 a studio, and they said it was very big. I meant to ask, 
 when I knew them a little better, if they would let me 
 join them, paying a third of the expenses. 
 
 Fifi was already at home when I arrived. She was 
 
184 To M. L. G. 
 
 " on '' only in the second act, and having one of the 
 bilious headaches to which she was subject, she had 
 made her latest " mash " bring her back quickly to her 
 
 mother. Mrs. F had been " in front " to see as 
 
 much of the play as concerned her daughter. Then 
 she too had come away, without waiting to hear my 
 scream. Nothing that I did, or was, interested her 
 particularly ; but I think she was glad, for Fifi's sake, 
 to dash any sense of triumph I might have had. The 
 moment I opened the door, she said, without referring 
 to the play, " I've got some news for you. Just read 
 it in ' The Clipper.' Your mother's dead. Typhoid 
 
 fever. Died in ." 
 
 She named the town where Alma L— - had tried to 
 kill herself. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 TO my astonishment, all the newspapers men- 
 tioned the scream. They described it as thrill- 
 ing, wonderful, blood-curdling. It was, one 
 critic said, " as if that hidden Aunt Teresa had become 
 incarnate before the eyes of the audience, at the moment 
 of her death." Most of the papers attributed the " tre- 
 mendous sensation " of the third act to the scream. 
 
 The second night of the play i did not go to the 
 theatre till late, because I was thinking about my 
 mother, and I wanted to be alone. I had seen Dearie's 
 face before me all day, just as it used to be when we 
 lived in the room of the skylight. I was not exactly 
 sorrowful, for she had gone out of my life long ago, 
 and had wished never to hear of me again ; but I was 
 very thoughtful ; and the girls' congratulations on my 
 scream seemed irrelevant, when I came into the dress- 
 ing-room. I had nothing to do there, except to take 
 off my hat, and put it on when I left ; but I was to have 
 dressed in that room, if I had played a part ; and it was 
 a place to wait in. 
 
 As I was leaving the wings on this second night, 
 the stage-manager told me that several newspaper men 
 had asked about the woman who screamed. They 
 wanted to know who I was, and what I was like ; but 
 it was proposed to make a mystery of me. The 
 " management " thought that to do so would be a good 
 advertisement, and might " work up paragraphs " ; still, 
 the secret was bound to leak out sooner or later, 
 
 18s 
 
186 To M. L. G. 
 
 Even then I had no idea of what my little success 
 would mean. I was too deeply absorbed in my plan 
 
 for getting away from Mrs. F , to care much about 
 
 the newspapers. The girls at the theatre, Jen and 
 Hatty, were willing to take me in with them, but I had 
 trouble with Mrs. F . She said that she had en- 
 gaged to keep me till I was sixteen, and would not let 
 me go until then. I insisted that Madame had meant 
 me to stay only till I could earn enough to keep myself. 
 I did not know the Baroness's latest address, and Mrs. 
 
 F refused to give it, but I found out from the new 
 
 " Madame " at the old place, and cabled to Europe. 
 
 The answer came that I must stop with Mrs. F , 
 
 otherwise the Baroness would not be responsible for 
 my expenses at any time when I might happen to be 
 out of an engagement. The businesslike wording of 
 the telegram made me think that the Baron had written 
 it. Nevertheless, I would have gone to Jen and Hatty, 
 and risked everything ; but the girls were afraid of 
 
 Mrs. F , who could hurt them in the profession ; 
 
 and they dared not take me against her will. All that 
 
 Mrs. F wanted, however, was Madame's money, 
 
 which she still had an excuse to draw, on the ground 
 that my salary was not large enough to support me. 
 She was glad to have me spend as much time as I liked 
 by day or night in some one else's house, in order to get 
 me out of Fifi's way. I began to give Jen and Hatty 
 
 half my salary each week, as soon as Mrs. F had 
 
 deducted what she had a right to take. For this con- 
 sideration, the girls let me sleep on a sofa in their big, 
 bare studio, as often as I wished, and help them cook 
 and eat their picnic meals. They had a little stove in 
 
To M. L. G. 187 
 
 the room, which was kitchen, dining-room, parlor, and 
 bedroom in one, and on it we made all sorts of messes. 
 I got to know the young artists who lived in the house ; 
 and through them, met some of the newspaper reporters 
 who had inquired about me at the theatre. One of the 
 artists, in love with Jen, sketched my head, and the 
 drawing was published in the Sunday edition of a big 
 newspaper. Underneath was printed, in large letters, 
 " The Woman of the Scream." 
 
 The thing that delighted me most about this was being 
 called a " woman," for I was only just fifteen. But the 
 portrait stirred up the interest of the public in the "scream 
 mystery." It had never entirely died out, for often there 
 were paragraphs in the papers referring to the " reticence 
 of the management " in regard to it. A story was started 
 that the woman who screamed was an old actress who 
 had been a great favorite, but for one reason or another 
 had lost her vogue. Some said that she drank, others 
 that her face was spoiled by smallpox, and that for the 
 sake of her vanity and past reputation she did not wish 
 her name to come out. 
 
 As every one in the theatre knew who screamed, the 
 newspaper men probably knew too, and were paid by the 
 management to write up the mystery. But when my 
 picture appeared, it may have been that they thought a 
 new turn of affairs would keep up excitement. I was 
 encouraged to be interviewed, and photographed. There 
 were articles about me in the stage papers, and the big 
 Sunday editions of the dailies, nearly every week. 
 Eventually I was said to be even younger than I was, 
 which annoyed me extremely. There were references to 
 my family, and to my past life, but they were always 
 
188 To M. L. G. 
 
 wrong, perhaps purposely wrong. I was said to be the 
 daughter of a great actor, who had died mad ; and extra- 
 ordinary stories were told about my childhood. I would 
 have liked to contradict most of these, but my friend the 
 stage-manager strongly advised me not to do so. The 
 made-up things, he argued, were all more interesting than 
 the truth, and by attracting attention would help me on 
 in my career. By and by, instead of denying the sensa- 
 tional tales, I mischievously added to them, and told 
 people anecdotes about myself which I wished might 
 have been true, just as, long ago, I had fibbed about 
 Lenny and his presents of candy. 
 
 Fifi was so disagreeable and sarcastic that I spent more 
 time than ever with Jen and Hatty, practically living with 
 them, in the big, untidy studio, until at last a dreadful 
 tragedy happened there. 
 
 It did not concern me, except indirectly, and was so 
 horrible that I need not tell you much about it. Jen was 
 older than Hatty ; a beautiful, fair girl, with wistful eyes 
 and little chiselled features, who had been painted by her 
 artist lover as " Priscilla, the Puritan Maiden." We al- 
 ways called her " Priscilla " or " Puritan " ; and, though 
 she loved fun, she was prim in her manner, compared 
 with Hatty and me. She used to reprove us sweetly for 
 our wild pranks and weird slang, and though I pretended 
 to laugh at her stiffness, I really looked up to and 
 respected her. 
 
 If the tragedy had fallen upon Hatty, I should not have 
 been so utterly taken by surprise. 
 
 Poor Jen, of the gentle voice and gold-haloed, saintly 
 face, died in agony after a lingering illness, brought on 
 by herself — though one who should have loved and 
 
To M. L. G. 189 
 
 protected her was more truly to blame than she. After 
 the first awful night of her suffering, she was carried away 
 from the studio to a hospital, where the end came after 
 many days. The big, whitewashed room, with its 
 Turkey red curtains and broken odds and ends of furni- 
 ture, was haunted for us both by Jen, screaming on her 
 sofa bed, praying to die, and end her anguish. We could 
 not bear to stay there, and Hatty gave up the studio. 
 She went to live with an old friend, in a boarding-house, 
 
 and I had to go back to Mrs. F . It was worse than 
 
 ever before in the dingy flat. Each night and morning 
 I said to myself, " I'd do anything — anything — to get 
 away ! " 
 
 And now comes the part of my life-story where you 
 would stop me, I think, if I were talking to you instead 
 of writing. Yet I beg, if this reaches you, and you have 
 read so far, that you will go on. It will hurt you to read, 
 almost as much as it hurts me to write. But just because 
 it is the hardest of all to tell, it is the most important for 
 you to read. 
 
 One night news went round behind scenes that a man- 
 ager of another New York theatre was in the stage box. 
 He was interested in several theatres, not only in New 
 York, but in other big towns. This made him a man of 
 importance to actors ; and each of the principals in the 
 play hoped, of course, that he was in front looking out for 
 talent. A wave of excitement ran through the dressing- 
 rooms, as it always does when such a person is in the 
 theatre. 
 
 From the place where I stood in the wings to give my 
 scream, I could peep out through a tiny hole in the canvas 
 wall of the ballroom setting. I could not see much of 
 
190 To M. L. G. 
 
 the auditorium, except the front and second rows, but I 
 could look into two of the boxes, of which the stage box 
 was one. 
 
 In it sat a stout, red-faced man, with a short throat that 
 seemed to run straight down in a line with the sides of 
 his head. He had brown hair, turning gray ; a low, square 
 forehead and prominent light eyes, which looked shrewd 
 and very bold, perhaps because his eyelashes were singu- 
 larly short and stiff, like tiny bristles, and when I peeped 
 at him, just after my scream (conceitedly wishing to see 
 the effect), he was bending forward, with his fat hands on 
 his fat knees. On his fingers I caught the glitter of more 
 than one handsome ring. 
 
 Immediately afterwards, I ran down-stairs to the dress- 
 ing-room which I shared still with Hatty and the new 
 girl who had stepped into poor Jen's vacant place. I had 
 nothing more to do, but I lingered, as usual, hating to go 
 home. Before the curtain rang up on the last act, the 
 call-boy brought word that the stage-manager wished to 
 speak with me. I was to go at once, and look for him 
 near the star dressing-room. 
 
 A little anxious, lest I was to be scolded, I hurried to 
 obey. When I arrived, he had not yet come. The star's 
 door was open, and standing in it was the red-faced man 
 who had been in the stage box. Evidently he was call- 
 ing on the star ; and he looked me over with his prominent 
 eyes as I waited. I looked at him, too, and then turned 
 away, as if I did not know that he was staring at me still. 
 But I did know. I saw by his expression that he thought 
 me pretty, and that he wanted me to know what he 
 thought. 
 
 Presently the stage-manager came, and I was surprised 
 
To M. L. G. 191 
 
 as well as relieved to find that he only wished to speak 
 about a change of position for me, when I screamed in 
 the wings. It was a very slight change, and needed no 
 rehearsing ; he could as well have told me the next 
 night. In three or four minutes he let me go, and as I 
 walked slowly away, I gave a glance at the star dressing- 
 room. But the door was shut. 
 
 Every morning about eleven, I came to the theatre to 
 look at the letter-board. Most of us received a good 
 many silly love-letters from boys and men who watched 
 the stage entrance, and my average was one or two a 
 day. The morning after the visit of the great man, I 
 found a neat, square envelope, addressed to me in type- 
 writing. The envelope was plain, but the paper inside 
 had on it the name of a theatre. There were only a few 
 lines in typing, but they made my heart jump. The 
 manager who had been in the stage box directed the 
 writer (his secretary) to say that he would be pleased to 
 
 see me in his office at the Theatre, about three 
 
 o'clock that afternoon. 
 
 Already I knew too much about theatrical people to 
 be sure that the invitation would lead to anything im- 
 portant. But Mrs. F , and my girl friends who were 
 
 older than I, had taught me a kind of shrewdness which 
 was not mine by nature. I was ready to dance with ex- 
 citement, and I decided to look as pretty, and be as 
 fascinating, as I could. I lunched alone at a cheap 
 restaurant near the theatre, to compose my mind, and 
 went back to the flat only in time to get ready for the 
 interview. 
 
 Mrs. F and Fifi were both there, but I said not a 
 
 word to them about the letter. I knew that, if nothing 
 
192 To M. L. G. 
 
 good came of the visit, they would twit me, and laugh. 
 I put on the dress and hat I liked best ; the ones which 
 made me look the most " grown up." With my hair in 
 a great clump at the nape of my neck, parted a little on 
 one side, and drooping in a wave over my forehead, I 
 could easily be mistaken for seventeen. 
 
 Nowadays I cannot bear to see my hair fall over my 
 forehead, even for an instant, in the thick wave I used to 
 wear then. If, when it is being washed or brushed, it 
 drops on one side in that way, and I happen to catch 
 sight of myself in the glass, a sick faintness creeps 
 through me, and my heart is heavy and cold. It is as if 
 something whispered in my ear, " You can never, never 
 get rid of your old self, try as you may. There she is, 
 staring at you now in the glass, just as she used to be; 
 and she'll haunt you till you die." 
 
 I can't describe to you how I suffer when such mo- 
 ments come. I shut my eyes, so as not to see the face, 
 and think with all my might of Lily Merritt, my dear 
 little friend in the mirrior, a gentle ghost, the only one 
 who ever haunted me when my own soul was white and 
 unstained. 
 
 You said once that my head and profile would look 
 " purely Greek," if I wore my hair in a knot at the back 
 of my neck ; and you asked me to try it in that way, 
 just once, as a favor to you. I pretended to forget, and 
 you reminded me. Perhaps you may remember still, 
 though we had not known each other long then. At 
 last I told you that I had worn my hair in that fashion, 
 and disliked it. I refused to do it so again, and I heard 
 my voice growing sharp as I spoke. I saw that you 
 were surprised and rather hurt, and I was unhappy all 
 
To M. L. G. 193 
 
 the rest of the day, partly because I couldn't bear to be 
 disobliging, and partly because of that heavy, secret 
 reason for refusing, which I thought then could never be 
 told. 
 
 Perhaps if I had not done my best to look grown up that 
 
 day, when I went to keep the appointment with , 
 
 everything might have been different for the rest of my 
 life. Yet I don't know. Maybe it would have been the 
 same, after all. Sometimes I believe that, in a former 
 incarnation, according to your spiritual triumphs or 
 failures, your fate for a future incarnation is decided. I 
 am trying now to use my old self as a kind of mounting 
 block. 
 
 I was shown at once to 's office, without having to 
 
 wait. That was a great compliment to an unknown 
 actress. 
 
 A secretary was with him when I arrived, but he went 
 out into another room. sat behind a huge, flat- 
 topped desk, made of rosewood. I did not know what 
 the wood was, but I noticed that it had a faint, pleasant 
 scent ; and it associated itself curiously with the excited 
 fluttering of my heart. Since, I have disliked that odor 
 more than any other, and I have detested rosewood. 
 
 He was far more polite to me than any other theatrical 
 manager had ever been. When I came in he had on 
 a hat, pushed to the back of his large head, but he took 
 it off deliberately, and laid it upon a pile of papers on 
 the desk. You would hardly understand how much this 
 little thing inclined me to like him, unless you know 
 something about the ordinary manners of self-made, im- 
 portant theatrical men with unimportant actresses. 
 
 Not only did take off his hat to show me respect, 
 
194 To M. L. G. 
 
 but he walked round from behind the barrier of the big 
 desk and shook hands heartily. He pressed my hand in 
 his, and held it in a warm clasp for a few seconds. Then 
 he placed a chair for me to sit down. 
 
 Having done this, instead of going back behind the 
 desk, he pulled another, heavier chair near mine, so as to 
 sit facing me, our knees all' but touching. For a minute 
 he looked me over smiling. My chair was turned 
 towards the window, so that the light fell strongly on 
 my face. He stared at it so hard, I was afraid that there 
 might be a black on my nose, or something else which 
 spoiled the good effect I was anxious to make. 
 
 " Well," he began, " have you been wondering why I 
 sent for you ? " 
 
 " Yes," I admitted. 
 
 He laughed good-naturedly, and showed large, yellow- 
 ish teeth. " Honest Injun ? Now, tell me, didn't you 
 have a shrewd suspicion ? " 
 
 I thought it would be sensible and pleasing to him if I 
 did not try to beat about the bush. 
 
 " It seemed to me you might have some engagement 
 to offer me," I confessed. 
 
 " Good girl ! You've hit it first time," he said. He 
 had a bluff, good-tempered, common way of speaking, 
 and his whole personality and manner were vulgar. 
 But I was used to that in men. Most of those I knew 
 were more or less common ; and 's jolly non- 
 chalant commonness suited his stout body, his bold 
 eyes, and red face. I did not dislike him at all, though 
 I thought him old, and somewhat unpleasant to look at. 
 His office, with its expensive furniture and showy 
 decorations, was a good frame for him. In a room of 
 
To M. L. G. 195 
 
 subdued coloring, and refined taste, he would have been 
 like a big, mottled spider on a bunch of violets. The 
 red walls, almost covered with gold-framed oil-paintings 
 and photographs of lovely stage ladies in tights or low- 
 necked dresses, paled the redness of his face. The large 
 chair of sprawling outlines in which he sat seemed to 
 reduce his size. 
 
 " Would you like to have an engagement with me, 
 my dear ? " he went on, his eyes always fixed on my 
 face, without perceptibly winking. 
 
 An amateur would have been startled by his " my 
 dear." But I knew that nearly all stage-managers, and 
 many managers of theatres, called every girl " dear." 
 It was a mere habit or fashion, and meant nothing. It 
 was only his tone which struck me. He spoke softly, as 
 if to a child. 
 
 " Of course I would like it," I said. 
 
 He bent forward and looked at me closely. 
 
 " You're the genuine article," he remarked. " I 
 was wondering if you were as young as you were 
 painted." 
 
 " But I'm not painted ! " I exclaimed, feeling myself 
 grow red under his stare. 
 
 " That was my joke," he said. " When we get better 
 acquainted, you'll find out that I must have my joke. I 
 wasn't going to buy a pig in a poke, you know." 
 
 I considered myself a quick-witted girl, but I could 
 not understand what he meant. I was afraid that he 
 was making fun of me, and began to be uncomfortable, 
 even rather angry. If he had not been very important, 
 and I had not been in awe of him and anxious to please, 
 I should have answered back pertly. As it was, I only 
 
196 To M. L. G. 
 
 threw up my head a little, and looked him in the face 
 firmly. 
 
 " Don't bite me," he laughed. " I see you're a girl 
 of spirit. I must teach you to take a joke. I invited 
 you here for several reasons. One was to see if you 
 were really a young girl or a grown-up woman. I've 
 come to the conclusion that you're a baby. Now don't 
 get mad ! I'm paying you a big compliment. This 
 light doesn't leave anything to the imagination. I 
 should put you down as seventeen, a little more or a 
 little less. Which is it ? " 
 
 "A little less," I answered, pleased with him again, 
 because, although he called me a baby, he thought me 
 older than I was. Quickly I told myself that, if he 
 knew I was not yet sixteen, he would hesitate to offer 
 me the part he was thinking of. If I said " a little less " 
 than seventeen, it would be true, and even if he found 
 out my real age, he could not accuse me of fibbing. 
 
 " I believe you," he returned, " though I wouldn't 
 believe most girls on their oath." 
 
 Then he went on to say that he had heard of me and 
 my " great stunt," as he called the scream. A friend 
 of his who was a critic had spoken of me, and he had 
 seen my picture in the papers. " Last night I sat out 
 the play," he explained, " as much to see you as any- 
 thing else." 
 
 " But I'm only heard, and not seen," I said, when he 
 paused. 
 
 " Well — I saw you all right, didn't I ? " he grinned. 
 
 Then it occurred to me for the first time that my 
 appointment near the star dressing-room had been 
 arranged between him and our stage-manager. I had 
 
To M. L. G. 197 
 
 supposed that 's being in the doorway at the time 
 
 was a lucky accident, and that I owed this interview to a 
 rare chance. 
 
 " I'm glad you saw me," I stammered, " if it makes 
 you give me an engagement." 
 
 " Are you tired of screaming?" he wanted to know. 
 
 I answered that it was not so much the scream I was 
 
 tired of, as living with Mrs. F and Fifi. If I could 
 
 get a better salary, I was old enough to live away from 
 them, now. 
 
 " And pretty enough, too," he added. 
 
 Then, in a different tone, he said that just at present 
 he could not offer me anything in New York, though 
 
 later he might be able to do so. Had I seen Lily 
 
 in the play running in his theatre ? 
 
 The question made my heart beat, though what it 
 suggested seemed too good to be true. I answered that 
 I had seen her, just before I began my engagement. 
 
 " Like the part ? " he inquired. 
 
 Of course I said yes. It was a splendid soubrette part, 
 and Miss had made a great hit in it. 
 
 " Think you could play it better than she does, 
 eh?" 
 
 I was afraid he was joking again, yet I replied boldly 
 that I was sure I could play it very well. 
 
 " You're young enough to be Lily's daughter," he said. 
 " But so much the better for you. What would you do 
 for me if I let you have her part, in the company I'm 
 sending on the road ? " 
 
 Still I could hardly believe in my luck. My face must 
 have been scarlet as I stammered out that I would do any- 
 thing. 
 
198 To M. L. G. 
 
 He caught me up quickly. " Do you mean that ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 There was no mistaking him, this time. I realized that 
 he was in earnest. And I realized something more, with 
 an electric shock, half of fear, and half of silly, childish 
 vanity. 
 
 My youth had protected me in many ways so far, yet 
 already I knew, from things I had heard and seen, more 
 about the facts of life than many sheltered girls know 
 when they are over twenty. There was no villainy I had 
 not at least vaguely heard of, and I had had my eyes 
 opened to the ways of certain theatrical managers. No 
 manager had ever fixed his attention on me ; but I knew 
 only too well that few plums fell into the mouths of un- 
 known young girls, unless they paid a price. 
 
 Still, a shiver ran through me now that the strange 
 grown-up thing which happened to others was happen- 
 ing to me. My surprise was mixed with dread and 
 trembling, physical terror ; but with all my force of will, 
 I tried to keep my face from showing any trace of what 
 I felt. 
 
 I have told you that this which I write is only a state- 
 ment of things as they happened, not an apology, not an 
 appeal. I want to hide nothing, and soften nothing. I 
 won't excuse myself by reminding you what my bringing 
 up had been, or the dreary lessons my experience had 
 taught me. Perhaps if my nature had been nobler, in 
 spite of my life's teachings I might have had a moral 
 code. As it was, I had no such shield in battle. I had 
 never even heard of a " moral code." 
 
 Alma L and a great many other sweet women, 
 
 more fortunate than she, were the mistresses of men with 
 
To M. L. G. 199 
 
 money and power. Every one knew what they were, and 
 girls far below them on the theatrical ladder looked up, to 
 envy them. Fifi, for instance, often said that she intended 
 to " catch " somebody worth having. With all her con- 
 ceit and ambition, she could hardly hope to marry one of 
 the rich young men whose names were often on her 
 tongue. It was something else to which she looked for- 
 ward. Hatty had often said that, if she lived in Europe, 
 rather than anything else she would like to be a king's 
 mistress. The idea in the abstract did not horrify me at 
 all. It was only now when it became concrete and per- 
 sonal, that I shrank. But my schoolgirlish love for 
 
 Cyril R had turned into such supreme disgust, that 
 
 I felt it would be impossible ever to love another man. 
 I believed what older girls said, that men were all alike 
 at heart. The only difference was that some were richer, 
 younger, and better-looking than others. As I told you 
 before, I had made up my mind, because of Alma's 
 tragedy, that I would " use men and not be used by 
 them." Often, since leaving her to her fate, I had 
 repeated those words to myself, and to my friend Hatty. 
 I was proud of a resolve which made me feel cynical, and 
 like a grown-up woman of the world. Now, after the 
 first shock of reading 's full meaning, my chief re- 
 gret was that my " chance " came from a fat, middle-aged 
 man, with a red face and a double chin. If he had been 
 young and handsome, like some of the stars who made 
 life easy for their leading ladies, it seemed to me that I 
 would not so much have minded the rest. 
 
 Still, I took myself almost fiercely to task, and tried to 
 
 be what Mrs. F would call " sensible." This was 
 
 an incredible piece of luck for me, I said to my trem- 
 
2oo To M. L. G. 
 
 bling heart, and I should be worse than a fool to throw it 
 away. 
 
 Only a few seconds did I hesitate. Then I answered 
 firmly that I quite meant what I had said. I would do 
 anything for him, if he would give me Miss 's part. 
 
 As I spoke kept his light eyes fixed on me. 
 
 He was trying to be sure that I understood. 
 
 " Well," he said at last, " if you're a good girl to me, 
 you shall have the part, and plenty of other nice things 
 beside. All your friends will envy you." 
 
 I muttered that I was sure they would. 
 
 He got up heavily from his chair, and I rose from mine. 
 When he put out his hand, I laid my fingers in his big 
 palm, reluctantly. He pulled me nearer to him. 
 
 " Would you like to come and have a nice, quiet little 
 dinner with me next Sunday evening at a place a friend 
 of mine lends me when I want to entertain ? " he asked. 
 
 It was already Friday. I was more frightened than I 
 had ever been, and felt that I would not at all like to dine 
 with him. But I knew, if I refused, it was the end of 
 everything. He was watching me without winking, to 
 see how I took the invitation. My mouth suddenly felt 
 parched, but I answered steadily that I would go. 
 
 " That's right ! " he exclaimed. " I'll give you a jolly 
 good dinner. A princess couldn't have a better one than 
 you'll get with me, little girl. Come at a quarter to eight. 
 I'll have a contract in my pocket for you to sign, if you're 
 of the same mind you are now." 
 
 He mentioned a number in an old-fashioned square, 
 rather far down-town, where artists and literary people 
 lived. He made me repeat the address, to be sure I un- 
 derstood and would not forget. 
 
To M. L. G. 201 
 
 " I wouldn't speak about this dinner to any of your 
 
 friends, if I were you, my dear," said. " Most 
 
 women are cats. They'd be jealous, and scratch." 
 
 " I won't say a word to any one," I assured him. And 
 I was only too glad to keep my promise. 
 
 " You're a wise child, that knows when it's in luck," 
 he chuckled. Then he drew me to him, and taking my 
 chin in one of his fat hands kissed me on the mouth. 
 
 I felt a wild impulse of anger, almost murderous. I 
 longed to push him violently from me, and run away. 
 
 But I said to myself, " No — no ! Remember Mrs. F 
 
 and Fifi. Remember all your good resolutions." 
 
 " Good resolutions ! " Those were the words I used 
 to steel myself against what seemed my weakness. 
 
 When he let me go, I hurried out of the room. Yet I 
 went with my head up, smiling. I think, if I had had a 
 mother who loved me, perhaps her heart would have 
 ached at that smile. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 FRIDAY and Saturday nights I could not sleep at 
 all ; and by day I could not rest. I was burning 
 with fever; but I should be deceiving you if I 
 said that I was utterly miserable. I was more excited 
 than I had ever been, so excited that I had attacks of 
 giddiness, and went from hot to cold and back again, in 
 a moment. It was the kind of excitement I think one 
 might feel in a house on fire, if one were not sure 
 whether one would be burnt alive, or find a chest full of 
 pearls and diamonds. If I forgot for an instant the 
 mysterious horror before me, I would remember again 
 with a shock, as if cold, and boiling, water had been 
 thrown over me by turns. I seemed to feel each separate 
 nerve in my body being pulled by little strings. Then 
 heavy moods, when nothing mattered, weighed me 
 down ; and I would break out of them like a butterfly 
 out of the chrysalis, with a sensation of delirious 
 triumph, longing to sing and dance, and tell Fifi things 
 that would make her madly jealous. 
 
 Nobody at Mrs. F 's ever asked any embarrassing 
 
 questions. One went and came at that house as one 
 chose. Iwas not afraid of being found out. 
 
 The address which had given me was the top 
 
 flat of a beautiful old house, once a grand mansion, now 
 converted into apartments. 
 
 I arrived promptly at a quarter to eight. A black 
 man, with one blind white eye, and thick gray hair, 
 opened the door for me. 
 
To M. L. G. 203 
 
 I entered a plain hall with only a few engravings in 
 dark frames on a green distempered wall ; but I had 
 never seen anything so wonderful as the room into which 
 the negro showed me. I thought it was like a room in 
 the palace of some sultan of the " Arabian Nights." It 
 was lit by a soft pink light, and I had a dazzled impres- 
 sion of rose brocade glittering with gold threads, faintly 
 tinted rugs which seemed to have on them the bloom of 
 a peach or the delicate pale down of a " pussy willow." 
 There were great divans, half covered with silk draperies, 
 and piled with gold-embroidered crimson or purple 
 cushions. All the doors were hung with curtains that 
 sparkled with bright points like sequins. In front of one 
 long divan was a low table, with a lace cover, laid with 
 gold knives and forks and spoons. In the rosy light the 
 sparkling glass and china were of fairylike beauty in my 
 eyes. And the lilies and roses, scattered among hot- 
 house fruit on the table, sent out such an overpowering 
 fragrance that I felt deliciously faint with their sweetness. 
 There was a perfume, too, of pastilles burning, and a 
 bluish haze of their smoke floated half-way between floor 
 and ceiling, like torn rags of pale chiffon. 
 
 came to meet me. He wore a Turkish smok- 
 ing jacket of embroidered, gold-colored silk, and with 
 his big red face and fat body he looked grotesque in his 
 beautiful surroundings. I could have laughed if I had 
 not been cold to the heart with dread. But he was kind, 
 and reassured me a little. He did not kiss me, as I had 
 been afraid he would. He only lifted my hands to his 
 lips, and seeing that I had on short gloves, pressed his 
 mouth first to one wrist, and then the other. He 
 thanked me for coming, and was quite gallant and gay. 
 
204 To M. L. G. 
 
 I must go into the next room and take off my hat, he 
 said, and went on to explain that these were bachelor's 
 quarters ; counting the kitchen, only three rooms and a 
 bath, but good of their kind. He pushed aside a 
 portiere, and I saw a wonderful bedroom, far more beau- 
 tiful than Madame's. It was not Oriental like the adjoin- 
 ing room, but French. The walls were of white satin, 
 with panel paintings of nymphs bathing in the sea, and 
 sleeping in flowery forests. Between the windows was 
 an enormous looking-glass, and through an open door I 
 could see a bathroom, whose walls seemed to be all 
 mirror. 
 
 said that he liked to dine in Eastern fashion, 
 
 reclining on a divan. That was why he wore a Turkish 
 jacket, in order to be more in keeping with the room. 
 When he explained this, he laughed uneasily, and seemed 
 half afraid that I might think it funny, for he was sensi- 
 tive about his looks. He appeared relieved when I did 
 not smile. Coming into the room with me, he opened 
 one of the painted panels. There was a wardrobe or 
 closet behind it, in which four or five lovely Oriental 
 dressing-gowns were hanging up. On the floor I noticed 
 several small pairs of silk or satin bedroom slippers, 
 standing in a neat, straight row. They were of different 
 colors, with very high heels, and I was curious about 
 them. A strong, heavy perfume hung over everything, 
 and came out in a cloud. It reminded me of the good 
 smells in Madame's workroom, and made me feel home- 
 sick, and young. 
 
 said that there were plenty more pretty things, 
 
 but I would have no time to look at them now, as dinner 
 would be ready at eight. He had asked me to come a 
 
To M. L. G. 205 
 
 quarter of an hour earlier, so that I might put on one of 
 the Oriental gowns, and be comfortable, reclining on a 
 divan, to dine. " I've got that contract for you," he 
 said, tapping his breast. " You'll see, I never forget 
 anything." 
 
 I thought that he reminded me of the contract just 
 then to make me more willing to obey him about chang- 
 ing my frock. I put on a rose-colored silk gown, which 
 I admired so much that I almost forgot to be frightened, 
 for a moment. But soon the cold, mysterious fear crawled 
 back, like a wet snake. 
 
 There were splendid things to eat for dinner. Best 
 of all I liked the salted almonds, for I had never tasted 
 any before. I had no appetite at first, but the wine 
 
 cheered and warmed me. talked a good deal, 
 
 and told me anecdotes about horses of his, which had 
 won races, and successful people whom he had put on 
 the stage. There was champagne, which tasted cold 
 and delicious when it came out of its gilded ice-pail, yet 
 drinking it sent a tingling heat through my veins. 
 
 kept filling up my glass, again and again, telling 
 
 me that the " fizz " would do me good. I had never 
 drunk any champagne before, nor have I since then. I 
 can hardly bear to see it foaming in some one else's 
 
 glass. When it was time for the fruit, ordered 
 
 his black servant not to come back unless he called. 
 The man went out and shut the door softly. My blood 
 had felt as if it were foaming like the champagne, but 
 suddenly the exhilarating sparkle ceased, as if the tap of 
 a syphon had been quickly turned off. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THREE times I have rewritten this part which 
 begins now. When I finished it first, and read 
 it over, I thought 1 had been too kind to my- 
 self in what I said. Without meaning to do so, I had 
 made excuses. I had explained what I did and what I 
 felt ; and trying to judge my statement fairly, as if I were 
 an outsider, I realized, in reading it, that I had uncon- 
 sciously made a bid for sympathy. 
 
 That is not what I wanted to do, or started out to do. 
 I began again, and rewrote a great many pages. Then, 
 when I read them, they were too brutal. I was not the 
 girl I saw there. In reading those new pages, I was 
 looking at the picture of a repulsive stranger whom I 
 had never known. I felt that, if it would be wrong to 
 draw too favorable a portrait, it would be as wrong 
 to libel the wretched child I was. From the beginning 
 I have aimed at keeping all emotion out of what I wrote : 
 to be my own judge, not my own advocate. But a just 
 judge. 
 
 I did not know, when I began to write this long state- 
 ment for you, how hard it would be to do the work 
 fairly. I thought I knew, but I did not. All the first 
 part was comparatively easy. The memories of my 
 childhood rushed back to me. I wrote surrounded by a 
 crowd of faces and old impressions, bright and lifelike 
 against a dark background, as the headlights of a motor 
 cut out the near trees and houses, clear against dead dark- 
 
 206 
 
To M. L. G. 207 
 
 ness like black velvet. It was a relief, almost a pleasure, 
 to write down everything as it flashed back into my 
 brain. I felt as if I were busy building a bridge across 
 the gulf of distance and separation. I seemed to be 
 talking to you. I saw your eyes looking at me, full of 
 kindness. The work renewed my interest in life, and 
 gave me peace after the restless agony of letting you go. 
 
 I was very nearly happy in my writing, until I had 
 got as far as leaving Madame. Until then, I had seen 
 myself like a little boat drifting on a stormy sea, and 
 it was not the boat's fault if it gathered barnacles, and 
 tangles of seaweed, or grazed its bow against sharp 
 rocks. When I began to write about my life at Mrs. 
 
 F 's, and about going on my first tour, I found my 
 
 work suddenly more difficult. Some impish intelligence 
 had come to guide the little drifting boat, and was 
 guiding it all wrong. Because I had to write the story 
 of a girl, no longer a child, beginning to grow up, the 
 task grew more complicated. I found myself stopping 
 to think, and asking anxiously, " How shall I say this ? 
 Am I laying too much stress on that ? Am I describing 
 this coarsely? Am I putting in too much, or leaving 
 too much out ? " 
 
 Besides, I was surprised to find a great many later 
 impressions not so clear as the childish ones. Though 
 they are nearer in time, truly they do not seem as 
 much a part of me as the memories of older days, when 
 I was a very little girl. The child I was before leaving 
 Madame I understand, and remember with a kind of 
 
 dreamy tenderness. The girl I became at Mrs. F 's 
 
 is almost a stranger to me now. And in writing about 
 her, I have found that it is as if the girl knew this, and 
 
2o8 To M. L. G. 
 
 would not come near me to explain herself, thus forc- 
 ing me to write down, as my own, second-hand impres- 
 sions. 
 
 It is not like that with the great things, good or bad, 
 which moulded me. They stand out with a frightening 
 vividness. And in reading over what I have written, it 
 seems to me that this peculiar state of mind betrays itself 
 in the descriptions. 
 
 It is strange that it should be so difficult, so all but 
 impossible, to write the truth about oneself. If any one 
 had told me it would be so, even after I had begun, 
 I would not have believed. I should have said, " It is 
 only too easy." I remembered all I felt and did in the 
 old boarding-houses, at Touey's, and at Madame's ; all 
 my surroundings just as they were, and as they affected 
 
 me. But on going to Mrs. F 's it was as though a 
 
 curtain had gone down on the first act of a play, and 
 for some reason there was a long, irritating wait before 
 the next act — a wait that depressed the spirits of the 
 actors. 
 
 I thought, as I went on with my writing, that I was 
 telling the whole truth about myself, just as I had at the 
 beginning, and perhaps I succeeded more or less, after 
 many efforts, up to the asterisks which I have only now 
 put at the end of what I may call an episode* 
 
 At first, I did not let it end there. I went on, as 
 best I could. But, as I have just told you, I could not 
 let what I wrote stand. Even now, in beginning again, 
 I may do no better than before ; yet, if not, this ex- 
 planation in the midst may show you why I stumble 
 and make mistakes. I try to tell the truth. But — 
 what is the truth about oneself? Can one know — 
 
To M. L. G. 209 
 
 even in the depths of one's own heart, where nobody 
 else ever sees — can one know exactly why certain 
 things were done in the past — the past of years ago, 
 or yesterday — or what one's real feelings were ? Is a 
 woman able to judge her own soul, or can God alone do 
 that? 
 
 Forgive all this. It is the only part I shall ask you 
 to forgive. As I have gone on, unrolling the past 
 before my own eyes, I have seemed to see your eyes 
 looking at me more and more coldly. I see that, if I 
 were a man, I could not forgive a woman such mistakes 
 as mine ; that if I were a man, in my eyes nothing 
 could wash her clean. I have not the same faint hope 
 now, in writing on, that I had when I began. 
 
 In the part I have destroyed, I told you things that 
 I think were unnecessary to tell. But I am still all at 
 sea. Whether it is better just to be laconic, and men- 
 tion events, or try to make you see how I felt about 
 them ? Already I have tried both ways, and neither 
 seems right. 
 
 Perhaps one great difficulty I have is that, in justice 
 
 to you, I cannot tell my story as romances can be told. 
 
 In fiction, years can be left out, or slurred over in a 
 
 few words. Above all others, I must not leave the bad 
 
 things out ; and if I were to be " artistic," I should have 
 
 to lie. Until I went to Italy, there was nothing artistic 
 
 in my life. Almost every note in it was wrong, except 
 
 the part which concerned the actress side of me, and 
 
 that is the side of which there is least need for me to 
 
 tell you. 
 
 ****** 
 
 When I went back to Mrs. F 's, I had the signed 
 
2io To M. L. G. 
 
 contract which had been promised, but I said not a word 
 of it to any one that day. 
 
 I told Mrs. F and Fifi a falsehood : that I had 
 
 spent Sunday night with Hatty, at her boarding-house. 
 But they hardly listened. I might as well not have 
 troubled to make up the story. If I had blurted out 
 the truth, they would have been, not disgusted, but 
 jealous. Or else they would have believed that I was 
 " boasting." 
 
 I wish I could tell you that I was desperately miser- 
 able and remorseful; but I was neither. I was not 
 quite happy — that was all. There was a black spot of 
 decay on the fruit which I had hoped would be golden, 
 but the spot did not spoil the fruit. I wished that life 
 were different, not that I were different. 
 
 On Tuesday, I showed my contract to Mrs. F , 
 
 and told her, vaguely, how I had received a note from 
 
 at the theatre, asking me to call on him. I gave 
 
 her the impression that everything had happened in one 
 day, even the signing of the contract ; and she and Fifi 
 were so angry because such a wonderful plum had fallen 
 into my hand, that they did not stop to think of dis- 
 crepancies. They could scarcely believe that I was to 
 have Lily 's part ; and, at first, Mrs. F was in- 
 clined to the opinion that I was hoaxing them. 
 
 I am afraid that I was mean enough to take the most 
 intense delight in Fifi's jealousy. I felt that at last I was 
 able to punish her with one blow for a thousand slights. 
 
 Some clauses in the contract made Mrs. F guess 
 
 I had not told her everything, and she spared me none of 
 her suspicions. But I had learned too many lessons 
 from her and Fifi not to know how to answer. 
 
To M. L. G. 211 
 
 I had meant to leave the flat immediately, for I was to 
 be paid for rehearsals, and even if I had no other expecta- 
 tions, I could have afforded to~make my own life. But I 
 punished Mrs. F still further by pretending to go be- 
 cause of her insinuations. " I will tell Mr. the 
 
 horrid things you've said to me," I threatened ; and she 
 
 tried to take back her words, for she was afraid of 
 
 for Fifi's sake and her own. She even begged me to 
 stay, knowing, now that I was nearly sixteen, it would be 
 useless to wire an appeal to the Baroness ; but I was not 
 to be persuaded. I packed my few belongings, and left 
 within the hour, in a whirlwind of virtuous indignation, 
 which may not have impressed her as much as it pleased 
 me. 
 
 I went to a small private hotel, the address of which 
 
 gave me. Coming from Mrs. F 's, the place 
 
 seemed luxurious. I was enraptured at being installed in 
 a little suite of my own, with a tiny sitting-room as well 
 as bedroom, and, best of all, a bath. I had never ad- 
 mired anything as much since I was torn away from 
 Madame's dainty house ; and this was all my own. If I 
 had anything to regret, I forgot it in gazing at that little 
 white bathroom, which I loved as I would have loved the 
 doll's house I had always wanted, but never had, as a 
 child. I walked back and forth, from room to room, 
 revelling in all three; but I would have sacrificed both the 
 others, if necessary, to keep the bath. 
 
 I did not think of myself as a bad girl, because I was 
 to live in that suite, though I had no money of my own 
 to pay for it and other luxuries I expected to have. I 
 thought : " Now, at last, I am going to have lovely 
 things, and be dainty and sweet. I can take two baths a 
 
212 To M. L. G. 
 
 day if I like, or even three ; and there will be nobody to 
 nag and be hateful." It seemed almost a virtue, to be so 
 glad of the sweetness and cleanliness and beauty that 
 would be mine. It is dreadful to tell you that I was 
 really happy, at least by day. Sometimes there were aw- 
 ful hours at night when I could not sleep, when I hated 
 myself, and cried hysterically, not daring to think of the 
 future. Then it was as if I saw the face of a hideous, 
 giant negro, growing out of a small floating black spot 
 on the wall, and coming slowly nearer and nearer to me, 
 like a dream that had been my greatest horror in child- 
 hood. I used often to dream it, always the same ; and 
 now the dream seemed to have come true. But I shut 
 up my fear in the locked cupboard of the night, and 
 scarcely thought of it in the daytime. 
 
 The rehearsals took hold of me, and I gave my whole 
 self to the new part. I don't know whether it was good 
 or bad for me to have that great interest just then, for, by 
 day, it made everything else seem small, just as you can 
 shut out the sight of mountains with the palm of your 
 hand, if you hold it close before your eyes. If a dark 
 thought did loom over my horizon, I shut it out like 
 that, with my hand, saying to myself, " You're going 
 to be an actress, a great actress, and nothing else matters. 
 You had to grow up and be a woman, somehow, before 
 you could hope to act." 
 
 So I forced myself to be happy, in spite of some 
 things, and because of others ; but my happiness was 
 very different from the happiness of last year. Then 
 when I travelled in the road company, with Julia and 
 Kitty, I was gay and sunny all through, like a fountain 
 with the sun shining down to its depths, leaving no dark 
 
To M. L. G. 213 
 
 corners. Now the sun shone only on the surface ; but it 
 shone brightly there, bright as the new diamond ring 
 which gave me one day. 
 
 When I was small, I used to think I should be per- 
 fectly happy if I had a diamond ring of my own like 
 Dearie's and Madame's, but it did not seem possible 
 that I should ever have one. I would say to myself, 
 " Perhaps by the time I am twenty I shall have saved up 
 enough money to buy a diamond ring," for twenty 
 seemed a great age, when one ought to have money and 
 rings, if ever. Yet here I was at sixteen with a far more 
 splendid diamond than Dearie had ever owned, or any 
 one else I had ever seen. 
 
 It was given to me for a surprise. I opened a white 
 leather case, lined with velvet, and the ring sent a blue 
 lightning streak up to my eyes. It was a wonderful mo- 
 ment, and for months afterwards I never tired of watch- 
 ing the lights come and go in that stone, and other stones 
 which came to keep it company. I, who had never had 
 a ring or any jewellery, was intoxicated with the beauty 
 of my diamonds and rubies and emeralds. Whenever I 
 knew that I was to receive a present, I wanted it to be a 
 ring. I could not have too many, for it gave me the 
 most intense pleasure to turn my hands back and forth, 
 or twist my rings to watch the colors come and go. At 
 last, I wore several rings on each finger ; and I spent an 
 hour each day manicuring my nails, making them glitter 
 like wet coral, and staining my finger tips rose-pink, so 
 as to set off the rings with an effective background. 
 
 I was exactly like a child let loose in a toy-shop and 
 told that it may take whatever it chooses. I could have 
 everything I wanted, but I did not know what to want, 
 
214 To M. L. G. 
 
 for I was a poor child who had never possessed anything, 
 and suddenly it seemed to me to be always Christmas. 
 
 When I was a very little girl, before Boy and Dearie 
 came back, a kind young actress, who played with me 
 sometimes, took me to a big shop to see a Christmas 
 " bazaar," as she called it. There was a fat, red-faced 
 man dressed up as Santa Claus, with a pack on his back, 
 and out of this pack he gave each child, whose mother 
 had spent a certain amount of money, some little toy. 
 A few children, whose mothers or companions could 
 prove by coupons that they had spent twice or thrice 
 the stipulated amount, got two or three presents. I had 
 only one, a tiny gilt watch, but it was an event in my 
 life. I was afraid at first to go up to Santa Claus and 
 take the watch from his hand when he dangled it, be- 
 cause he was so fat and red, but my actress friend who 
 had the coupon laughed, and made me go. The great 
 bearded Santa Claus laughed too, with large yellow teeth, 
 and just as he put the watch into my hand, bent down 
 suddenly and kissed me. 
 
 Now that had begun to give me presents, I 
 
 could not push the thought of the fat Santa Claus in the 
 Christmas bazaar out of my head. Sometimes it almost 
 
 seemed that and he must be one and the same 
 
 person. was the master of the toy-shop in which 
 
 I was playing, and I could run about and take what I 
 liked in it; but he was always there, with his large 
 yellow teeth, and his fat red neck that had wrinkles in 
 the back of it, above the low collar. 
 
 It was so new to me to have money, that a rage of 
 spending came upon me. I bought things just for the 
 wild joy of buying. I ordered lovely underlinen, all lace 
 
To M. L. G. 215 
 
 and delicate embroidery, more things than I could wear. 
 I had quantities of different perfumes sent home, and 
 emptied a bottleful at a time into my bath. I bought a 
 great many hats, in which I admired myself passionately 
 at the milliner's, but often found unbecoming when I 
 tried them on again, at home. 
 
 was giving me all my costumes for the new 
 
 part. My extravagances seemed to amuse him, and I 
 amused him, too, as if I were a new type of girlhood. 
 But most of my time was taken up with rehearsals, and 
 he, too, was very busy, arranging business which con- 
 cerned different productions. I was secretly thankful 
 that he was not able to see me often. 
 
 Over the mantelpiece in my bedroom was an engrav- 
 ing of an old picture, called " The Maiden's Prayer." 
 How it came to be in a room of that hotel I never 
 knew, and I wished it away, but I had not the courage 
 to ask that it might be taken down and something mod- 
 ern and more lively hung up in its place. 
 
 It was in an elaborate gold frame, which matched 
 those on other pictures of a very different kind, and the 
 face of the praying girl and the title printed underneath 
 haunted me curiously. When I went to bed without 
 saying my prayers (as I always did nowadays) I would 
 see the upturned eyes and clasped hands, as if they were 
 photographed on the inner side of my tightly closed lids. 
 I would see the name of the picture, too, in large, star- 
 ing letters, larger than they really were: " The Maiden's 
 Prayer." 
 
 I did not feel wicked, except, as I told you, sometimes 
 in black night-moments, when I was a lost soul, drown- 
 ing in dark waters, or the giant head was growing out of 
 
216 To M. L. G. 
 
 the floating spot on the wall ; but I realized doggedly 
 that I could not pray, and ought not to pray, because it 
 would be sacrilege. It was not that word which was in 
 my mind, for probably I had never heard it; but the 
 idea was there. I said to myself that it did not matter, 
 for probably there was no God to pray to, and there was 
 
 nothing at all after this life. I knew that also 
 
 had this theory. One night he became confidential. In 
 telling me anecdotes of his past, his business struggles 
 and successes, he mentioned incidentally that he did not 
 believe in God, or any heaven or hell. Sometimes I 
 preferred to think that he was right. At other times not 
 to believe in God or anything good after this world, was 
 like being alone in a universe where every other living 
 thing except myself had been destroyed. 
 
 Once in a while, I thought of Alma, with grief and 
 pity, and longing; but I compared myself with her, 
 and it seemed to me that I was far, far wiser than she 
 had been. Two or three of the young men who were 
 going out with the company were very attractive and 
 pleasant. They would have liked to flirt, partly be- 
 cause I was the girl of most importance in the cast, 
 and partly, perhaps, because of the danger they must 
 have guessed they ran in paying marked attention to 
 me. The star, too, though not young, was handsome, 
 and considered fascinating ; but I cared nothing for any 
 of them. I felt that I was being worldly wise, and that 
 I was keeping the vow I had made after the sad ending 
 of Alma's tour : the vow to use men, and never let 
 myself be used by them. I saw myself as a woman of 
 the world, a woman grown up. Yet all the more, for 
 that reason, I was in reality a child. A woman does not 
 
To M. L. G. 217 
 
 waste any thoughts upon the wonder she has achieved 
 in becoming a woman. But I was a child, playing a 
 game of being grown up — a horrible game. 
 
 I saw only once a week, except occasionally 
 
 at the theatre, while the rehearsals went on in New 
 York. For some reason, which I did not understand 
 then, he was very anxious to be prudent, very much 
 afraid of any talk about us. He impressed it upon me 
 that all his precautions were for my sake. But I grew 
 to hate, with a deadly hatred, the beautiful flat with 
 Oriental decorations, which I had thought of at first as a 
 
 palace of the «■ Arabian Nights." It belonged to , 
 
 not to a friend, as he had told me in the beginning, 
 and it was a secret haunt of his, where he never brought 
 even his most intimate men friends. I have never been 
 able to admire Eastern draperies or embroideries since 
 then. 
 
 I used to indulge myself ungratefully at moments 
 
 when I most disliked by calling him " Santa 
 
 Claus " to myself. I would count the days before leav- 
 ing New York, and say, thankfully, " After that, no 
 more Santa Claus ! " 
 
 But soon I found out that my hopes were mistaken. 
 He was interested in several theatres along our route, 
 and my heart sank at the news that he intended to run 
 out and see me there. 
 
 It was after we had started on the road that the 
 mystery of his prudence " for my sake," in New York, 
 was explained, for the people in the company began to 
 discuss the " Boss," as they called him, as they had not 
 dared to do during the rehearsals, when he might appear 
 at any instant. 
 
218 To M. L. G. 
 
 There was an old lady, Mrs. M , who played the 
 
 part of my mother. She had seemed to be a great 
 
 friend of , and I had often heard her flattering 
 
 him in the cozy, purring way that suited her gentle blue 
 eyes and dimpled, peachy cheeks. Once in a while the 
 idea flitted through my head that she had promised 
 
 to watch me, and let him know how I behaved 
 
 myself in his absence. Very likely I did her an in- 
 justice, and although I never trusted her quite, I was 
 fond of her in spite of myself. She pretended to love 
 me as much as if I were really her own daughter, and" I 
 could not help enjoying her petting. It was pleasant 
 to feel like a child with a kind mother, and she made me 
 call her " Mamma." 
 
 Once, a long time ago, Mrs. M had been a 
 
 favorite light comedy actress. She had gone on the 
 stage when a child, and had fascinating stories to tell 
 about every theatrical celebrity of the past or present. 
 Most of her anecdotes were scandalous, but she told 
 them so purringly, over her knitting, that she contrived 
 to give them quite a homely flavor. She would swing 
 comfortably to and fro in a rocking-chair, the light 
 from a window or lamp turning her wavy gray hair to 
 silver, the bright knitting-needles moving swiftly in her 
 plump fingers as she shaped a stocking. With a soft 
 motherliness she would coo monotonously on, stopping 
 to count the stitches in the midst of a tale which would 
 not be passed in print by any censor. She had a way 
 of moistening her lips often as she spoke, the little pink 
 point of her tongue darting back and forth delicately, 
 like a lizard's. 
 
 Among her pet stories were a few about the " Boss " ; 
 
To M. L. G. 219 
 
 but these she related carefully, and under solemn pledge 
 of secrecy. She must have known that there was a 
 chance of my repeating them, but the habit of talking 
 was irresistible to her, and I have noticed that most 
 great gossips are singularly confiding. 
 
 I learned from Mrs. M that had 
 
 *' launched " dozens of young actresses ; that he was 
 always interested in some girl or woman, but never in 
 
 one for long, until the reign of Lily . She had 
 
 kept him faithful, outwardly at least, for three or four 
 years ; but " they " were saying now that he was tired 
 of Lily, and would have thrown her over if he were not 
 too much in awe of her furious temper. She was famous 
 for " the worst temper and the best pearls " of any actress 
 on the stage. 
 
 When Mrs. M mentioned 's fear of Lily, I 
 
 began to understand why he had been so careful while 
 I was in New York lest his interest in me should be 
 talked about. The old lady explained volubly that 
 
 though was said " never to do anything for 
 
 nothing," I need not be afraid of slander. I was " so 
 young, only a child," and the " hit " I had made with 
 my scream had aroused his curiosity and interest in me, 
 that was all. 
 
 I doubted her protestations, but did not much care 
 whether she believed in the theory or not, or even 
 whether the rest of the company believed it, as Mrs. 
 
 M assured me they did. I knew very well I was 
 
 envied by the other girls, each one of whom would be 
 in my place if she could, and there was not one of my 
 fourteen companions of the tour, from the star down to 
 the property man, who did not spoil and flatter me. 7. 
 
22o To M. L. G. 
 
 basked in the sunshine of kindness, and hardly ever 
 stopped to think that it was not for me, myself, but for 
 the " Boss's " protegee. Even now I believe that most of 
 the people really liked me, for actors and actresses are 
 warm-hearted folk, in spite of their jealousies, and if I was 
 grateful to them, so were they grateful to me for the 
 many favors I was able to wheedle out of the " manage- 
 ment " for them. 
 
 often came to see how the company was get- 
 ting on, in big cities where he was interested in the 
 theatres, and at those towns I had the best suite in the 
 most luxurious hotel. My sitting-room would be full of 
 flowers every day ; not the flowers I loved best, but those 
 which were most expensive and showy — orchids and 
 gardenias, and stiff, long-stemmed roses, which I might 
 have used for walking-sticks. 
 
 Although I was only " leading lady," not the star of 
 the company, my part was as good as the star part, and 
 the " advance man" was instructed to have me " written 
 up " and advertised everywhere, before our arrival. My 
 photographs were shown in lobbies of theatres with those 
 of the star, and, being made to appear as important, it 
 was not strange that my newspaper notices were often as 
 long or longer than his. I realized that my success was 
 not entirely due to my talent ; still, I revelled in it, and 
 thought it worth any price, no matter how high. 
 
 When summer came, and the tour ended, 
 
 would not let me stop in New York, and remembering 
 
 Mrs. M 's stories, I guessed that Lily 's power 
 
 over him was not yet at an end. I was not jealous of 
 her, in the ordinary sense of the word, because the less I 
 saw of , the happier I was. But it vexed me that, 
 
To M. L. G. 221 
 
 because of Lily, I could not live in New York. It was 
 very little consolation to be reminded that there was no 
 need for me to spend long, hot days in the city, as other 
 actresses had to do, my next season's engagement being 
 safe. I might have loved the country, which was new to 
 
 me, if had not frequently broken the peace of the 
 
 quiet seaside village by coming there to spend week-ends 
 
 at an hotel near the cottage I shared with Mrs. M . 
 
 If it had not been for the great interest of a new play, 
 which was being written expressly for me, I think the 
 summer would have been unbearable, and that, in despera- 
 tion, I should have made my escape from at any 
 
 cost to my future. 
 
 He let me hope that the play would be produced at one 
 of his New York theatres, but when rehearsals began, 
 and I had to run up to town every day for them, he 
 could no longer hide his real plans from me. He told 
 me, then, that, after all, he had decided to send me on 
 tour once more. When I came back, rich in experience 
 and success, I should be a " real star," worthy to shine 
 in the most important city of America, and be taken 
 seriously by the critics. Of course, I knew that he had 
 never meant to let me open in New York, and that he 
 was still " afraid '' of Lily. But I liked my new part too 
 well to be very angry. Nothing outside it mattered just 
 then. 
 
 The part I had played the season before was that of a 
 young girl, a spoilt child, half ingenue, half soubrette. 
 There was no real feeling in the acting. The new part 
 was emotional, and though the character was unlike my 
 own, putting myself in it, and learning to live it and be 
 it, seemed to wake a side of my nature that had been 
 
222 To M. L. G. 
 
 asleep. I longed for a different kind of happiness from 
 any I had ever known. Music stirred me as it never had 
 before. It was as if my nerves were the strings of some 
 instrument, answering to every touch. I trembled all 
 over with physical dread when a telegram arrived telling 
 
 me that was to be expected. I loved no one, but 
 
 I dreamed of the ideal lover, and he was in all ways the 
 opposite of . 
 
 We had good bookings, and very few one-night stands, 
 so that we led a lazy life, in spite of our evening's work ; 
 yet, though I did very little by day, except read novels 
 and eat chocolates, my spirit was restless, though my 
 body was idle. It was as if a prisoner in a tomb were 
 trying to cry out and force some one to hear. Because I 
 was not as nearly contented as I had been the year be- 
 fore, and because my luxury was no longer a new and 
 satisfying toy, my acting was better than it had been. 
 I think I was like some one in a dark room, fumbling 
 blindly to find a thing which had been seen there in 
 a dream. 
 
 The winter after that — the third which had passed 
 since my acquaintance with , almost to my sur- 
 prise, he kept his promise. Either he had tired at last of 
 Lily, and ceased even to be afraid of her, or she had 
 thrown him over, for she had gone to another manage- 
 ment. He put me into the theatre where she had been 
 leading lady, and I need not tell you much about it, but 
 I made a success in New York. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 I HAD no flirtations during those years when I owed 
 everything to . If there were any virtues 
 in me at that time, they were gratitude and loyalty. 
 But perhaps, if I had been strongly tempted, I might 
 have been both ungrateful and disloyal. I am not sure. 
 All that I know is, no man came into my life who made 
 
 me wish to deceive . The more I studied him (as 
 
 unconsciously I studied all people) and saw him cruel, 
 cynical, tyrannical, yet sensitively vain, ferociously jeal- 
 ous and coarse-minded, his faults veiled to strangers 
 under a thin surface of bluff good nature, the less I in- 
 clined to trust other men. If I showed disgust for him 
 (as I did sometimes in brave moments when I would 
 have died for the pleasure of speaking my mind) he 
 would say, " I'm no worse than any one else — better 
 than most. Every mother's son of us is a beast at heart 
 if it comes to that ; and women wouldn't like us if we 
 weren't." All my experience went to make me believe 
 that he spoke the truth about men. 
 
 It is hard not to pity myself when I think what I was 
 at that time — though maybe I deserved no pity. I was 
 like a lost child trying to find light, but not knowing the 
 difference between gaslight and sunlight. I knew no 
 better than to believe that gaslight was the only light in 
 the world. I tried hard to think myself happy, for to 
 give up, and admit to being unhappy was like lying down 
 to die. One of the things that still had power to amuse 
 
 223 
 
224 To M. L. G. 
 
 me, and keep me from black moods, was gazing at my 
 jewellery. I can hardly realize it now, in looking back, 
 but my jewels were to me what morphia is to some 
 women. When I felt dissatisfied with life, and wished I 
 had died when I was a child, rather than ever have 
 
 met , I would get out all my diamonds and pearls, 
 
 and my black opals, the stones I loved better than any 
 others, because they seemed to me like stormy souls of 
 dead geniuses. I would look at them all, and say to my- 
 self, " What is there in the world that is better to 
 possess ? " But sometimes the medicine would have no 
 effect, or would make me even worse than before. I 
 would feel as if I were drowning in a terrible, cold sea, 
 which engulfed me with wave after wave. Then, in 
 frantic desperation, which seized me I did not know why, 
 I would pull off all my rings and bangles, and fling them 
 about the floor. I would empty my jewel-cases, and 
 throw everything in them across the room. For a few 
 wild minutes I could find a savage relief in that con- 
 fusion, of which the confusion of my mind was part. I 
 would think of running away, or collecting little doses of 
 chloral and killing myself; but it all ended in nothing. 
 By and by my elderly maid, Jane, who was used to what 
 she called my " tantrums," would pick up the scattered 
 rings and pendants, and dog-collars, and bracelets. She 
 would put the jewels away in their places ; and before 
 long, the day always came when I was quite pleased to 
 put my discarded treasures on again. I was not ashamed 
 of these exhibitions, but at heart rather proud of them. 
 With a kind of morbid childishness, I vaguely thought it 
 interesting, and a sign that I was a genius, to indulge in 
 " tantrums." They proved that, indeed, I had tempera- 
 
To M. L. G. 225 
 
 ment. I believed that all people who controlled their 
 emotions were cold and uninteresting. I encouraged 
 myself to give way to storms of anger. I boasted of 
 being fantastic and whimsical, and hard to please. The 
 novels I had read, and the theories I had formed from 
 life, made me think that, to be charming, a woman ought 
 to develop a new mood each new hour. She ought 
 never to be in the same mind twice, or let a man know 
 what to expect from her the next moment. The region 
 of intellect was as utterly beyond my comprehension as 
 the words " up " or " down " to the inhabitants of Flatland. 
 When fits of depression seized me, in the last of the 
 four bad years, I tried going to church as a solace. 
 Organ music, in the twilight, brought tears streaming 
 from my eyes. I longed to become a Catholic, feeling 
 vaguely that the incense and the singing would raise me 
 out of myself, near to heaven. But I could not bear the 
 thought of confessing to a priest. At Vespers, I often 
 yearned to throw myself at the feet of some man of 
 God, and beg for absolution for my sins. Yet I held 
 back ; and next day, perhaps, I would insist defiantly 
 
 that I had no serious sins to confess. I was, as 
 
 said of himself, " no worse than any one else — better 
 than most." And then maybe I would go out and give 
 away money indiscriminately, in what I supposed to be 
 " charity." That act would make me feel very good, 
 and in harmony with all the world for a little while; but 
 perhaps when night came, the doubt and despair would 
 press down on me again, like the lid of a coffin. I re- 
 membered Alma on such nights, and told myself out 
 aloud, with my face hot, and my hair tangled over my 
 pillow, that it was the fate of all true artists to be miser- 
 
226 To M. L. G. 
 
 able. But even that did not soothe me long, since I was 
 never sure for twelve hours together that I was a true 
 artist. There was perhaps more comfort in thinking it 
 useless to struggle against destiny, for that saved trouble. 
 I bought myself a diamond brooch, formed of the word 
 *' Kismet," and looked at it often when I was alone. But 
 
 I never wore it when it could be seen by . I 
 
 could not bear to have him ask questions. 
 
 After a violently religious phase, when I prayed and 
 sobbed all night, there came a phase of cold atheism. I 
 said sullenly that there was no God, no after-life, nothing 
 to do in this world but enjoy oneself and help others to 
 enjoy themselves. I grew very hard and bitter, and per- 
 haps found some childish satisfaction in becoming a cynic, 
 since other satisfaction there was none. But I was no 
 longer as amusing a companion as I had been. I was 
 twenty, and I felt very old. Nothing interested me ex- 
 cept my acting, and I cared for nobody except Jane, my 
 maid, who lectured me and was fond of me — the only 
 creature in the world who loved me unselfishly. 
 
 Of four years, I spent half the time in travelling, half 
 in New York, where I lived far up-town, in a pretty flat 
 which I never liked, and would rather not describe to 
 you. I went to the theatre in a motor-car of my own 
 
 every night. Jane knew all about , and disapproved 
 
 of him and everything connected with him, with her 
 whole soul. Yet she would not desert me, though she 
 was religious — an ardent Methodist. She was a different 
 woman when we went on tour, and I knew why, though 
 she never hinted at the reason. Stern as she was, she 
 was the soul of discretion. I, too, was happier away 
 from New York, because the third and fourth year, 
 
To M. L. G. 227 
 
 ■ followed me less often, when on the road. I think 
 
 Jane hoped, perhaps prayed, that he would at last ask 
 me to marry him. 
 
 If he had asked, almost certainly I should have refused. 
 Marriage seemed to my mind a stupid state to enter into, 
 a kind of stepping-stone to divorce, and extremely dull 
 while it lasted. But it was a severe shock, nevertheless, 
 when one day told me abruptly that he was married. 
 
 I had just finished a long, successful tour, and had 
 arrived at my flat, with Jane, both of us tired out after a 
 hot, dusty journey. A servant, reengaged from the season 
 before, had returned, and opened the rooms for us. There 
 were flowers everywhere, and it did not matter much who 
 had sent them. The place looked sweet and fresh, and 
 for the first time seemed like home. I had been depressed 
 by the thought of coming back to New York for the 
 summer, but for the moment the depression was gone. I 
 was singing as I rearranged some strong-stemmed 
 American Beauty roses in glass vases. I am glad one 
 doesn't often see American Beauty roses in England. I 
 have never cared for them since that day. 
 
 was announced. I had not seen him for a long 
 
 time — only once since I started out West in the autumn. 
 He had written seldom, but had sent many telegrams, 
 which I liked better than his letters. They were less 
 troublesome to read or answer. Always he had excused 
 himself for his negligence, saying that he had a great deal 
 of business to attend to ; and I was thankful for the 
 business. 
 
 When he came in and found me among the roses, he 
 seemed delighted to see me, and paid me a great many 
 compliments. " I'd almost forgotten how pretty you 
 
228 To M. L. G. 
 
 were," he said. And there was a curious, anxious look 
 in his eyes, as if he were afraid of me. Perhaps he had 
 
 once looked at Lily in that way. I wondered if he 
 
 had been losing money on some of his theatrical 
 companies. 
 
 At last he blurted out, " I've got a thing to say to 
 you that you won't like. But I want to tell you first 
 that it isn't going to hurt you, or make any difference 
 between us." 
 
 He floundered on for a minute or two, and then grew 
 brusque again, in self-defense. The long and short of it 
 was that he had been married the day before. Without 
 giving me time to speak, after that bare statement, he 
 hurried to explain some of his reasons for marrying. It 
 was a marriage of expedience, he said ; benefits to gain 
 on both sides. But when he told me the name of the 
 woman, I was sure that he must have tired of me, and at 
 least have fancied himself in love with her. 
 
 Then, though I had a feeling for him which had come 
 very near to loathing, if I analyzed it, I was suddenly 
 furious. I had kept him faithful longer than any one else 
 had been able to do. But now this woman had put me 
 
 in the place where I had put Lily . All that was 
 
 bad in my nature rose boiling to the surface. I think I 
 had never been really wicked at heart before, in spite of 
 all the wrong things I had done ; but I was very wicked 
 then. I made up my mind deliberately to win him 
 back, and take him away from his wife. I saw that he 
 admired me still, more than he had realized while I was 
 away. I felt that he was sincere in saying that he had 
 " forgotten how pretty I was " ; and the look in his eyes 
 told me that I had power over him. 
 
To M. L. G. 229 
 
 No doubt he had been afraid that I would make a 
 scene ; but a bad sort of cleverness kept me from speak- 
 ing out the thoughts in my mind. I was gentle and 
 friendly, and a little sad, outside. Inside, I was like a 
 wicked cat, planning where to scratch. And all the time 
 I knew that I was wicked ; but I did not care. 
 
 I assured that he had had a perfect right to marry, 
 
 and I was not angry. But the only right thing for me to 
 do was to give him up at once. I had saved enough 
 money to live on for a while ; and next season, if he 
 would like to give some one else the part which he was 
 having written for me, I could easily get another engage- 
 ment — thanks to his past kindness. All the managers 
 knew now what I could do, and there were several who 
 would be glad to have me in one of their companies. 
 
 The lady he had just married was an actress, and a 
 strikingly handsome, talented woman ; but I was sure that 
 she could not and would not play the part I spoke of. I 
 could see, without waiting to hear it from him, that he 
 meant to send me on tour next winter, in the new part, 
 while she was starred in the New York theatre. As I 
 thought of this, it made my heart feel more and more 
 wicked. I was glad that I was ten years younger than 
 
 's new wife ; and I felt very certain that I 'could make 
 
 him regret marrying her — maybe make her regret 
 marrying him. 
 
 I would not listen to any more explanations, but said 
 firmly that I would give up the flat, and go away to the 
 country. It would be easy to sublet the flat, I went on 
 gently. He would have no trouble about it ; and even if 
 it were to stand empty, I could not live there any longer. 
 I insisted, too, upon returning to him all his presents 
 
230 To M. L. G. 
 
 of jewellery. He could give them to his wife, if he 
 liked, I said quietly. She would never know from me that 
 they had belonged to anybody else before coming to her. 
 
 I talked so sweetly that he was almost reduced to tears, 
 and his sentimental regrets seemed so maudlin to me, that 
 I could hardly look at him. But I was beginning to be 
 pleased with myself, because I was acting as well as I had 
 ever acted on the stage. 
 
 You may not understand quite what I mean, when I 
 say that I had never been so wicked as I was in leaving 
 
 . But I am sure a woman would understand. I 
 
 was unscrupulous and cruel ; and I had never been either 
 of those things before. 
 
 Nothing that he could say or do would make me 
 change my mind. He refused to go away unless I would 
 promise to stay in the flat, and keep all his presents ; but 
 he was obliged to yield in the end. No doubt he had 
 some engagement with his wife, and was anxious lest she 
 should find out that he had been to my flat. I could 
 imagine how she must have made him swear that he 
 would never see or speak to me again, and I had a cold 
 pleasure in the breaking of his vow. 
 
 I wished that I had flirted desperately and secretly ever 
 since the day when I knew him first ; and I said to my- 
 self that it was not too late to begin. I wanted to make 
 him suffer, now that he had no longer any right to com- 
 plain of my ingratitude. 
 
 When he had gone, I told Jane to pack again the things 
 that she had just unpacked, except the jewellery. All 
 's presents to me I sent in a sealed package, by dis- 
 trict messenger, to his office, with " To await Mr. 's 
 
 arrival " written on it in large black letters. 
 
To M. L. G. 231 
 
 Then I decided to go to a place so well known and 
 
 conspicuous that, if followed me there, his wife 
 
 would be sure to hear of it. Summer had begun, and in 
 thinking over different seaside towns which might suit 
 me, I chose N tt. A great many rich theatrical peo- 
 ple and their friends went to N tt, even out of season. 
 
 I had plenty of money, because my salary for the last 
 
 two years had been very good. As I had told , 
 
 I knew that I could find plenty of engagements. There 
 was no need for me to save ; but even if there had been I 
 would not have wished to save. I took a furnished cot- 
 tage at N tt, let by a family who had gone to Europe ; 
 
 and next day the news was in the papers. The same 
 
 morning I had a telegram from , in the cipher 
 
 code he always used in wiring to me. He had been dis- 
 tracted at my disappearance, and begged me to come 
 back to New York. I had expected this, and did not 
 
 answer. I knew that he was afraid to come to N tt, 
 
 but I was certain that if I remained firm he would come, 
 sooner or later. 
 
 Every day I received telegrams and letters, but I took 
 no notice of them. Once a messenger brought me all 
 the jewellery which I had returned, but I sent it back by 
 the same boy, under another cover addressed to . 
 
 This went on for several weeks, but at last he could 
 bear it no longer. He arrived one evening, after dark, 
 and bribed a new servant of mine who answered the door 
 to let him in and surprise me. I was just finishing dinner 
 when he walked in. 
 
 His face showed that he dreaded a bad reception, and 
 I saw, as I had seen before, that I had him at my mercy. 
 Instead of telling him to go, I was kind, though sad, as I 
 
232 To M. L. G. 
 
 had been when I sent him away from my flat in New 
 York. I sat down again, and gave him dinner, as he 
 said that he had had nothing to eat. Then, when he had 
 drunk some wine, he began to pour out all his troubles. 
 
 The marriage was not a success. His wife was cold 
 as ice, yet very jealous. According to his story, she had 
 a nagging temper, and was recklessly extravagant. She 
 spent his money like water, and gave him nothing in re- 
 turn. Already he was wondering " what the devil he had 
 seen in her." He wished to heaven that they were not 
 married, and that he could go back to old times. But on 
 the mother's side she was related to some important peo- 
 ple in society. If they could " worry along without a 
 bust up," he said, they might be received together into a 
 very different set in New York from any that had ever 
 opened its doors to him. He confessed that, now he had 
 plenty of money and was tired of hard work, he had be- 
 gun to be ambitious socially. With his wealth and his 
 wife's connections and good reputation, he believed that 
 by and by he could " get to the top of the society tree," 
 and he wanted to do it, because he had succeeded in 
 everything else he had undertaken. He was trying for 
 this now, with all his might, and would hate to fail. 
 Failure would mean that he had married " a beast of a 
 woman " in vain. 
 
 Then he went on to repeat what he had told me in 
 New York; that he did not love his wife, and that I was 
 the only girl for whom he had ever cared. He begged 
 that I would take him back, and yet help him not to get 
 found out. 
 
 I longed to let the man see my full contempt for him ; 
 but that was not in the game I was playing. It was a 
 
To M. L. G 233 
 
 game — a wicked game ; and if . I was not punished 
 enough long ago, I am punished now, in having to write 
 of this to you, without making excuses for myself. 
 Rather than smooth things over, and try to appear better 
 than I was, I will risk your thinking me callous, just as I 
 have risked your thinking me coarse. And the most 
 horrible thing is that perhaps you will be right. I may 
 be too ready to forgive myself. But you will not make 
 that mistake. If I could be sure, at least, that you un- 
 derstand why I have let myself seem brutal! But it is 
 part of my punishment that I cannot be sure; that I feel 
 it will be impossible for you to understand at all. 
 
 I was unfailingly gentle in my manner to , and 
 
 said at last that I would think things over, if he cared to 
 stop till Monday in the hotel. I told him that he might 
 come and see me sometimes, as a friend, while he was 
 there. I took advantage of such fondness as he had for 
 me to hurt him ; and it did hurt him to feel that he had 
 lost me. He stayed ; and though he was careful not to 
 be seen, and even took his meals in a private sitting- 
 room, the day after he went back to New York one or 
 
 two papers stated that had spent the week-end 
 
 at N It. 
 
 He had mentioned that his wife had just been operated 
 on for appendicitis, or else he would not have been able 
 to slip quietly away for three whole days. It seemed 
 
 that he had told the truth ; but though Mrs. was 
 
 shut up for weeks in a hospital, somehow she contrived to 
 find out where her husband had been for those few days. 
 After a terrible scene with her, he wrote to me, throwing 
 himself on my mercy. And that letter unexpectedly 
 began a new phase of my life. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 ONE afternoon I was lying in a hammock, on a 
 narrow back veranda of the cottage 1 had 
 taken at N tt. It was thickly screened with 
 
 grape vines, through which a green light sifted, almost 
 as deep a color as if the little veranda had been walled 
 in with green glass. On hot days, a pleasant, bitter- 
 sweet smell of the young grapes and curly tendrils was 
 drawn out by the sun ; and when it mingled with a salt 
 breeze from the sea it was a heady fragrance that excited 
 me oddly. But then, everything that was keenly pleas- 
 ant excited me. Nothing could give me peace. 
 
 I was studying my part that afternoon, for had 
 
 begged me to go on under his management the next 
 season, and I had consented, chiefly because I liked the 
 new part so much I could not easily give it up. I 
 wanted to play it better than I had ever played a part 
 
 before, so that might fully realize what he had 
 
 lost in losing me. It is strange that I still resented so 
 passionately his secretly marrying another actress while 
 pretending to care only for me, because, since I had 
 broken away from him, my life was a thousand times 
 pleasanter than it had been for years. And yet I did 
 resent his marriage, I do not know why, unless some 
 curious twist in human nature makes us want to be first 
 always, even with those whom we wish never to see 
 again. 
 
 One side of me was absorbed in my study, the other 
 234 
 
To M. L. G. 235 
 
 side — the child-side, which I think never dies in a 
 woman — was pretending to be a mermaid, floating with 
 the tide, far down under the green roof of the sea. 
 Probably I should have dropped off to sleep soon, if I 
 had not heard the door-bell ring. 
 
 That sharp sound usually meant a telegram or a letter, 
 
 for very few people I knew were at N tt just then. 
 
 A minute more, and a servant (the only one I had, besides 
 the indispensable Jane) brought me a visiting-card. 
 
 It was a very small one, so I knew, even before reading 
 the name, that my caller was a man. I was just invent- 
 ing an excuse, for I could think of nobody for whose 
 sake I would care to break off my studying and dream- 
 ing, when I read the name : " Mr. William V ," with 
 
 a very magnificent address underneath, and that of an 
 exclusive club for the richest young men of New York. 
 Instantly I changed my mind and decided to see him. 
 
 Not because he belonged to a grand family, whom it 
 was supposed to be an honor to know, but because I was 
 curious as to why he had come to call ; and still more, 
 because of another reason which I shall have to explain, 
 to make you understand — even a little — the things I 
 did afterwards. And to explain, I must go back to the 
 winter before, and tell you about an incident which was 
 of importance in my life only because of Willy V . 
 
 I played in Washington, at one of the best theatres ; 
 and because I was rather the fashion, as the youngest of 
 the successful actresses on the stage just then, the gayest 
 set of young people " took me up " socially. Several 
 girls were very nice and kind, in a cordial way which 
 belongs only to the South and the far, far West, and I 
 was nattered and pleased. They told me that I was 
 
236 To M. L. G. 
 
 pretty, and a splendid actress, and that they envied me 
 for being on the stage. They asked me all sorts of 
 questions, which it amused me to answer, and made me 
 feel of great importance as a beauty and a genius. They 
 sent me my own photographs to sign, and gave me pres- 
 ents of flowers and chocolates. Also they invued me to 
 luncheon parties, which was a greater compliment than 
 the rest, for it showed that they had never heard, or at 
 all events never believed, scandal about me, and perhaps 
 that they accepted as truth the newspaper stories of my 
 good birth and early surroundings. 
 
 While I was there, in Washington, Margaret V , 
 
 who had come out in New York that autumn, arrived 
 to visit a school-friend whose father was a senator from 
 the South. This friend sent out invitations for a lunch- 
 eon party in honor of Miss V , and I was asked. 
 
 All the other girls invited were in their own set. I 
 accepted, and was looking forward to it, because it 
 seemed likely to be more interesting than most lunch- 
 eons ; but the day after writing my acceptance the 
 invitation was cancelled. My young hostess's mother 
 wrote a civil note, saying that her daughter was ill, and 
 would not be able \o give the entertainment after all. 
 
 I would have thought no more about it, if I had not 
 received an anonymous letter at the theatre, telling me 
 that the luncheon had only been abandoned in order to 
 
 get rid of me ; that Miss V had refused to make my 
 
 acquaintance, because she had heard that I was " not 
 respectable " ; and that as soon as I left Washington, the 
 invitations would be sent out again. 
 
 If I had been very sensible, perhaps I would not have 
 cared ; but I did care, immensely. I tried not to believe 
 
To M. L. G. 237 
 
 what the anonymous letter said, but I felt that it had 
 told me the truth ; and it was just as if I had been 
 publicly struck in the face. .The last few days of my 
 stay in Washington were spoiled. My vitality was low- 
 ered. Even my acting was affected ; and when I tried 
 to eat, there was always a lump in my throat. I im- 
 agined that every one knew, and whether it were fact or 
 fancy, it appeared to me that the new friends I had 
 made were not as cordial as they had been. My foolish 
 sensitiveness, which was probably more than half vanity 
 (though I didn't realize it then), felt the bruise for a long 
 time. I brooded over the slight just as indignantly as 
 if I had not deserved it ; and when I had good notices 
 for my acting, in other cities, the remembrance came 
 between my eyes and the paragraphs which would other- 
 wise have made my heart beat with joy. The kindness 
 of many other people did not console me for the scorn 
 of that one New York girl of my own age, who had 
 refused to know me because I was " not respectable." 
 Those two words, which had put me beyond the pale, 
 rankled in my mind at all sorts of unlikely times 
 and places. I would hear them in the night, when I 
 ought to have been dropping off to sleep ; or the 
 whirring wheels of a flying train would say them over 
 and over. 
 
 You will think this strange, because what I have told 
 you of my life has shown how little regard I paid to 
 conventionalities, and how little I knew about them ; 
 but I suppose there are characteristics in one's blood, 
 which have come from unknown ancestors, different in 
 most ways from oneself, and one does not even know 
 that the traits are there until something happens to 
 
238 To M. L. G. 
 
 bring them up suddenly to the surface. I had never 
 realized before how it could hurt to have a well brought 
 up girl shrink from me because I was not as she was, 
 
 until Margaret V refused to meet me at luncheon. 
 
 That was the entering wedge which pierced my sensi- 
 bility, if not my conscience, and began to show me 
 sharply what a price I had undertaken to pay for my 
 advancement on the stage, and the sweet cleanliness 
 and all the luxuries I had gloried in after escaping from 
 Mrs. F 's. 
 
 Now you can see a little of what I felt when I took 
 
 Willy V 's card in my hand that afternoon in the 
 
 hammock ; but only a little, because you are a man, 
 high-minded and nobly ready to forgive things that 
 ought to be forgiven. 
 
 Willy V was Margaret V 's brother. I knew 
 
 this, because, after reading in the paper about the 
 luncheon party, which was promptly given after I left 
 Washington, it had seemed that I was continually 
 coming upon the name of that family. They were not 
 among the great, sensational millionaires, and they were 
 not people who advertised themselves and their doings, 
 as some of the mushroom millionaires do ; but the 
 
 V s were too important in society to keep out of the 
 
 papers, and their names had sprung at my eyes nearly 
 
 every day since Washington. I knew that Willy V 
 
 had spent a good deal of time travelling in Europe since 
 leaving college, and I had read only a week or two 
 before that Margaret was in England, staying with an 
 aunt who had married a man of title. There was a 
 rumor, the paper said, that the American heiress was 
 engaged to a relation of her aunt's husband, and the 
 
To M. L. G. 239 
 
 name was mentioned — a very ancient one, which can 
 be seen in a play of Shakespeare's. 
 
 For a second or two an angry impulse made me want 
 
 to shut my door on Willy V with a rude message ; 
 
 but quickly I remembered how I had lain awake at 
 night, weaving all sorts of revenges, more or less fan- 
 tastic and childish, to punish Margaret for what I had 
 suffered. I saw, after an instant's reflection, that I had 
 a far better chance of punishing her by keeping her 
 brother, than in sending him away. I did not stop to 
 arrange any definite plan, but I told the servant that 
 she might bring Mr. V out to the veranda. 
 
 I knew that I looked well in the hammock, which was 
 of canvas, dyed scarlet, and I was propped up on a pile 
 of red silk cushions, which made as good a background 
 as I could have chosen for my hair, and my thin white 
 dress. Probably a girl in society would have risen to 
 receive a caller whom she had never met, but I did not 
 know or care whether that would be the right thing to 
 do. I lay still, in the green light, feeling somehow as 
 if I were on the stage, playing a new part on a first 
 night — a part I had not quite learned. 
 
 I had seen Margaret V in a box at the theatre 
 
 in Washington, and she was pretty, with red hair, which 
 was her principal beauty. As her brother came through 
 one of the two long windows on to the veranda, I saw 
 that there was a family resemblance, though he was not 
 handsome. He, too, had red hair, but redder than 
 Margaret's, and instead of a very white skin, as she had, 
 his was brown (not a soldier-brown, like yours, but a 
 brown-red brick color) with quantities of big yellow 
 freckles spattered over his face. He was very tall and 
 
240 To M. L. G. 
 
 slim, with a long neck in an extremely high collar, and 
 he was so well dressed, and had such straight slender 
 legs, that he gave the effect of having a perfect figure. 
 He had curled- up red eyelashes, almost invisible brows, 
 and, being clean-shaven, with a nice smile, he looked 
 boyish in spite of a big nose. I leaned on one elbow to 
 greet him, and, as we shook hands, I saw that his hand, 
 and all of his wrist which showed under his shirt-cuff, 
 was covered with fine red hair, like a delicate film of 
 copper lace. He smelt good, of some perfumed hair- 
 wash, and Turkish cigarette smoke. His teeth were 
 slightly prominent, and one of the two front ones, very 
 white and strong, lapped somewhat over the other. 
 This gave his long chin a look as if it receded a little. 
 
 I had thought that, though I had never met him, 
 probably he had seen me act, since he came back from 
 Europe ; but by the way his eyes lit up as he took my 
 hand, I guessed that, after all, he was seeing me for the 
 first time. This idea made me even more curious than 
 before ; but immediately he began to explain, stammering 
 and halting, as if he were very shy, that he had brought 
 a letter of introduction. 
 
 " I didn't like to send it in ahead of me," he said, " be- 
 cause — er — you see — it's rather a queer thing alto- 
 gether — and I wanted to explain first, or — or anyhow 
 get to you. Because you might have cut me off, you 
 know, without giving me a chance. And I've come on 
 an errand. It's partly for some one else, though I — I 
 wanted to meet you awfully, of course." 
 
 I lay there and looked at him quietly, without taking 
 my eyes off him, or interrupting, which I think confused 
 him more than if I had broken in before he got out his 
 
To M. L. G. 241 
 
 apology. But at last, when he stopped for breath, or 10 
 find something else to say, I asked him, smiling, if he 
 would give me the letter he had brought. 
 
 He looked actually frightened. Like most red-haired 
 people, his skin was very thin, and little beads of per- 
 spiration came out on his forehead, in a diamond powder. 
 He pulled at his collar, and settled his necktie. " First 
 I'd better tell you who the letter's from, and explain a 
 little more," he said. 
 
 I asked if the letter would not explain itself; but he 
 begged me not to begin it yet. He tried to say some- 
 thing mechanical, which evidently he had planned to say, 
 in a programme he had made out before coming. His 
 eyes grew large and strained, as they fixed themselves on 
 me, and seemed to be fastened to mine, as if by hypnotism. 
 Then he looked down at his manicured nails and turned 
 a green seal ring, with a crest on it, round and 
 round on the little finger of his left hand. As he 
 lowered his eyes, I saw that his long thick eyelashes 
 were powdered with dust, which had sifted on to 
 them in a train or motor-car. I cannot tell why, but this 
 effect was engaging. I suddenly liked him. But I did 
 not like him nearly enough to forgive his sister for his 
 sake. 
 
 I thought of her, and was glad to believe that she 
 would be sorry if she could see him sitting by the side of 
 my hammock, in the green light of my vine-screened 
 veranda, that was like a little room for intimate friends 
 to talk in. She would believe that I had " got hold of 
 him." 
 
 I had not " got hold " of him yet ; but already I was 
 making up my mind that I would do so, and somehow 
 
242 To M. L. G. 
 
 shame Margaret as she had shamed me. I wondered if 
 she were with the titled Englishman to whom she was 
 said to be engaged, and I sent hard, cold thoughts to her 
 across the sea. 
 
 I was not surprised that Willy V had hesitated 
 
 and found it almost impossible to explain his errand, 
 when he had managed to stammer out enough to make 
 it clear. I suppose it must have been one of the queerest 
 errands that ever took a man to a woman. It was so 
 queer that for a few minutes I could hardly believe I 
 understood ; but when I began the letter, I saw that there 
 was no mistake. 
 
 Of all the things that have ever happened to me, this 
 is the only one which I think is more like an incident of 
 a story than real life. My meeting with you was pure 
 romance, romance which makes me believe in a heaven 
 where all is good ; but it was real, and to other women, 
 perhaps, their own love stories seem as beautiful, whether 
 just begun and broken short, like mine, or melodies that 
 go on without a jarring note. Only this one chapter of 
 
 my life, which has to do with meeting Willy V , 
 
 might be used in a novel or a play. The others would 
 not lend themselves to either. 
 
 " I'm not sure whether you know I'm acquainted with 
 ," he said, after his preamble. 
 
 I shook my head without speaking, because it was a 
 
 disappointment to know that he came from . 1 
 
 wanted the visit to be made for a more interesting and, 
 perhaps, romantic reason, for almost unconsciously I was 
 starving for a little romance just then. 
 
 Willy V went on to say that he was a " forty-sec- 
 ond " cousin of Mrs. , and that it was through his 
 
To M. L. G. 243 
 
 distant relationship with her that he had met her husband. 
 
 " I used to go to 's theatre, and hear about him 
 
 and all that," he explained hastily, " but we never ran 
 across each other." 
 
 I said nothing, and Willy went on : " You see, we got 
 acquainted in a different way from what we could other- 
 wise, I being a sort of cousin of his wife's, and the only 
 one of my people that cares much about the theatre ; the 
 others go in for opera more. And we got kind of inti- 
 mate. He found out I was in a d d — I mean an 
 
 awful — mess, and he helped me out of it. I'd never 
 have thought what a devilish good fellow he is. Nothing 
 to get out of me in return, don't you know ; at least, he 
 didn't see that he had then." 
 
 I was not so sure of this, because had told me 
 
 about his social ambitions, and I knew that Willy V 
 
 could help him immensely in society. My experience 
 
 of exactly carried out what Mrs. M had said 
 
 of him, that " he never did anything for nothing." 
 
 Having got so far, Willy had landed himself in dif- 
 ficulties again. He floundered, inquiring if I had ever 
 
 heard that by a coincidence 's surname and his 
 
 middle name were the same. I replied that I had learned 
 it for the first time in looking at his card. 
 
 " Seemed to sort of draw us together," he laughed un- 
 easily. " Anyhow, he was so good to me, keeping me 
 out of my governor's bad books, that I told him he'd 
 only to ask, and I'd do anything he wanted. He said he 
 didn't want anything, but maybe he would some day ; 
 you never could tell, and that kind of talk. It was only 
 yesterday he reminded me of my offer, and begged me 
 to run out here." 
 
244 To M. L. G. 
 
 " As a favor to him? " I suggested. I smiled as I put 
 the question, but my heart began to beat thickly and 
 sickeningly, as it always did when I was reminded 
 of . 
 
 The poor young man was afraid he had been tactless, 
 and mumbled that, of course, it was the greatest pleasure 
 to come, and he had been dying to know me, but had not 
 known how to bring about a meeting. He wouldn't have 
 dared to call on me," off his own bat," and now that he'd 
 seen exactly the kind of girl I was, he would almost rather 
 
 go back, and disoblige , than let me read that letter 
 
 under his nose. 
 
 It was then I began vaguely to suspect something of 
 
 what had brought Willy V to N tt. I insisted 
 
 on seeing the letter, and read it through slowly, without 
 once raising my eyes from its pages. Even when I had 
 finished, I could not look up at once. I felt cold and sick 
 at heart, because men could believe me capable of con- 
 senting to such a bargain. Yet I did not know what an- 
 swer to give Willy V . I wanted to find some way 
 
 of keeping him near me, in order to frighten and hurt 
 Margaret, and at the same time I longed savagely to send 
 
 him back to with some terrible message, which 
 
 neither of the two could ever forget. 
 
 As I lay there, with wild ideas racing through my head 
 
 like the little horses of a merry-go-round, Willy V 
 
 sat leaning anxiously towards me, one arm, in gray 
 flannel, resting on the veranda rail, the fingers of his 
 right hand nervously drumming a tune on the wood. 
 The tap, tap made my nerves twang, and prevented me 
 from concentrating my mind on the subject of the letter. 
 I could not help wondering what tune he was playing, 
 
To M. L. G. 245 
 
 and mechanically I tried to fit the tapping to several airs 
 it might suit. 
 
 At last I said, " Please don't do that ! " 
 
 He stopped so suddenly that I glanced quickly up at 
 him. Our eyes met. His were suffused with some emo- 
 tion, perhaps embarrassment. I did not know why I was 
 impelled to ask, " What tune was that you were play- 
 ing ? " But I had to do it. 
 
 He blushed painfully, as if he had been detected in a 
 shameful act. I was sorrier for him than ever ; but not 
 sorry enough yet to let him alone. 
 
 "I — I think — I'm afraid it was Yankee Doodle," he 
 stammered. 
 
 " Oh ! " I said, reproachfully. 
 
 He was almost ready to cry. " It's the only one I 
 know," he pleaded. 
 
 This made me laugh, and he was only too thankful to 
 take up the cue. We both laughed hysterically, and 
 could hardly stop. But when at last we controlled our- 
 selves, suddenly becoming preternaturally solemn, there 
 were tears in his eyes. Seeing his wet, tears sprang to 
 mine, and poured over my cheeks. He was deeply dis- 
 tressed, and stammered broken apologies and consolations. 
 I had cried before other men — stage-managers who had 
 scolded me in old days, or who would not understand 
 what I wanted at rehearsals, in later years ; once or twice 
 
 I had cried before Herman C and ; but no 
 
 man who saw me weep had ever taken my tears so 
 seriously as Willy V did. 
 
 " Oh, don't, don't ! " he implored. " I'll go on my 
 knees to you, if you'll stop. I deserve to be killed. I'd 
 do anything to comfort you ! " His voice sounded very 
 
246 To M. L. G. 
 
 boyish, and there was more diamond powder than ever 
 on his forehead, which looked like a bright embroidery 
 on a red background, as I saw it through a thick blur of 
 my own tears. 
 
 " Do you know what is in the letter ? " I asked, when 
 I had dried my eyes. 
 
 " Not exactly," he answered. " Perhaps there are 
 things kept back from me." 
 
 Cruelly, to punish him for coming, though I was not 
 sorry that he had come, I forced him to tell me what he 
 
 did know. I tore out of him the fact that had 
 
 said he was " in for an almighty row with his wife," and 
 that there might be a divorce, in which my name would 
 be mixed up, unless Willy would " help him out of the 
 mud." Ashamed as the wretched boy already was of the 
 part he had agreed to play, I could read between the lines 
 of his admission that he had been flattered by the re- 
 quest, which had made him feel a man of the world, 
 launched upon a great adventure with an actress. 
 
 What had asked of him was to call on me at 
 
 N tt, to present the letter in person, and to be ex- 
 tremely polite. The coincidence of middle name and 
 surname being the same had put an idea into the latter's 
 ingenious head. He thought that, if Willy and I would 
 consent, it might be made to appear that it was Willy who 
 had spent the fatal week-end at the N tt hotel, sign- 
 ing his middle name in the register, instead of his last, as 
 
 a precaution against publicity. If Mrs. could be 
 
 made to believe that the adventure had been Willy's, she 
 would have nothing against her husband ; and apparently 
 the desired story had already been told to her. She was still 
 in the hospital, but insisted on questioning Willy, as soon 
 
To M. L. G. 247 
 
 as she could be allowed to see a visitor. It was for this 
 
 reason that Willy had been hurriedly sent to me. 
 
 dared not trust the fluffy-headed young man to describe 
 
 me, or the hotel at N tt, or my cottage, or answer 
 
 any other embarrassing questions that might be asked, 
 unless he had really met and talked to me at my cottage. 
 Besides, it was necessary for success that Willy and I 
 should talk matters over, and arrange a plan of campaign 
 together. 
 
 Willy had been induced, through gratitude and flat- 
 tered vanity, to consent to the scheme. I was to be 
 terrified by the threat that I might be dragged into a dis- 
 graceful divorce case, and bribed in addition by the offer 
 of twenty thousand dollars in cash. These two last in- 
 ducements had not been mentioned to Willy ; and when 
 I prevailed over his reluctance, and made him read the 
 letter, his tanned, red face grew so pale that the freckles 
 stood out on it like blotches of yellow ochre. He was 
 
 furious with ■ for making a catspaw of him, for 
 
 asking him to carry such a letter, not knowing the con- 
 tents, and piteously anxious that I should believe in his 
 innocence. 
 
 " Of course, you wouldn't take money," he repeated 
 over and over, as if he were afraid that I had not heard 
 
 him. " I only thought that, to get out of a 
 
 scrape with his wife, you might go into the thing. And 
 it was mighty nice for me, having such a chance given 
 me to meet you. I see now, you can't possibly do what 
 he wants." 
 
 " Wait. Let me think," I said. I shut my eyes to 
 ponder the matter over, and Willy sat motionless, pain- 
 fully rigid, without even letting his chair creak, as if I 
 
248 To M. L. G. 
 
 had been ill, and he were watching over me while I slept 
 through a crisis. 
 
 In my life I had done a great deal that was wrong, 
 and foolish, and bold, and perhaps even selfish and 
 
 greedy ; but I felt sure that never had I given 
 
 cause to believe I was a girl to accept his twenty thou- 
 sand dollar bribe. A little while ago, if he had ventured 
 such a suggestion, I should have been blind and deaf to 
 everything except my rage against him. But now I was 
 only coldly disgusted. His secret marriage, and his wish 
 to have me stay on at the flat as if nothing had hap- 
 pened, had shown me exactly what he was. There were 
 no surprises left as to his lack of scruples. I loathed 
 him a good deal more than before, that was all. But 
 after the first impulse of anger, when I longed to punish 
 him in some way, I was not sure that I would refuse to 
 enter the plot. I was sure only that I would not take 
 money. I think I would not have had a dollar on such 
 terms if I had been starving ; but I was very far from 
 starving. I had enough to go on with for a long time, 
 if I used what I had saved out of my salary without 
 thinking of the future; and I was too true a daughter of 
 Boy and Dearie to waste any anxious thoughts on years 
 to come. 
 
 I had two motives for thinking over that part of the 
 proposal which did not concern money. They were not 
 high motives, but at least they were not mercenary. 
 One was, that to be brought into a divorce suit would do 
 me great harm, not so much in New York as in quiet 
 towns of the West, where respectable, churchgoing 
 people went to the theatre only if they approved the 
 morals of the actors. I was very popular in such towns, 
 
To M. L. G. 249 
 
 since I had become a " star," and girls turned out in 
 crowds for my matinees. In spite of the rumor that had 
 
 set Margaret V against making my acquaintance, 
 
 there had never been any wide-spread scandal about me 
 
 in connection with . In his selfish wish to 
 
 protect himself, he had incidentally protected me as well, 
 and I did not want newspapers, which had been kind so 
 far, to print my name in large letters as the respondent 
 in a divorce case. Besides, for the sake of punishing 
 
 Margaret V , far more than because I liked Willy, I 
 
 was willing to be gossiped about a little with her brother. 
 Being very observant, and flattering myself that I could 
 read a man's character at sight, I was sure already that I 
 would be safe with him. I saw that, though not highly 
 intelligent, he was chivalrous, and singularly unspoiled 
 for a young man in his position ; and I thought that by 
 and by I should be able to do almost anything with him. 
 I was quite undecided yet what I would choose to do ; 
 and the uncertainty interested me. 
 
 When I opened my eyes, at last, I found Willy's fixed 
 on me. He apologized for staring, and said something 
 foolish about my eyelashes. I had half expected this ; 
 for I am not sure that I had not shut my eyes, and kept 
 them shut for so long, on purpose to let him notice my 
 eyelashes. 
 
 The only fault you ever accused me of was being vain 
 of their length, and liking to have them admired. But 
 you laughed when you took me to task. I think my 
 childish vanity, which I could not deny, softened your 
 heart to me a little, and made you feel that I was very 
 human ; for you had such an exalted opinion of my 
 qualities ! I thought that day, with a stab of pain, if 
 
250 To M. L. G. 
 
 you could guess my real faults, how your indulgent smile 
 would change — the dear, kind smile a man gives the 
 woman he is beginning to care for, when she seems par- 
 ticularly feminine. 
 
 I said abruptly to Willy that, of course, must 
 
 have told him everything about our past, or he would not 
 have come to me on such an errand. Painfully red, the 
 boy tried to say no ; that he did not understand what I 
 meant about the past ; but his face betrayed him. 
 
 " Please don't lie to me," I said in a low voice, sitting 
 up in the hammock. Then I looked him straight in the 
 face, with my head high, and laid my hand, which had 
 grown very cold, though the day was hot, on the back of 
 his hand, that still rested on the railing. Impulsively he 
 grasped mine with both his. I liked the way he did 
 this, and did not try to draw away, but sat still, looking 
 at him steadily. 
 
 " I cant lie to you ! " he exclaimed. " That beast did 
 say things, and I was ass enough to believe some of 
 them. But, of course, I don't now. I've a mind to kill 
 him." 
 
 " He told you the truth," I said. And then more 
 tears came. They were not false tears, neither were they 
 true in the best sense. It was not from sorrow for my 
 past that I cried, but in sheer emotion, and the growing 
 thrill of a situation which always brought tears to my 
 eyes, even if I were reading a book or watching a play 
 on the stage. 
 
 I could see that Willy V was falling under a spell. 
 
 Never before had I tried so deliberately to exert power 
 over any man except on the day when I heard that 
 ■ was married, and again when he followed me to 
 
To M. L. G. 251 
 
 N tt ; but I felt that there was a fascination in it, and 
 
 in succeeding I had almost a contempt for Willy, because 
 it was so easy to win him. 
 
 I thought his eyes, which could not break loose from 
 mine, no longer looked nice and boyish, but silly ; yet I 
 was glad, for I knew that men's eyes always had that 
 look when they were falling in love. I had not yet 
 wanted other men to be in love with me, except on prin- 
 ciple, thinking of them not as individuals, but as Man. 
 
 Yet now I wanted to have Margaret V 's brother for 
 
 my slave. 
 
 " Are you sorry for me ? " I asked gently. 
 
 " God knows I am. I want to murder that beast," 
 the boy stammered. I saw that he could hardly speak. 
 In all his life, he had perhaps never found himself in so 
 serious a situation as this. 
 
 " But you knew before. And you were grateful to 
 him ! " 
 
 " I didn't know you. That makes all the difference." 
 
 No woman, still more no girl, could have helped soft- 
 ening towards him at that. 
 
 I felt that I could like Willy quite warmly, and that 
 whatever I might have to do to win him thoroughly 
 would not be a disagreeable task. But suddenly I made 
 up my mind firmly that the game I was beginning to 
 play should be for high stakes. I seemed always to be 
 playing games with Fate, at this time ; but I had grown 
 
 so hard since had deceived me over his marriage 
 
 that I thought of them as if I were merely acting some 
 new part, more or less distasteful, yet necessary. 
 
 Tactfully, I recited a few chapters of my life, since 
 • • gave me my first contract, not as I have recited 
 
252 To M. L. G. 
 
 them to you, but painting myself as much an innocent 
 
 angel as possible, — as an unscrupulous villain. I 
 
 told no actual falsehoods ; but I knew how different my 
 story must sound from the version Willy had heard from 
 
 . As I went on, I worked myself up to a high 
 
 pitch of emotion over my own sufferings and wrongs ; 
 and before I finished Willy was listening with his face 
 hidden. At last, when I ceased speaking, he bent for- 
 ward, seized both my hands and kissed them. He, poor 
 boy, magnetized by my misleading eloquence, said that I 
 was pure as snow, purer than girls who had never been 
 tempted. 
 
 For a few minutes I actually believed him. I forgot 
 the game I had begun to play. I throbbed with the 
 remembered agony of my spoiled and broken youth. 
 I clung to him, repaid for all I had suffered through 
 Margaret. I thought of myself as a fallen angel, dragged 
 down from some shining height where I might have 
 stood. But suddenly I saw, with the clearness of a cine- 
 matograph picture, myself in Mrs. F 's flat, dancing 
 
 wildly round with Julia and Kitty, all three of us un- 
 dressed, our hair flying around bare shoulders, as we 
 sang with joy over our road engagement together. This 
 reminded me forcibly that I had never stood upon a 
 height. Yet the remembrance did not prevent me from 
 trying to fascinate Margaret V 's brother. 
 
 Willy asked if I would accept him for my knight, and 
 I said yes, gratefully. I told him that I needed a friend, 
 and let my voice tremble as I spoke. In the end we 
 shook hands upon our friendship. 
 
 He did not go back to New York that night. He 
 stayed on for days at the hotel near my cottage, where 
 
To M. L. G. 253 
 
 had stopped. But I was horribly clever in those 
 
 days, swept onward by some hitherto unknown tide of 
 worldly wisdom, whose first ripple had crawled to my 
 
 feet when confessed to his marriage. I would 
 
 not consent to see Willy often ; but when I did allow 
 him to come to me, I was kind with a gentle aloofness 
 that helped me with the new part I was learning for next 
 season. And the part helped me to succeed with Willy. 
 
 For three days he was very good. He kept bravely 
 to our compact of friendship, and was my knight, but 
 nothing more. On the fourth day he told me that he 
 loved me, and seemed to think that I would be surprised. 
 That belief was a tribute to my acting. 
 
 I did not say that I could never love him, but I told 
 him that he had better go, because I was sure he did not 
 really care for me. When he asked, as I knew he would, 
 why I said that, I answered that his love was selfish. I 
 did not want to hurt him, I went on (which was true 
 enough, though I thought of myself first) ; but if he 
 wished to keep me in his life, there was only one way. 
 I had made a terrible mistake, when I was too young to 
 realize what it meant, and if he loved me, he would not 
 wish me to make another. He must go abroad and for- 
 get all about me as soon as he could, or else — he must 
 ask me to be his wife. 
 
 I never knew, and never will know, whether he spoke 
 the truth, or only wished to save my pride; but he 
 vowed that he had never thought of anything else but 
 marriage. He pretended to be, or was, indignant be- 
 cause I had believed him capable of any other intention. 
 There was but one obstacle, he hurried to explain. He 
 had no money to live on, except what his father allowed 
 
254 To M. L. G. 
 
 him. The family did not like the stage, and had always 
 been afraid that he might marry an actress. They would 
 not welcome me as his wife, and he was not " smart 
 enough to earn his own living." We must wait two 
 years, till he was twenty-five, before having our marriage 
 announced publicly, for then he would come into several 
 hundred thousand dollars which his grandmother had 
 left to him without any conditions. But he begged me 
 to marry him secretly at once. He pleaded that he 
 loved me too much to wait, and he could not bear to 
 think of my " travelling about the country with a lot of 
 good-looking actors making love to me," unless he were 
 sure that I belonged to him. 
 
 I ought to have been passionately grateful to any 
 
 man, perhaps more especially to one in Willy V 's 
 
 world, for shutting his eyes to my past, and wanting 
 to have me for his wife. But I hardly thought of 
 gratitude, and the idea of marrying Willy unless his 
 
 sister and could both know that I was his wife 
 
 did not please me at all. My one great reason for 
 wanting to marry him was to " pay " Margaret for her 
 insult. And, incidentally, it would have soothed my 
 
 hurt vanity to have see that his aristocratic 
 
 messenger had, without a struggle, become my humble 
 slave. 
 
 1 refused to marry Willy until his people could be 
 told. I said that if we were talked about together 
 nobody would ever believe that I was his wife, and that 
 I should be very unhappy. All I would consent to was 
 an engagement, and even that only provided he wrote to 
 his sister, if no one else in the family ; also that he told 
 everything. 
 
To M. L. G. 255 
 
 It was an infatuation, and Willy did exactly as I 
 wished without any sign of the reluctance which I 
 suspected him of feeling. I made him show me an 
 answer that came to him from Margaret, in England, 
 wherein she said that if he married such a girl it would 
 
 ruin her prospects. Lord would probably object 
 
 to having me for his future sister-in-law. Willy assured 
 
 me eagerly that this was " all d d nonsense." Most 
 
 English lords married chorus girls ! And he implored 
 me " not to mind." He did not guess that I was glad, 
 and that I had got exactly what I wanted. 
 
 But with this mean gratification of my spite against 
 Margaret V , all the pleasure went out of my en- 
 gagement. I was not sorry that, when 's wife 
 
 started a scandal about us, Willy was strong enough 
 and chivalrous enough to tell his friends the truth. His 
 father was deeply offended, and sent telegrams from 
 Europe, where he had gone to fetch Margaret ; but the 
 boy stood by me loyally. He was " interviewed " and 
 I was " interviewed." A romance was made of the 
 affair by the newspapers, for it was still the dead season, 
 and journalists had not much to talk about. On the 
 strength of my engagement to the son of a rich man, 
 well known in society, several managers made me offers ; 
 and Jhat, at least, was a good thing for my career, as I 
 
 had sent back my new part to when I wrote to 
 
 refuse his money, and I enclosed my contract torn in 
 two pieces. It was childish and sentimental to do that, 
 but I was both at twenty, in spite of the experience 
 which had made me very old in some ways. 
 
 Still, in spite of his goodness — almost touching 
 nobility — and the advantages it gave me, I was so 
 
256 To M. L. G. 
 
 unbearably bored by Willy that when we had been 
 engaged for three weeks, I knew I could never marry 
 him. It seemed to me that almost any other life would 
 be more endurable than an existence in which I should 
 have to be with him every day, perhaps all day. 
 
 Although, when we came to know each other, we 
 had no tastes in common, and I found him irritatingly 
 dull, I might have gone on contentedly enough for 
 a while, if it had not been for my work. A splendid 
 piece of luck came my way, the best that had ever 
 happened to me, up to that time. I received an offer 
 of a part from one of the best managers, not only in 
 New York, but in America, a man who was as upright 
 as he was intelligent. His faith in my talent was an 
 inspiration to me. I could think of nothing but my new 
 work. Willy ceased to exist, except as an annoying 
 spoke in the wheel of my progress. I forgot all he had 
 tried to do for me, and wished that I had never met 
 him. I did not break the engagement, because I was 
 thinking too intensely of my part on the stage to give 
 thought to my part in real life. It was too much 
 trouble to have " scenes " outside the theatre, and so I 
 let things drift on as they were. But I made a dozen 
 new excuses each week not to spend any time with 
 Willy. I was too busy, or I was not well, or some- 
 thing unexpected had happened which called for another 
 rehearsal. 
 
 The part I had been given to act that winter was an 
 experiment for the manager, and critics said he had been 
 plucky to try it ; but it was a success. He believed in 
 me as an emotional actress, and trusted me with work 
 not unworthy of real greatness. The woman I had to 
 
To M. L. G. 257 
 
 portray was a good woman, sorely tempted. Looking 
 on life from her point of view (as an actress must if the 
 heart of the audience is to beat with her heart) seemed 
 to open my eyes to things all around me which had been 
 invisible. Since then I have learned a small something 
 of the thousand sights and sounds which our eyes and 
 ears are not fitted to record. That part was for me like 
 a magic touch on closed lids and deaf ears. Just a 
 slight touch, not potent to make me actually see or hear ; 
 but strong enough to fill me with a faint premonition of 
 ethereal wonders behind a veil. I cannot describe the 
 stirring of my spirit in any other way. But at first, the 
 vague, sweet pangs I suffered, without knowing what 
 they meant, gave me a restless desire for relief of some 
 sort, it hardly mattered what. I thought that I wanted 
 a new sensation, and began to search for it, though 
 idly and without definite purpose. It was a danger- 
 ous state of mind for a girl of my temperament and ex- 
 perience. 
 
 New York society was being rather foolish about a 
 Russian notability that season. One night he came to 
 our theatre with some American friends, and sat in the 
 stage box. In my best moods, I forgot the audience ; 
 but I could not help seeing the Russian. He forced him- 
 self on my attention by leaning conspicuously forward 
 in one of my " big" scenes, and clapping his hands 
 enthusiastically at a moment when applause could be 
 meant only for me. I pretended not to notice; but 
 every one who was on the stage at the time quizzed me 
 about it when the scene was over. I was teased about 
 my " conquest," and bets were made that the Russian 
 would ask to be introduced. 
 
2j8 To M. L. G. 
 
 I laughed, but I was a little excited ; and I should have 
 been disappointed if those bets had been lost. For an 
 instant I had met the man's eyes, passionate and magnetic, 
 yet at the same time insolent and proud. I realized that 
 there was power in him, and I was haunted by the wish 
 to measure mine against his. Something said in me, 
 " Here is the new sensation you wanted ! " 
 
 Let me tell you quickly that concerning the Russian 
 there is nothing I need be ashamed to confess ; nothing 
 worse than vanity and silliness. I could not go on with- 
 out saying this to you, though perhaps, again, it is only 
 vanity of another kind which makes me impatient to put 
 myself right with you in the few places where it can 
 fairly be done. 
 
 The Russian did ask to meet me that same night. 
 
 I knew slightly his principal hostess, who went con- 
 descendingly sometimes to a rather Bohemian house 
 where I often spent my Sunday evenings. The lady was 
 one of those New York women who made the acquaint- 
 ance of actresses as she' would have gone to the Zoo to 
 feed some amusing little animals, and no doubt she 
 thought that she was paying me an astounding com- 
 pliment in sending round a scribbled line to invite me to 
 supper at Sherry's after the theatre. She added that her 
 Russian guest had expressed the wish to know me. 
 
 An invitation from her was, in New York, almost like 
 a Royal command in Europe, especially when put as she 
 put it. I was childishly pleased, for no such great per- 
 sonage had ever so flattered me before ; but I saw how 
 confident the lady was that I would accept 'with humble 
 joy, and I determined to surprise her. I wrote back a 
 hurried note on my own paper, which I kept in my dress- 
 
To M. L. G. 259 
 
 ing-room, saying that though I appreciated the compli- 
 ment, my part was too trying for me to accept any invi- 
 tations after the theatre. I greatly regretted that I could 
 not make an exception to my rule, even in her favor. 
 
 That night I could hardly sleep for wondering whether 
 the Russian would be too angry to try again, or whether 
 my refusal to make myself cheap would raise my value in 
 his eyes. As for the lady, I did not much care what she 
 felt, for at the moment no one was of importance to me 
 except the Russian, whose insolent, passionate eyes 
 colored my thoughts. 
 
 Luckily, or unluckily, he was still determined to meet 
 me, and three days later we were introduced to each other 
 at an " At Home," which the same lady gave. He did 
 all he could to interest me in himself, and there was a strain 
 of wildness in his nature which appealed to the same 
 strain in mine, or I thought so. His moodiness and 
 savage sadness alternating with fits of reckless fun, rough 
 as an untrained boy's, had a kind of fascination for me as 
 I learned to know him, especially as he did not show the 
 hidden tiger in him to every one. I was tremendously 
 flattered by his admiration, and though his curious 
 magnetism never touched the higher part of me, I was 
 tempted by him almost to the breaking-point. The two 
 selves in me fought for and against him, and the fight 
 was the harder because I was without moral scruples, ex- 
 cept an instinct, which was like a voice whispering in an 
 unknown language. If I had been at heart immoral, the 
 rest of my life would have been different, and you and I 
 might never have met. But I was only unmoral. I was 
 pagan. 
 
 I knew precisely what it was that held me back, when 
 
260 To M. L. G. 
 
 one side of me was crying out to know the " new sensa- 
 tion " to the full. It was not gratitude or loyalty to Willy 
 
 V , for the dull monotony of him (the all there was 
 
 of him) had tired me out. Mentally, I had already swept 
 him aside, and could no longer even find a mischievous 
 spice in making him jealous. The power of resistance in 
 me came from my certainty that the Russian wanted me 
 precisely as an Indian wants a scalp. Even in his most 
 passionate moments, I felt that behind the hot beating of 
 his heart a cold intelligence, like a spider's, was await- 
 ing the moment when I would be caught. I felt that, 
 though perhaps he was not fully aware of it himself, he 
 had no doubt of conquering me in the end, as he had 
 conquered others. And with all the strength I had I 
 determined to disappoint him. That was my secret 
 weapon : a woman's pride of self against a man's. And 
 the woman won. 
 
 The Russian left me at last in a rage, and left New 
 York the next day. He went to the West, and enjoyed 
 great success there among women ; but I did not regret 
 him when he was gone. More and more I congratulated 
 myself on having beaten him. I thought of his ances- 
 tors, who had tortured and murdered their serfs ; and I 
 thought of mine, who had, perhaps, been no higher than 
 those serfs, and my victory over the strong man was very 
 sweet. Apart from the pleasure I had in my acting, I 
 had never known anything quite like that sensation in 
 my life. And the affair had consequences outside the in- 
 ward struggle and triumph. The gossip of people and 
 of one or two newspapers brought Willy's father to visit 
 me for the first time. 
 
 I had seen his photograph in magazines, and at Willy's 
 
To M. L. G. 261 
 
 rooms, where I had gone occasionally, chaperoned dis- 
 creetly by Jane ; but I had never seen him before. 
 
 He called at the apartment house where I had a flat, 
 without sending word in advance, but timing his arrival 
 at an hour when I was almost certain to be at home. 
 His card was brought to me, and I thought that it 
 would interest me to meet him. Instinct told me what 
 he had come to say, and it was not deceiving. It sel- 
 dom is. 
 
 He took the line that for Willy's sake he had tolerated 
 our engagement, though from the first he had strongly 
 disapproved ; that he had always hoped, if he did not 
 oppose his son, Willy might tire of me eventually. But 
 now I was bringing disgrace on the family name. He 
 had come to threaten, and that gave me a chance for a 
 situation. I have told you that I had still a childish 
 pleasure in being the centre of a picture, on the stage or 
 
 off. I informed Mr. V that nothing would induce 
 
 me to marry his son, that I had kept the engagement 
 dragging on only because I was sorry to hurt Willy's 
 feelings ; but now I had the excuse to break it, and he 
 might consider it broken from that moment. The man 
 seemed much surprised. 
 
 Although his daughter was handsome, and Willy was 
 considered a great match, the father was a common-look- 
 ing person, and had a common manner. As I talked, I 
 felt myself immensely superior to him, though he was a 
 power in the financial world, and I was nobody. To feel 
 this gave me a queer sense of intoxication, as if I had 
 drunk wine, and it had gone to my head. 
 
 Not many days after, I saw him again, at a restaurant, 
 lunching with a financial magnate. Their table was not 
 
262 To M. L. G. 
 
 far from mine. Willy's father was eating an egg. His 
 lower jaw was somewhat prominent and his upper lip was 
 short. As he ate the egg, hurriedly, the inside of his 
 large mouth was like a yellow cavern. Suddenly he 
 caught my eye, as it was fixed on him in fascinated dis- 
 gust. He flushed a dark red, and suddenly looked very 
 humble in his absurd embarrassment. He was a man 
 hard as iron in business, and had no mercy on those 
 whose interests were against his own. I have always 
 been glad that I looked at him, and made him flush 
 when he ate the egg. 
 
 You may remember my telling you that " in prehis- 
 toric days I was engaged to Willy V for a few 
 
 months." It was when you and A and I were mo- 
 toring to Farnham, and broke down. We stopped at an 
 inn, while the chauffeur did things to the car, and you 
 and I spent the time until tea was ready in turning over 
 the pages of an illustrated paper. In the paper there 
 was a snapshot of Willy at his sister's wedding. You 
 looked a question when I spoke, but asked none, and I 
 said no more. I was even sorry I had said as much. 
 There was no reason why I should tell you anything at 
 all about myself then, and I spoke on impulse. After- 
 wards I felt guilty, because Willy and his people were so 
 much above me socially, in America, that having been 
 engaged to him might have made you believe me in a 
 better position than I really was. But it was a matter 
 that could not be explained. Now you know the whole 
 history of the engagement, and it is all to Willy's credit, 
 not to mine. 
 
 In remembering, I am more grateful to him than I was 
 then. I owed Willy many things, and, indirectly, my 
 
To M. L. G. 263 
 
 chance with a manager who made me a real actress. 
 Still more indirectly, I owe him a new soul. 
 
 That puzzles you, perhaps ; but I will tell you what I 
 mean. Being engaged to Willy V lent me a bor- 
 rowed halo, and brought me good offers from important 
 managers, which otherwise I might never have had. 
 The offer I accepted led me eventually from the new 
 world to the old. There I found myself. And, having 
 found myself, I found you. I have lost you now, but I 
 have not lost the memory of you, and never can while I 
 live. I think I cannot lose it after death. And it is 
 worth all the other memories I shall carry away out of 
 this life. 
 
 Mentally, I was left rather at what they call " loose 
 ends " when the Russian had gone West, and Willy had 
 been packed off to Monte Carlo to forget me. 
 
 Joseph Surface argues with Lady Teazle that in the 
 " consciousness of innocence " lies the sting of scandal. 
 One is whipped for stealing fruit, and has not had the 
 fruit ! It was so with me, after the Russian episode. 
 
 For the first time I suffered from injustice, and smarted 
 irritably under it. The bad side of me wanted to do 
 something to hurt somebody, as I had been hurt. I am 
 ashamed to tell you what I did. It was more like the 
 trick of a mischievous cat than a woman. 
 
 After this preface, you may expect a dreadful revela- 
 tion. And when I have told you the thing, perhaps you 
 will think it nothing. I despise myself for it more than 
 for bigger sins ; yet to you that confession may mean 
 that I have no sense of proportion. I doubt if women 
 have any such sense. But it may be that we have some 
 other, finer sense to atone for the lack. 
 
264 To M. L. G. 
 
 In the spring, after Willy and the Russian had gone, a 
 week before the theatr.e should have closed, I was attacked 
 with influenza (which we call " grippe ") followed by 
 pneumonia. It was my first serious illness, and Jane sat 
 up with me for ten nights. No one who had not loved 
 me could have done half what she did, and probably I 
 should have died if it had not been for her care. When 
 I was coming out of the depths, Jane's familiar face, 
 with its pale skin covered with a network of tiny wrin- 
 kles, seemed to keep death back from me. I lay and 
 stared at her, feeling that I could not die while my eyes 
 were still able to follow the lines of her homely profile. 
 She had on the lower lid of one eye a curious mole, or 
 wart, which was semi-transparent, like a tear mixed with 
 milk. Vaguely, when half delirious, I used to feel that 
 it was a drop of medicine, distilled to save my life. It 
 was the craziest idea, but it pleased her immensely when 
 I told her afterwards. She saw nothing funny in it, nor, 
 indeed, in anything, for she took life with deadly serious- 
 ness, and thought it frivolous to do otherwise. 
 
 An understudy played my part, and when I was out of 
 danger and able to be moved, the doctor ordered me to 
 the country. It must not be " some little New York by 
 the sea, or in the mountains," he said, but real country, 
 where nothing happened and nobody came — that is, 
 nobody from my world. 
 
 I was too weak to care what was done with me, and I 
 let him choose. He was the first doctor I had ever 
 known since the three with their black bags, always 
 recalled to my memory by the very word " doctor." 
 This man and his wife were both very good to me while 
 I lay ill ; and it was his wife who found my resting-place 
 
To M. L. G. 265 
 
 in the " real country." She had stayed there herself, 
 among the mountains of New Hampshire, or within sight 
 of them, and within smell of their air. I agreed to go, 
 with Jane. Nobody was to know anything about me. 
 I was to be Miss Brown, or Miss White — it does not 
 matter which name I took. 
 
 The hotel had grown, and grown by its own success, 
 out. of a farmhouse, and it was still kept by the farmer's 
 wife, who had started her business by taking a few sum- 
 mer boarders. Besides this hotel — more like a big 
 family boarding-house than a hotel — there was no other 
 building within a five-mile walk, except the church, the 
 minister's house, and the post-office, which was also a 
 general " store." Even they were out of sight, and from 
 the house there was nothing to see except a flowery 
 lawn, an apple orchard, some billowing fields, and a blue 
 horizon of mountains. But the place was famous for its 
 
 bracing air, and Mrs. G , the landlady, was famous 
 
 for her management and cooking. 
 
 The doctor's wife engaged for me and Jane two bed- 
 rooms and a makeshift sitting-room. It was she who had 
 suggested my change of name, saying that if I were 
 known, I should be stared at unpleasantly. But when I 
 arrived I guessed that she had planned to save my feel- 
 ings. I saw that an actress would be like a black sheep 
 among a flock of white lambs at the Farm. 
 
 It was the old point of view of Miss Plum, who had 
 thought herself disgraced by my kiss. Willy's father 
 had it, too, in a more worldly way. But there was no 
 worldliness at the Farm. 
 
 It was early in July when I arrived, for I had been ill a 
 long time. The rambling house, white among green 
 
266 To M. L. G. 
 
 orchard trees, looked a hidden abode of peace. There 
 was a veranda, wide as a large room, which ran the 
 whole length of the front, and as I drove up with Jane, 
 dozens of ladies, middle-aged and old, sat on it in rocking- 
 chairs. There were no young girls and no men visible. 
 The ladies had a kind of family resemblance of goodness 
 and innocence ; narrow-mindedness I thought it, impa- 
 tiently, as I saw them all sitting there in rows, rocking 
 back and forth in different directions, like ships on a 
 Dutch clock. It was before " tea," as they called it, a 
 kind of supper, and the boarders in their afternoon 
 dresses were chatting and crocheting as they waited for 
 their meal. Some of the wide planks creaked under their 
 rockers, and their voices were thin and devitalizing. 
 Afterwards I learned that there was no man at all in the 
 
 house, except old Mr. G , and a half-blind clergyman 
 
 staying at the Farm for his health. 
 
 I was tired out and ready to cry after my long journey, 
 and my heart sank at the sight of so many elderly women. 
 I did not know what would become of me in their midst. 
 
 Even Mrs. G , kind, and bustling, and motherly, 
 
 seemed to me like an alien creature from another world. 
 I felt as different from her and her boarders as if I were 
 an inhabitant of the moon. 
 
 I had to rest before walking, as I would not consent to 
 
 be carried by Mr. G , a weedy old man in an alpaca 
 
 coat. His wife, the landlady, put me into somebody's 
 rocking-chair, by the front door, and I had only a con- 
 fused vision of a little white-haired woman jumping up 
 to give me her seat, when I sank into it and nearly 
 fainted. 
 
 My weakness, and perhaps Jane's respectable appear- 
 
To M. L. G. 267 
 
 ance, won the hearts of the ladies. They buzzed round 
 me like bees, making suggestions in stage whispers suited 
 to an invalid. Home-manufactured smelling-salts were 
 brought, and footstools, and pillows in worked covers. I 
 did not want any of these things, but I smiled feebly. It 
 was like a dream of old ladies. I had never seen so many 
 together before. It seemed to me that they were of the 
 same type as Jane. " Poor child ; poor little thing ! " 
 they murmured over me, and asked Jane in low-voiced 
 asides if I had been very ill, and what was the matter. I 
 saw by her face, and the way her nose came down over 
 her mouth, that she meant to be careful about answering 
 questions. Yet she was pleased at the attention I ex- 
 cited. These were her sort of people, and I knew that 
 she would be at home in this place. With me in New 
 York, or on tour, she was like a hen-mother, who runs 
 wretchedly after her duckling into the water. 
 
 I heard her say to some one, " Only twenty-one," and 
 a mild voice cooing, " Oh, I'd have thought seventeen." 
 It occurred to me that I must be looking very young, 
 with my hair down in two long plaits, tied with ribbon, 
 and my face so white and thin. I had not thought about 
 my looks before, since I was taken ill, except that I re- 
 membered Jane muttering to the doctor, " It's like dress- 
 ing a lath to put on her clothes. There's nothing left of 
 her but her eyes." 
 
 I almost laughed now, thinking that I must be like a 
 country clergyman's daughter dying of consumption. 
 And it amused me faintly to be taken for a person so 
 different from what I was. 
 
 I stayed in bed next day, but the boarders all inquired 
 for me, and sent me kind messages. Jane was sentinel, 
 
268 To M. L. G. 
 
 and told me what they said. She seemed pleased and 
 proud. Though she hated the least prevarication, I knew 
 she was glad the doctor's wife had taken the responsi- 
 bility of changing my name. She would have endured 
 silent agonies if she had had to see me looked at askance 
 by this band of good women. 
 
 v When I could go down-stairs, my place was in a 
 steamer chair, on the shadiest part of the veranda, 
 which was called a piazza. Nobody who had ever seen 
 me on the stage could have recognized me with my hair 
 smoothed primly back, wearing a plain, loose gown, 
 without corsets, and a little white Shetland shawl, light 
 as a cloud, thrown round my shoulders. I sat with my 
 eyes half shut at first ; but I saw the ladies coming and 
 going around me,, and noticed all their peculiarities. I 
 thought if I were a " character actress," I would like to 
 try making up my face to copy two or three of the 
 quaintest ones, and that it would be fun to imitate their 
 ways and voices. It was a distraction to imagine myself 
 doing this ; so when I felt strong enough to talk, I smiled 
 at the ladies when they hovered near me. That encour- 
 aged them to speak, and they began an acquaintance by 
 criticizing the weather, or telling me that I would soon 
 be well. They all had friends or relatives who had 
 nearly died while very young, but had recovered miracu- 
 lously. I compared the ladies in my mind to birds, 
 timid, yet eager, who hop near to scattered bits of bread, 
 then flutter away, and at last grow bold enough to peck 
 at the crumbs. 
 
 Every one wanted to know who I was, where I came 
 from, and what I did for a living. All the boarders at 
 the Farm did something for a living. Most of them 
 
To M. L. G. 269 
 
 were teachers. One was a missionary. There were two 
 Christian Science healers ; and all were very religious. 
 They did not dare ask questions of me, for I was an in- 
 valid; but they hinted to Jane. Duty and inclination 
 made her discreet. She was in her element ; and I was 
 silly enough to be jealous because she was so beamingly 
 happy among these good women. The kind little atten- 
 tions that had pleased, even while they bored me, got 
 upon my nerves at last. I wanted to go away with Jane, 
 and win her back again. 
 
 But I was not well enough to go just then. I had to 
 assume patience, if I had it not. 
 
 As I grew stronger, the ladies vied with each other in 
 doing new kindnesses for me. Because I had happened 
 to mention knowing a newspaper man, they rushed to 
 the conclusion that I was a writer. They assumed that 
 I was " literary " and fond of reading, therefore they took 
 turns in reading aloud. They skimmed what they con- 
 sidered the cream of the news for me, and were careful 
 to leave out all the theatrical paragraphs. Jane uncon- 
 sciously added to my growing irritation by dropping a 
 hint that I must be careful not to speak of the stage. 
 " Show people " were disapproved of at the Farm. 
 
 I had easily guessed this from the beginning ; but it 
 vexed me to hear it from Jane. Vaguely I began to plot 
 mischief. 
 
 The books my self-appointed nurses chose to read 
 aloud were all more or less religious, and novels were 
 laid aside on Sunday. Sunday papers were not taken 
 
 by the G s, and some of the ladies were not quite 
 
 sure that they ought to write letters on that day. On 
 Sunday evenings they all united in singing hymns, and I 
 
270 To M. L. G. 
 
 "would have been made to join if I had not pleaded that 
 my voice wasn't strong enough yet. Jane sang lustily, 
 and seemed ardently making up for the time she had lost 
 in my pagan service. I felt sulkily injured because she 
 revered these plain, elderly women, all over forty, who 
 could never have had any temptations, and that she 
 mingled no respect with her love for me. I thought that 
 she was ashamed of me in her heart, now that she had 
 come to live in this rarified atmosphere, and that she was 
 afraid of my being " found out." 
 
 That idea made me wickedly wish to be found out. I 
 dwelt a good deal on the thought of a catastrophe, and 
 wondered what, if anything, would happen. Almost 
 morbidly I imagined the homely faces, that beamed on 
 me now, freezing into masks of horror. 
 
 At last, I could get up from my steamer chair without 
 help from Jane or any one, and walk slowly up and down 
 the veranda. Then I could try my strength on the grass 
 path under the great old apple-trees. But I was not 
 allowed to go alone. I had become the spoiled darling 
 of the house, the one young person, the one creature who 
 could be petted. Always I had a body-guard of two or 
 more elderly ladies. They told me anecdotes about their 
 lives at home, and expected confidences in return, but I 
 contrived to seem frank, yet to tell nothing. Quietly I 
 let my new friends keep the theory that I was a journalist 
 who had broken down from overwork. They built it 
 up themselves, without much help from me. I had only 
 to be evasive, and I never had to lie. 
 
 Once or twice I turned the talk to theatres. The ladies 
 did not wish to think harshly of any one, yet they could 
 not help fearing that actresses were " not quite nice," 
 
To M. L. G. 271 
 
 even the best. They had never met any. But on prin- 
 ciple they were sorry for the poor things. No doubt 
 actresses had a great many temptations, and ought not 
 to be severely judged. The ladies were sorry, too, for 
 millionaires. The responsibilities of wealth were too 
 great. Most of all, they pitied foreigners. They were 
 unable to imagine a Russian aristocrat being a good 
 man ; and one day, when I came across a photograph of 
 my Russian in a newspaper, I could not resist asking a 
 group of my kind nurses what they thought of him. 
 
 They had all heard of his visit to America, and his 
 adventures. Their homes were in small towns, but they 
 read New York society news every day except Sundays, 
 if only to shake their neat heads over the extravagances 
 of the Four Hundred. Every one agreed that the Rus- 
 sian was a dangerous man, and had a horrid face. All 
 were at a loss to understand how American parents 
 could let their pure daughters dance with such a notori- 
 ous person. They had heard distressing stories about 
 him and an American actress, which they hoped were 
 untrue, for the honor of America. But they did not 
 know what the details were, as they thought it best to 
 skip improper things in newspapers. 
 
 This talk stirred up all that was rebellious in me. 
 The vague longing I had to startle these good people 
 took a definite form. 
 
 The paragraph with the Russian's photograph said 
 that he had returned from the West, and that he would 
 be paying visits to Boston and Bar Harbor before sailing 
 for Russia. 
 
 By this time I had been at the Farm for more than 
 three weeks. I was well again, and almost as strong as 
 
272 To M. L. G. 
 
 ever, though I still looked thin and pale. I felt younger, 
 too, and more like a child than I had felt in the past four 
 years. Already I had written to my doctor, telling him 
 I should do something desperate unless he let me cut 
 short the rest cure, which was to have lasted six weeks. 
 On the day of the discussion started by the Russian's 
 portrait, I waited till the hour when most of the ladies 
 took their naps, and then, full of my new idea, started 
 out along a shady " short cut " to the post-office. 
 
 I had corresponded with no one except the doctor 
 since I came to the Farm, and the few letters I received 
 had been forwarded from my flat under cover to Jane. 
 Now I telegraphed to the servant I had left at home 
 to send me a certain costume which I described. The 
 parcel was to be addressed, of course, to the new name I 
 bore at the Farm. Next, I wrote out a long message to 
 the Russian, saying that I should be glad to see him 
 again, in a friendly way, if he cared to motor from 
 
 Boston to , and " take me for a long drive." I 
 
 mentioned a day just after the date of his expected 
 arrival at Boston, asking him to call at two o'clock in 
 the afternoon. I gave him the address, and told him to 
 wire whether he would come or not. 
 
 The answer was : " Yes, with great pleasure." And 
 I let the spirit of mischief take hold of me. When the 
 parcel with the costume from New York arrived, I hid it 
 in my room, without letting Jane know that it had come. 
 I told her only that the doctor might let me go away 
 sooner than we had expected ; that by any post I might 
 have news, and she had better begin to pack, for when 
 permission came, I should want to start at once. Jane 
 was grieved, but submissive. With me she had learned 
 
To M. L. G. 273 
 
 to expect the unexpected, and few things that I could do 
 would have surprised her. 
 
 It was the habit of the boarders at Mrs. G 's farm 
 
 to sit chatting on the veranda for an hour after finish- 
 ing their noon dinner. Then, one by one, they would 
 excuse themselves on different pretexts. Naps were 
 mentioned only by the most original and independent 
 natures, for there existed a Puritan prejudice against 
 laziness as a vice ; but when the ladies returned to their 
 rocking-chairs before tea time, they all looked suspiciously 
 fresh and bright. 
 
 Dinner was at one o'clock. We invariably finished 
 before two. I was sure, therefore, that if the Russian 
 came at two, he would find the whole company of my 
 friends grouped on the veranda, on the shady side of 
 the house — the east side which commanded the drive up 
 from the front gate. 
 
 Though I was well again, I kept the privileges of an 
 invalid. Nobody thought it strange that I excused my- 
 self from dinner before the apple pie and cheese. I ran 
 up-stairs, and locked my door, although I knew it was 
 unlikely that Jane would follow me. She was fond of 
 
 helping in the kitchen, where Mrs. G and an elderly 
 
 cousin of the family did all the cooking. As soon as the 
 boarders' dinner was over, Jane and the cousin had their 
 meal cozily together. 
 
 For the first time since coming to the Farm I dressed 
 my hair as I wore it in New York. This alone, after 
 wearing it in two long tails, made a great difference in 
 my appearance. But when I had put on corsets, fitted 
 by a famous corsetiere from Paris, high-heeled shoes to 
 match the costume sent on from New York, and the 
 
274 To M. L. G. 
 
 costume itself, I was hardly to be recognized as the meek 
 little invalid. 
 
 I changed quickly, as if I were dressing for a call at 
 the beginning of a new act. When I was ready, and 
 had packed a small hand-bag, I scribbled off a note 
 in pencil to Jane. This I fastened to the crocheted 
 cover of the pincushion, on the old-fashioned chest of 
 drawers. Jane could not help seeing it there the 
 moment she opened the door. In the letter I explained 
 that I had gone off with a friend, in his automobile. I 
 told Jane to pay our bill at the Farm, and follow me 
 with our luggage to a hotel in Boston where I had once 
 or twice stopped when on tour; and into the envelope I 
 put enough money for everything. 
 
 By the time I had finished all my preparations it 
 was close upon two o'clock, and I sat down behind 
 bowed window shutters to wait. I had felt sure of the 
 Russian, but when ten minutes, twenty minutes went 
 by, I began to wonder if he had changed his mind, or 
 perhaps had never meant to come. I knew that he 
 could be cruel to those he thought had injured him ; 
 and he had been angry with me before he left New 
 York in the winter. It occurred to me now that this 
 might be his Russian way of revenging himself. But 
 while I thought over many things that could have 
 happened, I caught the sound of a motor. It was a 
 sound not often heard at the Farm, for the place was 
 not near the highroad. I jumped up and peered 
 through the half-closed shutters. A big red automobile 
 had whirled through the open gateway and was tearing 
 at a great pace up the long straight drive, under maple 
 trees. 
 
To M. L. G. 275 
 
 There was not an instant to lose if I wanted to 
 seize the dramatic moment. I snatched up my hand- 
 bag, and, flying down-stairs, flashed out on to the 
 veranda like a rocket, just as the motor slowed down 
 at the steps. 
 
 When I excused myself from dinner, I was wearing 
 a plain white linen shirt and short skirt, with canvas 
 tennis shoes, a black bow at my neck, and black bows 
 on my plaits of hair. Now my hair was " Marcelled," 
 and puffed out to fill up the brim of a red motor-bonnet, 
 with a long red veil. I had put a little rose-colored 
 nail-salve on my cheeks, for I had no rouge with me, 
 as I have never used it off the stage. My dress was of 
 poppy-red cloth to match the bonnet, and even my high- 
 heeled shoes were red. It was a costume I had worn on 
 the stage in last season's play, and I had sent for it now 
 because I knew that the car which the Russian used in 
 New York was red. 
 
 The ladies in their rocking-chairs, already startled, 
 even terrified by the sudden dashing up of the scarlet 
 automobile, were thrown almost into a state of collapse 
 at sight of me in my bright red dress and bonnet, with 
 its floating veil. 
 
 I ran out of the house to the steps of the veranda 
 without turning to glance at them ; yet I was conscious 
 of their shocked amazement — I saw with my mind's 
 eyes. I shook hands with the Russian, who called me 
 by my real name, as I pronounced his title. We took 
 no notice of any one but each other, and behaved as if 
 we two were alone in the world. His chauffeur was 
 driving, and the Russian put me on his right, in the 
 back of the car. Then, as he was giving directions to 
 
276 To M. L. G. 
 
 his man, I leaned out and kissed my hand to the band 
 of ladies on the veranda. 
 
 " Good-bye, everybody ! " I said. " A thousand thanks 
 to you all for being so kind to me. Perhaps I shan't 
 come back. Jane will attend to everything. I wish 
 you'd come and see me at the theatre some day." 
 
 With that the car was off. As we whizzed down the 
 drive and along the road, I told the Russian about my 
 rest cure, and my kind nurses at the Farm. We both 
 laughed a great deal and loudly ; but even as the story 
 unfolded, and I hit off the peculiarities of my friends for 
 the Russian's amusement, I found myself already trying 
 to apologize for what I had done, to excuse my hard- 
 heartedness on the ground of the old ladies' narrow- 
 mindedness. But it was a feeble defense. I felt that 
 keenly, though the Russian, far from being disgusted, 
 roared with laughter as he listened. By the time I had 
 finished I was miserably ashamed of myself, and would 
 have given anything to go back and beg every one's 
 forgiveness. My own story, in the telling, showed me 
 how hateful I had been, and the Russian soon made me 
 see that I had also been imprudent. My invitation had 
 led him to expect more than I meant to give, and if I 
 had not threatened to call out to passers-by, he would 
 not have put me down at the hotel where I wished to 
 stay in Boston. 
 
 There is very little chance that any of the kind souls 
 whom I disappointed and shocked so cruelly at Mrs. 
 
 G 's farm will ever read what I am writing. If by 
 
 some queer chance this story of my life should fall into 
 the hands of one among them, I should at once be 
 recognized. Nevertheless, I wish that they could all 
 
To M. L. G. 277 
 
 see it. I should like to have them know, even after 
 these years, that I hurt myself more than I hurt them 
 by the ungrateful trick I played. 
 
 Sometimes in dreams I go back to the Farm, and see 
 faces whose features I can hardly recall nowadays when 
 I am awake. Then the dreams bring back the remem- 
 brance of my going away so vividly that I see myself 
 in my red dress turning to wave good-bye from the 
 Russian's red car. And I feel again the sharp sting of 
 remorse, like a whip-lash across my breast. 
 
 As for you to whom I write, I want you also to know 
 that I was sorry, as soon as it was too late. It seemed, 
 and it seems still, even a more shameful thing to have 
 done than other things which a man would think far 
 worse. I have never forgiven myself, and it is partly 
 as a penance that I tell you ; partly because you could 
 not know me precisely as I was unless you knew the 
 story of the Farm. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 IF Jane had not loved me with real devotion, she 
 would never have come back to me again after 
 what I did at the Farm. I was afraid, while I 
 waited for her alone, in Boston, that she would not 
 come. But she forgave me, because she knew that I 
 needed her. I cried when I saw how withered the 
 poor face looked, and I never had the courage to ask 
 what was said after I went away with the Russian. I 
 knew that I had made her ashamed for herself and for 
 me, and that she really suffered ; yet she never spoke 
 a word of reproach or referred to the incident after that 
 day. 
 
 When we got back to New York, the theatre was 
 
 closed for the summer ; but Mr. O , my new manager, 
 
 had made a plan for me. He called at my flat the day 
 I telephoned news of my arrival in town, and asked me, 
 without any preamble, how I would like to run over to 
 Paris. 
 
 The idea almost took my breath away with joy. It 
 had never seemed possible to me that I should be able to 
 go to Europe. When I heard or read of other people's 
 sailings, I felt dimly that they were floating away into 
 blue regions of space. Europe had no reality for me. 
 It existed only in books, like beautiful fancies of which 
 poets had written. I listened without speaking, while 
 Mr. O talked on, explaining his plan. 
 
 He thought that the sea trip would do me good, and 
 278 
 
To M. L. G. 279 
 
 that Paris would " brighten me up " after the dullness of 
 my rest cure in the country ; but those were not the only 
 reasons for his suggestion. A new play had just been 
 produced in Paris, which had made a sensation. From 
 
 all accounts, it was a strange play, but Mr. O had 
 
 been interested in what he read of it. He had made 
 inquiries by cable of a man in Paris, whose judgment he 
 trusted, and he thought that I could play the part which 
 a favorite French actress had created. 
 
 " Go and see for yourself," he said to me, in his grave, 
 quiet voice, which always inspired me to do my best. 
 " You have learned enough French to understand what 
 they are talking about on the stage. If you feel your- 
 self in the part, I'll have the play translated at once by 
 
 X , and we'll open the theatre with it in the fall. I've 
 
 got the refusal of the rights already, by cable." 
 
 This was like Mr. O . He always secured the 
 
 rights to any foreign plays which might possibly succeed 
 in America, though often he did not produce them, but 
 sold to other managers, or let the rights drop. 
 
 The idea of going to Europe seemed almost too good 
 to be true. Even after my cabin and Jane's berth had 
 been engaged on a big ship, and instructions about meet- 
 ing me sent to X in Paris, I could hardly believe that 
 
 such a wonderful thing could really happen. I felt as I 
 used to imagine I would feel if a big mirror suddenly 
 opened like a mysterious door, and I could walk down a 
 glass corridor into another world — the looking-glass 
 world, where Lily Merritt lived. 
 
 Even while I was on board ship with Jane, it was still 
 a dream. The ship was as unreal as Europe, whither it 
 was supposed to be taking me, across the unknown sea. 
 
280 To M. L. G. 
 
 I had never been on a ship before, and had not even 
 visited the docks to see one move out or come in ; but 
 while I was walking up and down the deck with Mr. 
 
 O (who had volunteered to see me off), to my great 
 
 surprise the Russian appeared, with a group of American 
 millionaires and millionairesses whom he had been visit- 
 ing. I had had no idea that he meant to sail in this 
 ship. I had not seen him since we parted after a quarrel 
 in his motor-car, in front of my hotel in Boston ; but I 
 had read in the papers that he was sailing in one of the 
 big new Cunarders. My ship was of another line, and 
 would take a week between New York and Cherbourg. 
 
 When the Russian came in sight with his rich Ameri- 
 can friends, Mr. O ■ glanced at me with a whimsical 
 
 look, and raised his eyebrows. I understood, as well as 
 if he had spoken, that he meant, " Well, my dear girl, 
 this is really going rather too far." 
 
 " Please don't hold me responsible," I hurried to say. 
 " I assure you I didn't even know the man was coming." 
 
 " I have no right to criticize you off the stage," he an- 
 swered, with a pleasant smile. But I felt that he was 
 good-naturedly forgiving me, rather than believing that 
 what I said was true. 
 
 Instantly I had a change of mood. The beautiful, 
 mysterious sense of unreality was gone. I, and every- 
 thing round me, seemed painfully real again. I could 
 
 have cried with rage because Mr. O thought I had 
 
 secretly encouraged the Russian to engage his passage on 
 my ship. To have done this, I felt (and was sure he felt) 
 would have been taking unfair advantage of the mission 
 on which I was sent. I wanted to protest, to argue my 
 case, to assure myself before parting with Mr. O 
 
To M. L. G. 281 
 
 that he accepted my word. But a stubborn pride 
 darkened the sunshine in my heart. I would say no 
 more. Mr. O was very kind, and bade me good- 
 bye pleasantly, evidently anxious that I should see no 
 change in his manner ; yet a shadow had come between 
 us, and my pleasure in anticipating the trip was spoiled. 
 
 I respected Mr. O more than any man I had known 
 
 since I grew up, and I wanted him to respect me as a 
 woman, as well as an actress. I saw that I had forfeited 
 his esteem, and because this time I was innocent, a sense 
 of the world's injustice weighed heavily on my mind. I 
 thought that I should not have disliked half as much 
 being found out by him if I had really been guilty ; and 
 I had a strange wish to revenge myself on God, for let- 
 ting the one man whose good opinion I valued most go 
 away thinking badly of me. 
 
 I remembered how people had gossiped about me and 
 the Russian in the winter, when my only sin was a little 
 flirtation. The injustice from which I had suffered then 
 seemed worse now than it really was. I reviewed my 
 whole life sombrely, and it seemed to me very tragic. I 
 told myself that I had never had a chance ; and even 
 though I knew in my heart that this was untrue, I found 
 a grim pleasure in thinking it. Against the black back- 
 ground of my reflections, I saw myself stand, a white 
 figure, like a martyr ; and I determined that I would be 
 a martyr no longer. I vowed to enjoy life as I never 
 had enjoyed it yet. I made up my mind that I would do 
 
 all the things which the world and Mr. O believed 
 
 that I had done. And it seemed that Paris, of all places 
 in the world, would be the place to begin to live a life of 
 pleasure. 
 
282 To M. L. G. 
 
 The Russian came to me when his friends had gone, 
 and the ship had started. He told me that he had 
 changed his passage at the last moment, because he had 
 heard I would be on this ship. He said that he regretted 
 the cause he had given me for quarrelling with him, and 
 seemed so sincere that I liked him better than before. 
 Besides, I was flattered that a man in his position should 
 care so much for me. My vanity was stirred. The 
 Russian was a conspicuous figure on the ship. Every- 
 body knew him, and I guessed how those who did not know 
 me were inquiring of each other who I was, as we walked 
 the deck together the first day out. A good many people 
 of importance in society were on board, among others 
 several hostesses who had entertained the Russian, and I 
 could not help being pleased because apparently he 
 preferred my society to theirs. 
 
 I found that he was not my only acquaintance on 
 board. There were two or three Harvard boys I had 
 met when I played in Boston one year. On the second 
 day out, they introduced a man who was, in his way, as 
 interesting as the Russian, and far better looking. He 
 was from Texas, a tanned giant, taller than the Russian, 
 with a soft, lazy voice, eyes of yellow-brown like the 
 water of a brook in sunshine, and the nicest smile I had 
 ever seen, then. At first, I wanted him to like me, in 
 order to make the Russian jealous ; but soon I wanted it 
 because I liked him. There were other men, too, who V 
 were willing to waste their time on me ; and I saw that 
 there were women who envied me, pretty women in 
 society who would not have cared to know me off the 
 stage. I felt a sense of power, and was intoxicated by it. 
 I longed to make others feel it too ; and I told myself 
 
To M. L. G. 283 
 
 that there would be joy in using it recklessly. As an 
 actress I had lived, but never yet as a woman, and some- 
 thing urged me on to begin, in the old world, which poor 
 Jane believed to be so wicked. 
 
 The Russian was to spend some days in Paris : how 
 many depended upon me, he said. I promised that he 
 might call at my hotel, and that I would dine with him 
 somewhere. I imagined that with him, in Paris, I should 
 see new phases of life, and my pulses beat fast as if I were 
 knocking at a closed door that would soon open. I 
 promised the Texan that he, too, should see me; but the 
 first night was for the play which I had been sent to judge. 
 I was looking forward to that with keen interest, but for 
 the first time since going on the stage the actress in me 
 was pushed into the background. This was a bad sign, 
 and I knew it ; but the danger signal fascinated rather 
 than frightened me, because of that tumultuous new desire 
 I had to live. 
 
 Deliberately, I wanted to fall in love. I thought that 
 a real passion would put into my acting something that 
 it lacked. I tried to make believe that I was learning to 
 love the Russian, and I said to myself that if the lesson 
 were to be learned, I would learn it in Paris. He talked 
 of carrying me off to St. Petersburg. I laughed, and 
 pretended to take the threat as a joke, yet in some moods 
 I could imagine going voluntarily. 
 
 At Cherbourg, he ceased to be my slave, and became 
 once more a high personage. This made me value him 
 the more, for it showed me the distance between us, which 
 he was eager to bridge. Grave-looking, distinguished 
 men met him, and bowed a great deal, with their hats in 
 their hands. He had a private car, and walked off to it 
 
284 To M. L. G. 
 
 with his escort, but his eyes followed me and the Texan, 
 as we mounted into the same carriage. 
 
 At Paris, I was met by X , introduced by Mr. O . 
 
 X recognized me from photographs he had seen, and 
 
 I recognized him from Mr. O 's description : " Look 
 
 for a young man about thirty, with a long nose, and a pair of 
 black eyes so bright that they seem to have a separate, 
 individual life of their own. You would feel, if he died, 
 that death could not kill them, but that his eyes would 
 go on living, and glow like coals in his coffin, when he 
 was a skeleton." 
 
 That was a description not to forget, and I thought, 
 when the brilliant eyes called mine, from a distance, and 
 across a crowd, that no words could have given me a 
 more vivid idea of their compelling, fiery intelligence. 
 
 The man's whole personality sparkled with magnetism. 
 I felt a shock run up my wrist when he took my hand in 
 his nervous grasp, and our eyes meeting as our fingers 
 touched, another electric flash darted through me. 
 
 X had been born in America, of French parents, 
 
 but there was Jewish blood in his veins. He had the 
 shrewdness of the West, the artistic sense of the Latins, 
 and the dreamy passion of the Oriental. I seemed to 
 learn all this in a glance. His accent was slightly Amer- 
 ican, and made me feel at home in a strange land. But, 
 
 as we drove together to a hotel, where he, by Mr. O 's 
 
 request, had engaged rooms for me, I happened to men- 
 tion that I had learned French, for the sake of a part I 
 had to play a year before. Then he broke into the lan- 
 guage which seemed more his own, more expressive of 
 himself, than English. At once he became a Frenchman. 
 His gestures were French. He said things which neither 
 
To M. L. G. 285 
 
 Americans nor Englishmen say to women. I found that 
 I could understand all he said, though he spoke very- 
 fast, and this pleased me ; but his compliments upon my 
 French pleased me still more. I told him how I had 
 learned the language by the Berlitz method, and had 
 hired a Frenchwoman from Tours to come to my flat 
 every morning for months for conversation and criticism. 
 In order to speak broken French intelligently, in the 
 part I was studying then, I had wanted to understand the 
 language well. " Brava ! " X said, fixing his burn- 
 ing eyes upon my face. " Brava ! That is the true spirit 
 
 of the actress. I believe all that O writes me of 
 
 you. Now you are going to have a reward for your 
 hard work. I can hardly wait to know what you will 
 think of this wonderful play, and I cannot tell you how 
 glad I am that we shall see it together." 
 
 He had engaged rooms for me at an old-fashioned but 
 charming hotel, of which few Americans of the tourist 
 type had ever heard. " I thought," he said, " after see- 
 ing your photograph, that you would be the kind to like 
 it better than the big, obvious places where everybody 
 goes." 
 
 This was a compliment, and I appreciated it. 
 
 X took me to the hotel, and with the fat, polite 
 
 manager went up to show me the rooms. They were 
 full of flowers, deep velvety red roses, with purple shadows 
 lying between their petals. 
 
 " Again I judged from your photograph," X said 
 
 in English. The manager of the hotel had never troubled 
 to learn English. 
 
 Then I knew what I already suspected ; that X 
 
 was responsible for the flowers. 
 
286 To M. L. G. 
 
 There was something extraordinary about the man, 
 which I felt intensely, but could not have described. He 
 seemed a born lover, as well as a poet, and at the same 
 time a man of the world. I could not imagine meeting 
 him anywhere except in Paris. For me, he was Paris. 
 
 I was too much excited to be tired when evening 
 came. I had not even lain down to rest after the long 
 journey from Cherbourg. I forgot that I had been an 
 
 invalid only a few weeks ago, and that Mr. had 
 
 advised the sea voyage as a tonic. Never had I felt 
 more alive, more vital. I knew that I was in the right 
 mood to squeeze the last drop of meaning from the play. 
 
 X called for me early. I was to dine with him 
 
 before the theatre. He had chosen the Ritz, as a con- 
 trast to the quiet hotel where he had put me among my 
 roses. On the table were more roses. The sweet heady 
 
 perfume of them was the perfume of Paris. X 
 
 looked well in evening dress. His smooth black hair, 
 parted in the middle, seemed to be carved on his head, 
 like a block of varnished wood. 
 
 He said, " I will not give you champagne. That is 
 for butterflies and millionaires who want the best but 
 don't know how to get it. You are a rare woman, and 
 I have chosen a rare wine for you, a libation for a god- 
 dess. It is the color of your roses. It would be the 
 color of your jewels if you wore them ; for your jewels 
 should be rubies." 
 
 My heart was full, as I told him that I hated cham- 
 pagne of all things, and loved rubies, but had no jewels. 
 
 " You ought to have them," he said. " You are 
 worthy of rubies." 
 
 His brilliant eyes lit a fire in my blood. I felt his 
 
To M. L. G. 287 
 
 power, and felt, too, that I had power over him. We 
 talked of impersonal things, and his intellect seemed to 
 display itself for me, as a jeweller shows his diamonds 
 and pearls, on a gorgeous background of rich colored 
 velvet, to dazzle a customer. His wit and knowledge of 
 great authors and great events made me long to match 
 his with mine, but my treasure-chest was empty. I had 
 never filled it. Yet, though I knew little, and had read 
 little that was worth reading, I had thought some strange 
 thoughts about life, which I had never put into words for 
 any one. There had been nobody who would have cared 
 to hear my thoughts spoken. This man made me feel 
 that here was a master of music who would listen to my 
 little improvisations, and understand them. Still, under- 
 neath that feeling was another ; an instinct, rather, which 
 
 wished to tell me that in the nature of X was a 
 
 pavement of stone, under a bank of hot red roses. A 
 woman might break herself on that stone, yet she would 
 first have had the sweetness of the roses. Something in 
 me recognized that he was more dangerous than the 
 Russian, therefore more attractive, and that he was 
 putting forth all his powers to awake my interest. I 
 knew that he meant to make me love him, if he could ; 
 and — he was Paris ! 
 
 He told me about the woman who had created the 
 part I was to judge. He sketched her in a few words, 
 as a painter dashes off the first rough outlines for a 
 portrait. I saw her through his eyes : strange, vivid as a 
 passion-flower, wicked as nightshade, intoxicating as old 
 Spanish wine. But as he talked of the French actress he 
 looked at me, and his eyes said he thought only of me, 
 seeing me in the part which was the sensation of Paris. 
 
288 To M. L. G. 
 
 " You could be all that that other woman is," he said 
 at last. 
 
 " Wicked, too ? " I laughed as I asked the question. 
 
 " Why not ? " he answered. " A knowledge of what 
 stupid people call vice educates heart and soul, as cold 
 virtue never can. To be a great actress, a woman must 
 know all, feel all, of which human nature has been, or 
 can be, capable." 
 
 I had this theory to brood on, as we drove quickly, 
 and without speaking much, to the theatre. 
 
 X had taken a box ; and we were early, because 
 
 he wished to tell me about interesting people in the 
 audience before the curtain should go up. Those whom 
 he thought most worthy of mention among the men 
 were poets and artists, and among the women, celebrated 
 demi-mondaines. " They are all coming to see this 
 play," he said. " It draws them, as a light draws moths. 
 They can't keep away." 
 
 The women of whom he spoke, of whom he told me 
 strange anecdotes, in quick whispers, leaning close to 
 my ear, were all women of a singular attraction. Even 
 I, a woman, could feel it ; only a few were actually 
 beautiful ; some were even plain, yet I felt that they 
 
 might reign as queens over men. I believed that X 
 
 thought I had in me something of their power, still un- 
 developed, and that he was willing me with all his force 
 to develop it. 
 
 " Is the woman who plays my part like these ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " Wait and see," he said, mysteriously. 
 
 He had not told me much of the play ; and from Mr. 
 O , a man of few words, I had heard only the bare 
 
To M. L. G. 289 
 
 plot. As the curtain went up, I was conscious of keen 
 curiosity, yet I was thinking more about myself than 
 of the stage. I was ready to throw my soul into the 
 part, if it appealed to me, yet I wished to make it mine 
 not to give myself to it. 
 
 Unlike most plays, which lead up to the entrance of 
 the principal people, the hero and heroine were dis- 
 covered on the stage. And now, though I have not 
 told you about other plays which were of importance 
 to me, I want to tell you something of this one. Soon 
 you will see why. 
 
 The girl, and the boy — for he looked only a few 
 years older than she — were in the garden of a cafe. 
 There were others there, but these two were so young 
 and vital and happy, that they stood out among all 
 the rest, like wood doves among cockatoos. Behind 
 them, a big windmill was slowly turning its great arms, 
 dreamily and impersonally; yet the lazy arms as they 
 went up seemed to be raised in a gesture of genial 
 blessing on the lovers. In the garden were a great 
 many little tables, and most of the people were drink- 
 ing ; but the two wood pigeons were cooing to each 
 other. They had glasses on their table, as the rest had, 
 but they had forgotten everything except one another, 
 
 and the glasses were full. X explained in a whisper 
 
 that the scene was a realistic picture of the Moulin 
 Rouge, and said that he would take me there after the 
 play, or on any other night, if it would amuse me to go. 
 I murmured, •■ Yes, oh yes!" but I scarcely heard; for 
 I saw myself there in the garden, with an ideal lover, 
 such as I had never known, and perhaps would never 
 know. 
 
290 To M. L. G. 
 
 The girl and boy had met for the first time a few 
 nights before, at this very place. She was a little dress- 
 maker of Paris, young, with a pulsing vitality, and still 
 innocent in act. But her heart was a strange, tropical 
 garden, ready for the sowing of any seed. He begged 
 her to give herself to him. They would be everything 
 to each other, forever and ever. He was an artist, and 
 made not too much money as yet, but some day he 
 would be rich, and all good things that came to him 
 would be for her. She said that she loved him, and 
 did not care for money. If they had each other always, 
 it would be enough. It was spring in Paris, and in the 
 garden, and spring in their lives. One hardly knew 
 that one heard music, but it played softly and con- 
 tinuously as a trickling fountain, and there was the 
 throb of spring in its wistful notes. I put myself in the 
 girl's place, seeing not the French actress with her 
 Egyptian features and long eyes, but myself. The boy 
 was not for me merely a handsome actor playing the 
 part of a young man in his first passion : he became the 
 Spirit of Youth and Love. 
 
 The girl, in realizing that she loved the boy, carried 
 out of herself, had forgotten the motive which brought 
 her to the garden that night; but suddenly she re- 
 membered, for a man strolled on to the stage : a man, 
 middle-aged, blase, carefully dressed, clinging desperately 
 to the ragged edges of his youth. He had come to find 
 the girl. Day after day he had followed her in the street. 
 He had spoken to her, promising to give her all that she 
 had ever wanted in life, or envied others. At last, she 
 had agreed to meet him in the garden. 
 
 It was as if the snake crawled out from among flowers 
 
To M. L. G. 291 
 
 while the young Adam and Eve spoke their first words 
 of love. The sweet spring music fell from its youthful 
 treble to a lower key. 
 
 The girl had told the boy nothing about this man, not 
 because she deliberately planned to deceive him, but 
 because he and love had made her forget. The man 
 saw her, and, coming up, claimed her acquaintance, as if 
 she belonged to him. The boy believed that he had 
 been betrayed. And so the Spirit of Love and Youth 
 vanished out of the girl's life. She felt that nothing 
 could be as it had been. A stubborn streak of fatalism 
 in her nature would not let her call love back, and there 
 was no returning to the old, childish days, after such 
 feverish, crowded hours of woman's life. She consented 
 to go with the man. 
 
 That was the end of the act ; her decision. 
 
 The next scene was at the Ritz Hotel, where X 
 
 and I had dined. I could see the very table where we 
 had sat. A year had passed since the night in the 
 garden, when the arms of the windmill rose in blessing, 
 and fell in cursing, the lovers. The girl was no longer 
 the same merry little milliner. The strange garden of 
 her heart, ready for blossoming a year ago, had flowered 
 with tropical blooms. All the fantastic possibilities of 
 her untried nature had developed, as if in a hothouse. 
 She had become a brilliant courtesan, and in the summer 
 of her success the buds of spring seemed pale and cold. 
 Dazzled with her own splendor, she was so gay that she 
 did not miss happiness. Already she had left the first 
 man who had launched her on the tide of success. She 
 was with a Russian prince, who valued her, not for her- 
 self (he did not understand, or trouble to understand, her 
 
292 To M. L. G. 
 
 nature), but because she was la femme la plus chere, la 
 plus difficile. She was the Koh-i-noor of the half world, 
 where women can be bought like diamonds. There were 
 other men around her, who envied the Prince, and women 
 who envied her the prize she had taken from them. 
 
 The sweet minor music of spring had changed to vo- 
 luptuous notes ; but suddenly the old delicate motif began 
 again, in the midst of the deeper chords. It sounded 
 like the spraying of a fountain on apple blossoms, among 
 a tangle of passion-flowers. The boy who had loved 
 the girl in the garden came upon the scene with a friend 
 whose wife's portrait he was painting. He had been 
 away from Paris, in the north for many months, and 
 knew nothing of what had happened, but he had never 
 forgotten the garden, and the love he had found and 
 lost. Now, when he heard men talking of the Prince's 
 mistress, he turned to look, and recognized in the woman 
 the girl he had adored. She recognized him also, while 
 the audience felt the thrill of the spring music ; but she 
 had no regrets. The Spirit of Youth and Love passed 
 by, and she was glad that she had turned away from him 
 in the garden, to stray into the path paved with gold. 
 
 In the third act, one year later, the Russian prince 
 had tired of his mistress, and left her for another woman, 
 encore plus chere, encore plus difficile. Still a great courte- 
 san, she had taken a step down. The world knew why 
 the Prince had deserted her for a rival, and eyes that 
 had looked only at her turned to the other woman, who 
 was more dear and more difficult. The star had fallen 
 into the hands of a rich merchant — the one comic 
 character in the play, accentuating its tragedy. Even 
 he did not love the splendid creature he had bought. 
 
To M. L. G. 293 
 
 To him, she was worth her price because she had been 
 the Prince's mistress. He boasted proudly of what she 
 cost him, and of his predecessor, " a serene highness." 
 In public he made much of her. In private, he taunted 
 her because the Prince had cast her off for a jewel more 
 rare than she. 
 
 The voluptuous music had strident notes in it, as the 
 Prince appeared with his new acquisition. The mer- 
 chant coveted the reigning beauty, because what was 
 " good enough for royalty was not too good for him." 
 The scene was Monte Carlo, and the Prince had just 
 refused his new mistress a rope of pearls which had 
 belonged to an Empress. The merchant bought and 
 offered it to her, in the hearing of the dethroned queen. 
 
 They were at a ball, given by the Casino. Many 
 artists were there, and among them the boy of the 
 garden, now a man, his heart saddened, but not wholly 
 changed. So again the Spirit of Youth and Love drew 
 near the woman for a moment, and, by beckoning him, 
 she might even then have brought him back into her 
 life. But, broken and disappointed as she was, Love 
 and Youth had lost all charm for her. Their sweetness 
 would have been like water after champagne. 
 
 In the last act, fifteen years had passed, since the first 
 scene in spring time, in the garden. But again the scene 
 was laid in the same garden. Outwardly, all was as it 
 had been. It was spring, as before, and delicate early 
 flowers were in bloom, as in that dead year, long ago. 
 There were the same little tables in the same places ; 
 and in the background the great arms of the windmill 
 went up and down impersonally and dreamily. Only 
 the people were changed. New waiters hurried about, 
 
294 To M. L. G. 
 
 serving new people; pretty girls and young men who 
 would have been little children at the time of the first 
 act. At the table where the girl and her lover had sat, 
 other lovers sat now. Two or three of the old set re- 
 turned as the act went on, and the artist, successful and 
 rich, appeared with a young wife whom he loved. As 
 he told her of the past, and the old passion, found and 
 lost in this garden, no longer regretted now, the music 
 changed. All the old notes blended, as if with surging 
 memories, became strident, then monotonous, as the 
 moving of the windmill's arms, and eventually muffled, 
 coarsened, the first elusive motif swallowed up in jarring 
 sounds. The woman he had loved was coming into the 
 garden, walking mechanically, as if her feet brought her 
 along the well-known way almost without her volition. 
 The man had just told his bride that he saw the garden 
 again now for the first time in fifteen years ; but the 
 woman's step and unseeing eyes told the audience that 
 she had wandered in every night at the same hour, year 
 after year. 
 
 Somehow, without painting lines or hollows on her 
 face, the actress with the strange Egyptian features had 
 made herself appear, not fifteen, but twenty years older. 
 It was a wonderful transformation, which could be felt 
 by those who saw it, rather than defined. And the 
 change was not the ordinary gentle change from vivid 
 youth to placid middle age. There were no wrinkles to 
 be seen. The woman's hair showed no gray. She had 
 neither grown fat, nor wasted visibly in figure ; yet she 
 looked as old as the world, as old as sin. In her gaudy 
 dress and fashionable hat, expensive but slightly passee, 
 she was a galvanized corpse, not a living woman with 
 
To M. L. G. 299 
 
 warm blood in her veins, and a beating heart. Her 
 great burnt-out eyes were dead fires, not to be rekindled 
 ever, by any light of joy or hope. All the elasticity of 
 youth had gone from her muscles, though in years she 
 was not an old woman, scarcely even of middle age. 
 She dragged herself along as if dazed as well as weary. 
 She did not lift her feet from the ground. Her shoulders 
 drooped. Her arms hung straight down at her sides, as 
 if she carried weights in her hands. Her head bent 
 forward, and yet her lips wore a faint smile, sad as the 
 faded perfume of pot-pourri. People spoke to her, not 
 unkindly, yet as if she were a thing of no importance, a 
 withered leaf out of place among spring flowers. She 
 answered without change of expression. She was per- 
 fectly conscious of what she was doing, but it was the 
 consciousness of a body without a soul. 
 
 I had never seen an absinthe drinker on the stage or 
 in real life ; yet I knew that this woman had killed her 
 youth with wormwood, had blotted out ambition and 
 hope. There was nothing left for her in this world but 
 more absinthe, and then more. 
 
 The man who had loved her once saw and shrank from 
 her with horror. I could see him wondering why he 
 had ever worshipped or regretted this galvanized dead 
 thing. Quickly he moved away with his young bride, 
 as if to save her from pollution. The woman's eyes 
 turned towards him as he went, moved after him with a 
 faint gleam of interest which died as it was born. The 
 lovers at the table where she had once sat listening to the 
 boy's prayers got up, and strolled happily off, their arms 
 linked, their heads close together. 'The woman, seeing 
 the table free, moved heavily to it, and let herself drop 
 
296 To M. L. G. 
 
 into the chair the young girl had left. There was no 
 tragedy of despairing memory in her eyes, only the 
 tragedy of a dead soul. She did not care that the 
 Spirit of Love and Youth had passed away from her for- 
 ever. She had forgotten what its charm had been. She 
 ordered absinthe, and sipped it, as the curtain slowly 
 fell. 
 
 " That girl gives the finest portrayal of une beuveuse 
 
 d'absinthe I have ever seen," X said. " I have been 
 
 watching you as you studied her.' - 
 
 " I was not studying her," I answered, hardly knowing 
 that I spoke aloud. 
 
 "Not studying her?" he repeated. "I see! You 
 were thinking how you would play the part yourself." 
 
 " I was — thinking," I echoed. It was with difficulty 
 that I spoke. My throat felt dry and contracted, as if 
 a fierce hand had pressed it, choking my breath away. I 
 
 got up, and X put my cloak around my shoulders, 
 
 touching my bare neck with his warm, vital hand. His 
 magnetism did not thrill me as it had before. 
 
 " The play has taken hold of you," he said. " I un- 
 derstand." 
 
 But he did not understand. 
 
 He asked, as we went out, if I would like to have 
 supper at the Moulin Rouge, and see the real arms of 
 the windmill moving behind the garden. I said " No," 
 quickly, then thanked him, and explained that I would 
 rather go there another night. I was, I explained, just 
 beginning to realize that I was tired after my journey. I 
 added that I had been ill before sailing and was obliged to 
 be a little careful still. The truth was that I could hardly 
 wait to get home and to be alone. I felt broken. All 
 
To M. L. G. 297 
 
 the life had gone out of my body. X had lost his 
 
 attraction for me, and I think he knew this. It would have 
 been the same to me if he had been a tiresome old woman. 
 
 Now you know why I have told you at such length 
 about the play. And yet — do you know ? 
 
 Perhaps you think — if you have come as far as this 
 in the statement I am writing to you, and if you have 
 read a little between the lines here and there — that a 
 sudden tide of sentimental repentance had swept over 
 me. But if you think that, you are wrong. It was not 
 with me as with some sinners who go to a revival meet- 
 ing, or read a tract. I did not repent my past, or agonize 
 over it, or even feel that I had been wicked or vile. 
 Something very different had happened to me. I was 
 seeing myself in past and future, in a bright, merciless 
 light, as clearly as I used to see my mysterious little 
 friend, Lily Merritt, in the looking-glass. 
 
 I saw myself with , climbing to success on the 
 
 ladder of his money and influence, then being discarded 
 by him for another woman. I saw myself accepting 
 Willy V — — to revenge myself on Margaret, and then 
 reaping advantage from his position in society. I saw 
 myself playing my dangerous game with the Russian. 
 
 All that in the past. And in the future, I saw myself 
 living the life I had half resolved to lead when I came to 
 
 Paris. I saw myself with the Russian, with X , with 
 
 the Texan, with others, testing my power over men, 
 holding it for a while, then slowly losing it with my youth 
 and beauty and joy of life. I saw all my lovers, all my 
 friends leaving me, and I saw how I would be driven to 
 console myself in the end, when I was no longer wanted 
 by any one. No detail of the picture was spared me. 
 
298 To M. L. G. 
 
 I was not repentant. I was only afraid. I could have 
 died with the coldness of my fear. 
 
 I had promised to cable Mr. O what I thought of 
 
 the play and of the woman's part. By the time I re- 
 membered him and the promise it was too late to send 
 a message that night; but I scribbled it out on paper 
 ready for the morning. " The part is great, but I cannot 
 do it. Writing.'' 
 
 Next day I wrote a short letter, because I did not feel 
 equal to explaining my state of mind in a long one. I 
 said : " If I acted that part badly, the play would be 
 dead. If I acted it well, I should go mad." 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 EVEN now, I could not make clear to any one, 
 even to you, either by writing or speaking, the 
 immeasurable effect of that play upon my whole 
 nature. 
 
 It was not a great play. It appealed to the emotions 
 rather than to the intellect. With a different ending, one 
 could have gone away and forgotten it. Perhaps, if I 
 had not been ready to absorb its meaning and message as 
 a sponge absorbs water, I should merely have been 
 vaguely depressed ; and regaining my spirits I should 
 have become my old self again. But preparing to act 
 the part, I had so entered into it, that for the time being 
 I and the woman of the play were one. Besides, the 
 accident of the second lover being a Russian of high 
 title was to me, in my highly-strung mood, more than a 
 coincidence. I saw myself on the same path the woman 
 had trodden, going down, down from the garden of 
 tropical flowers to a place of darkness, among bestial 
 shapes that writhed and wallowed. 
 
 I saw that for a woman who chooses the life this woman 
 chose, the life I had thought of choosing, there must in- 
 evitably be the Place of Darkness, when youth is gone 
 and love has tired. No religious scruples held me back 
 from such life. I had none. I was not sure that any God 
 existed, or that, if there were a God, He would care what 
 I did with myself. I clung to homely, domestic things 
 in the cold horror of my great fear ; and I clung to Jane. 
 
 299 
 
300 To M. L. G. 
 
 I lay in bed, and let her take care of me. Jane was 
 happiest and at her best as a nurse. She thought that I 
 had done too much on my first day in Paris, and wanted 
 to call in a doctor, but I begged her to let me rest, see- 
 ing no one. The Russian called and sent flowers, the 
 
 Texan also. X wrote me a letter in verse. All 
 
 three of those men, and all other men, seemed far away 
 and shadowy. I did not care if I never heard again from 
 any one I knew. The touch of the cool linen pillows and 
 sheets was very good. I was not ill, in mind or body ; 
 but my bed was like a safe, pleasant island in the midst 
 of a wild sea. I could not bear the thought of going out 
 of my room ; yet, while I was there, with Jane to take care 
 of me, I was not unhappy. 
 
 I am not sure what would have befallen me in those 
 days if Jane had not been there. But Jane was always 
 there, always, then and afterwards ; until the year before 
 you and I met. Then she died. I have never ceased to 
 miss her ; but never have I missed her so much as since 
 the day when I let you go. It would be a great comfort 
 to me to have Jane now. Since you went I have been 
 oftener to Kensal Green, where I had a plain marble cross 
 made to mark her grave, just the kind she would have 
 admired, and called " plain but rich " — a favorite expres- 
 sion of hers. I take with me her favorite flowers, too, 
 when I can find them in shops or gardens. Such a 
 quaint, old-fashioned sort of flower ! I wonder if you 
 know it ? I have never heard the scientific name ; but I 
 
 saw it first at Mrs. G 's farm in New Hampshire. It 
 
 is called " bleeding heart," a sad, pensive bloom, but not 
 hopeless. 
 
 I lay quietly in bed for three days, after the night of 
 
To M. L. G. 301 
 
 the play in Paris. I dozed a good deal, for sleep seemed 
 to give me more counsel than strenuous thinking. I had 
 a curious feeling that I was making myself over again. 
 Several people I knew at home had read in the papers 
 that I had arrived in Paris, and they called at my hotel ; 
 but I would not see them. I was afraid that if any one 
 I had known came near me now, some emanation from 
 their thoughts of me, as I had been, would pull me back. 
 Sometimes when I shut my eyes, and let myself drift, I 
 seemed to be on a mountainside, climbing all alone, 
 slowly and with difficulty, not daring to turn and look 
 over my shoulder, lest my feet should slip. I knew that 
 this was only a half-dream between sleeping and waking, 
 yet it was impressed upon me at the moment with a sharp 
 semblance of reality. I could see rriy own figure, on the 
 dark rocks, in a kind of luminous twilight, wearing a gray 
 travelling dress which I had brought with me, but had 
 never put on yet. 
 
 One day I asked Jane what she thought God was like. 
 She threw me a shocked glance, to see if I were " making 
 fun " ; but was reassured when I looked her straight in 
 the eyes, gravely and almost anxiously. She was pleased 
 with me that day, because of a message I had sent the 
 Russian, which would prevent him from coming again, 
 ever ; so she answered my question in good faith. God 
 had made us in His image, therefore He must be like a 
 man, she thought, only much larger than even the tallest 
 giants ever born. He would always be sitting on a 
 throne, of course, with His Son beside Him, still in the 
 form of man, therefore not so grand and gigantic as God the 
 Father, who would, Jane thought, have a long gray beard. 
 
 I suggested that gray hairs were a sign of decaying 
 
302 To M. L. G. 
 
 vitality, but Jane could not change her picture. To her, 
 a gray beard meant supreme dignity, and she felt it 
 would be irreverent to imagine God the Father without 
 it. She was not clear in her idea of the Holy Ghost. 
 Vaguely she felt that it would be wrong to form any con- 
 ception of the mystic Spirit. She saw the Holy Ghost 
 behind a bright veil; but all Three would be on the 
 throne together, a golden throne, with a golden back- 
 ground of radiance too dazzling for human eyes. The 
 goats, on the left, would certainly be blinded by it ; and 
 when they were judged, they would plunge down into 
 outer darkness, where there was no more light except the 
 red glare of hell fires. 
 
 " Jane, do you think I will be a goat, and go to hell ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 Jane burst into tears, the first time I had ever seen her 
 cry. It was extraordinary how quickly her nose grew 
 red, and how large it swelled in a moment. There were 
 queer workings in her throat, like a chicken's claws, but 
 she made no sound, except afterwards when she blew her 
 nose. She admitted having feared that I might go to 
 hell; but she believed now that her prayers for me were 
 answered, and that I would be saved. 
 
 " What is heaven like ? " I asked then, and Jane was 
 very happy to answer. She knew all about heaven, as 
 well as if she had been there, and was eloquent on the 
 subject. The sheep, on the right hand, would be given 
 white robes and crowns. They would stand before the 
 throne, playing golden harps and singing psalms of praise 
 without ceasing. Eternity would be one long, glorious 
 Sabbath. It did not seem in the least funny to her, to 
 talk of sheep in white robes and golden crowns. 
 
To M. L. G. 303 
 
 I was horribly depressed, for it seemed as if Jane ought 
 to know what heaven was like, if there were any ; and I 
 almost hoped there was not. Then I closed my eyes ; 
 and it came to me that Jane saw only those things for 
 which her comprehension was fitted. Poor Jane ! The 
 most bloodthirsty psalms were those she liked best, 
 though she would not kill a fly, and always saved one 
 that fell into the water, while detesting it for being a fly. 
 
 " According to you, God isn't as good to goats as you 
 are to flies," I said to her on one of those days in Paris, 
 while I still kept my bed, building up a new self. But 
 Jane replied without hesitation that that was different, 
 because she was not a Judge. And she believed im- 
 plicitly in Adam and Eve, and the Snake, and the apple, 
 and the world having been created in six days of ordinary 
 length. 
 
 The first time that I felt like sitting up, I made a 
 
 mental effort and wrote a long letter to Mr. O . I 
 
 began by trying to explain why I could not play the part 
 he had sent me to see ; but I found a logical explanation 
 impossible. I tore up several sheets of paper, and even 
 the version I let stand was a strange jumble. I might 
 just as well have ■ said, " I can't do it, just because" as 
 have tried to string together a bundle of reasons why. 
 In a postscript I mentioned the names of two actresses 
 who might, I thought, do the part successfully if he de- 
 cided to have the play translated. 
 
 I did not leave my room until I knew, from reading 
 the newspapers, that the Russian had gone home, and 
 that the Texan, whose name was almost as well known 
 as the Russian's in America and Paris, had started for 
 Switzerland. X I had offended by not answering 
 
304 To M. L. G. 
 
 his rhymed letter. He had neither written nor called 
 since sending it, and I did not think that he would come 
 near me again. When I began to go about, the things 
 in which I had expected to be most interested in Paris 
 did not appeal to me. I did not want to go to any more 
 theatres. I did not care to wander among the shops. 
 There seemed no motive to buy dresses or hats. I did 
 not know what I was going to do in future, and so I 
 could not tell what I should need to wear. I knew only 
 one thing : that I had an overwhelming repugnance to 
 returning to America in the autumn, as I had of course 
 expected to do ; and that I could not face the idea of 
 taking up my life where I had left it off with my attack 
 of grippe. 
 
 I drove every morning alone in the Bois, not trying to 
 make up my mind, but living in the hour. In the after- 
 noons I sat with Jane, in a chair under the trees in the 
 Champs Elysees, and lazily, yet not languidly, watched 
 little French children playing with red balloons and tops. 
 
 One evening, when we had walked back to my hotel, 
 
 I found O reading a newspaper in the hall, and 
 
 quietly waiting for me. 
 
 " What have you come over for ? "• I exclaimed, when 
 we had shaken hands. 
 
 " To talk to you about your letter," h«: answered, in his 
 calm voice. 
 
 " I don't think I can explain," I said. 
 
 He looked at me, as I sat down in a chair opposite 
 him. 
 
 " I won't ask you to explain," he said. " We will just 
 talk." 
 
 We talked ; and I think that he began to understand, 
 
To M. L. G. 305 
 
 in spite of, rather than because of, anything I could say. 
 He must have known the history of my life since I was 
 sixteen ; and it had often seemed to me that in some ways 
 he was clairvoyant. He knew why people did mysterious 
 things, when they did not know themselves. He knew 
 what people were thinking about ; and which men and 
 women, whom others did not value, would succeed on 
 the stage. 
 
 If he should ever read what I am writing to you, he 
 would know at once who was the writer. But he would 
 not tell. 
 
 Without waiting for me to say that I did not feel strong 
 enough to act again in the autumn, or to make any other 
 excuse for not going home, he said, " If I were you, I 
 wouldn't do anything for the next few months, except 
 find myself." 
 
 " That's just what I want to do ! " I answered. 
 
 " I know," said he, gently. " Well, stay over on this 
 side, till you are dying to act again. Then you can 
 cable me. That maid of yours will look after you well. 
 And I'll keep your name before the public, so you needn't 
 be afraid you'll be forgotten." 
 
 Curiously, for the first time since I went on the stage, 
 I wanted to be forgotten by the public. I thought that I 
 would like great waves of forgetfulness to roll over me ; 
 
 and I believed that Mr. O saw what was in my mind, 
 
 though he said nothing. No doubt he supposed that the 
 mood was part of the illness I had not yet thrown off, 
 and that it would pass. But I was not sure. There were 
 people in New York whom I could not bear to remem- 
 ber. I detested the idea of living in the same city with 
 them, or of having them come to see me act, even though 
 
306 To M. L. G. 
 
 I never saw them. The very thought of those people 
 made my body ache all over, as if I had been beaten 
 with a hammer. 
 
 I see now that I must have been in a strange transi- 
 tion state ; yet it did not seem at all strange to me then. 
 Every other state of mind I could recall or imagine 
 seemed strange, but not this. 
 
 Mr. dined with me that evening, and told me 
 
 about picture galleries I would enjoy, and museums that 
 
 I ought to see. He did not mention the name of X , 
 
 and I was sure that they must have met, and talked of 
 me. But I did not care what X had said. 
 
 After all, Mr. O did not have the play translated, 
 
 and take it to New York for one of the actresses I had 
 recommended. He said, before bidding me good-bye, 
 that, having seen it himself, he found it so " distinctly 
 Parisian " that he doubted its success in New York. 
 And since I would not create the woman's part there, no 
 one else should. I liked his putting it in this way better 
 than if he had said that I was the only actress who could 
 play it. To be told that I was of that type would have 
 broken me just then. 
 
 He must have seen very deep into my mind, far deeper 
 than I saw myself; for without my suggesting or even 
 thinking of it, he wrote two letters of introduction for 
 me, to London managers. " You might take a fancy to 
 play a part in London for a change," he said. " If not, 
 tear up the letters." 
 
 When he shook hands in saying good-bye, he looked 
 at me a little sadly, as if he guessed that our parting 
 would be for a long time. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 IT was very good for me that by the time I began to 
 feel like sightseeing in Paris, the season was well 
 over, and every one I could possibly have known 
 had gone to Trouville or Aix, or out of France altogether. 
 When my vitality and love of life came flowing back after 
 the curious shock I had had, it was exactly like beginning 
 a new life. All my surroundings were new, the faces I 
 saw were new. Suddenly I wanted to give away my 
 clothes that I had worn in America, and buy new ones. 
 It was an interest. And the museums and picture gal- 
 leries Mr. O had told me to visit gave me a new set 
 
 of thoughts. They reawakened my childish love of his- 
 tory, on which Miss Minnie had complimented me when 
 I was a child. I was filled with an immense craving to 
 know all about the jewels, and armor, and instruments 
 of torture, the statues, and paintings of historical events. 
 It seemed almost too good to be true that I could read 
 of the different things and periods in French ; but I found 
 it easy ; no harder than to skim through some flimsily 
 written French novel, which used to be my way of prac- 
 ticing in New York. 
 
 Jane went with me everywhere: to the Louvre and 
 the Cluny Museum, and made me laugh at her shocked 
 airs. It did not count with me, Jane's being a link with 
 America, for she had always been alien to the life I was 
 trying to forget. 
 
 Precisely what convinced me that I must go to Italy 
 3°7 
 
308 To M. L. G. 
 
 at once, in the heat of September, I am not quite sure ; 
 but I think that I must have dreamed some wonderful 
 dream of Italy, and forgotten it in the moment of waking. 
 The desire might have lingered when the memory had 
 vanished, as the perfume of lavender will haunt a broken 
 bowl in which it has been kept. All I know is, that I 
 opened my eyes one night, after being fast asleep, and 
 found myself lying in a pool of moonlight. I heard my- 
 self murmur lazily, " I must go to Italy." And though I 
 was still half asleep, the idea roused me to such exquisite 
 excitement that I heard little pulses beating in my ears 
 and all over my body, as one hears little unseen brooklets 
 rippling in the dark. 
 
 I thought about a picture I had seen in a shop in 
 a queer old street that day, a copy of Carpaccio's St. 
 Ursula, asleep in her bed, with the tiny dog near her 
 feet, and the angel coming in at the door. I saw the 
 beautiful Italian room, with the mist of moonlight veil- 
 ing the corners, and instantly I felt that I should not 
 be happy until I could go and sleep in Italian moon- 
 light. 
 
 I could hardly wait for morning. When it came, I 
 got up early and went out to buy travel books about 
 Italy. I bought them in French, because — more than 
 anything — it gave me a new made-all-over-again feel- 
 ing, to read books in a language that was not my own. 
 I forgot to tell you that my Berlitz teacher in New 
 York had said that I picked up French more quickly 
 than any one else he ever saw, and that I must have 
 Latin blood in my veins. You have said the same thing. 
 But there is one of the reasons why a man like you 
 should never have thought of me ! I do not know 
 
To M. L. G. 309 
 
 who I am, except that I had a father and mother whom 
 I used to call Dearie and Boy, and who were nicknamed 
 the " Love Birds " in the profession. 
 
 One of my books said that Venice was delightful in 
 September. There were others which warned travellers 
 not to venture there at that season, because of mosquitoes 
 and other annoyances, but I wanted to go, so I believed 
 in the first book. 
 
 You, who know so much, and have been to so many 
 countries, almost all over the world, can hardly imagine 
 my ignorance. Most children of twelve know as much 
 as I knew about the geography of Europe ; but I 
 had an appetite for knowledge, and for sightseeing. I 
 thought that, above all things, I should enjoy seeing 
 Venice and Rome. But I did not guess all they were 
 to be to me. 
 
 I have come to the end of the bad part of my life 
 now. I have nothing more to say that will hurt you. 
 I think that, at last, what I tell will make you glad. 
 Yet suddenly, even as I write these words, I wonder 
 whether you will really be interested where you are, 
 so far from me that I and my doings may have grown 
 to seem remote ? How do I know that you have not 
 lost interest in me ? All these months that lie between 
 us may have been built up into a high wall, so high that 
 you no longer even wish to see over it. Perhaps when 
 a man is told to go, by a woman he has loved, and he 
 believes that she does not care, he begins at once to 
 learn not to care. And perhaps with you, the lesson 
 has been easy. Why should it not be ? 
 
 You know how, in conversation, you sometimes see 
 the person to whom you are talking suddenly unhitch 
 
310 To M. L. G. 
 
 his attention from what you are saying, and become 
 remote from you, though he has been near. You can 
 see the strange thing happening behind the windows 
 of his eyes. It is just as if his soul had been looking 
 out at you ; then, it turns and walks away, leaving the 
 windows blank, and the room where his soul was, empty. 
 The soul has gone off on an errand of supreme interest, 
 and you and your concerns, of which you are prating, 
 are forgotten. He thinks, because he keeps on smiling 
 politely, that you don't know he has sent his soul some- 
 where else. 
 
 What if your soul has gone away from me ? If I 
 only knew ! 
 
 It is humiliating to write on and on, opening my heart 
 to you, knowing that you may skip the pages of its 
 book. I would not so much mind your not reading at 
 all, because the reading would give you pain. But that 
 you should skip what I write for you ! I cannot bear to 
 think that this might be. 
 
 How like a woman's vanity is to a growth of weeds in 
 a garden. It seems possible to uproot it. Yet it will 
 spring up again. 
 
 When I am afraid that you have changed to me, I 
 cling in thought to the days when you used always to 
 hear what I said, and know what I was doing, even if 
 we were separated by a roomful of people. No matter 
 who the other actors were, for you the curtain rang up 
 only with my entrance, and the stage was empty after 
 I left it. How well I knew it was so with you, and 
 how the secret joy of my knowledge was sweet as stolen 
 honey. 
 
 So easily it may be that you have changed! Yet 
 
To M. L. G. 31 i 
 
 there is a consolation which I whisper to my soul in 
 dark hours, as a priest gives supreme unction to the 
 dying. It is this : 
 
 You, as I knew you, You who loved me once, will 
 live in my heart while I live. That You can never 
 change. 
 
 Do you remember the story of a young bride and 
 bridegroom who went for their honeymoon to the 
 mountains, and the bridegroom fell into a crevasse, 
 where a glacier was slowly, slowly moving downward ? 
 In the story, it was known that the body must be borne 
 by the glacier to a certain place at the end of half a 
 century, and the girl lived on in the hope of seeing her 
 dead love again. Fifty years later she arrived at the 
 appointed place. An old woman, withered and gray, 
 she saw sheathed in ice the form of her bridegroom, 
 young and handsome as on the day he was lost to her, 
 half a century ago. I am sure you must have heard 
 that story. And so it will be with me. I shall grow 
 old, and as the years go on you may forget me. You, 
 too, will be old, and have a thousand interests in which 
 there will be no place for memories. But that other 
 You, which is mine irrevocably, will be young always, 
 and loving. This You will be my companion through 
 the years, and nothing can take him from me. So I 
 will not be shamed by the thought that I may be writ- 
 ing for one who does not care any longer. The part of 
 You which is mine will care. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 I FIRST saw Venice on fire with sunset, and the 
 new moon was like a little silver lamp, hanging 
 half-way down the west. 
 
 An English schoolmaster and his wife in the train — 
 the sort of people who love to advise strangers — told 
 me that Venice in the hot weather would be impossible, 
 and that I must go to the Lido, where they were going. 
 They described the Lido, and though they had a dry, 
 short way of talking, it sounded lovely. I made up my 
 mind to do what they said ; but when I saw what Venice 
 was like in the sunset, I could not go away. I had to 
 live there. And afterwards I was very glad that I had 
 not taken the schoolmaster's advice. Usually one is glad 
 when one does not take advice. It seldom fits; and 
 though it may be right for the person who gives, if one 
 takes it, often it is like putting on that other person's 
 clothes. 
 
 That very night, sitting at my window, looking out 
 over the Grand Canal, I knew that Italy was the medi- 
 cine I had needed. I said to myself that it was like 
 having died and come to heaven. I felt that I could not 
 go back for a long, long time, to acting in my own 
 country. I must stop in Italy, and sip my medicine 
 slowly, like some rare golden wine that would renew 
 vitality. 
 
 Venice was to me far more than just a miraculously 
 beautiful city. It was an epoch, like the play in Paris, 
 
 312 
 
To M. L. G. 313 
 
 only a very different one. And I would have had to go 
 through the Paris experience first. Without that, the 
 new Me, which needed Italy, could not have been born. 
 
 I stayed on and on, in a hotel at first, afterwards in 
 a little apartment found for me by a gondolier whom I 
 hired by the month. He was a delightful man, quite 
 old, with a face that might have been cast of bronze. 
 He could speak a little French, and taught me a few 
 words of very bad Italian — Venetian Italian, all con- 
 sonants, with the vowels left out. He and Jane were my 
 best friends. And Jane loved me in those days with the 
 devoted, silent love that a watch-dog has for a child. 
 She did not know in the least what was passing through 
 my mind, but she saw a change in me, and dumbly re- 
 joiced in it. No doubt she believed always that her 
 prayers had been answered ; and perhaps they had. 
 
 There were no men in my world, then. They looked 
 at me across an immeasurable distance sometimes, and 
 their eyes lighted with interest if I had put on a pretty 
 dress to grace Pietro's beautifully carved gondola. But, 
 in their gondolas, they were for me only floating shad- 
 ows. I seemed to gaze through them and beyond them 
 as if they were transparent ; and faces of people were not 
 as interesting to me as the marred faces of old palaces. 
 
 I spent almost all of every day in the gondola, and 
 saw the great sights of Venice from outside many times 
 before I saw them from within. In the evenings, Jane 
 and I often had dinner on the lagoon. We took food 
 with us, in the gondola, and made coffee over a spirit 
 lamp. 
 
 I want to tell you one thing, before I go on. All the 
 money I used for my travelling expenses and everything 
 
314 To M. L. G. 
 
 else was money I had earned by hard work. I had 
 saved a little, and I was spending it all, not troubling 
 very much as to what I should do when my savings were 
 gone. Since I had begun to make money of my own, I 
 had always taken it for granted that it would come. I 
 was either very imprudent or a born optimist, according 
 to the point of view; though I should hardly have 
 known, if any one asked me, what the word " optimist " 
 meant ; I was so ignorant still of most things which need 
 no telling among your kind of people. It was only a 
 little while, comparatively, before you and I met, that, 
 waking up, I wanted to know everything in the world, 
 and began to learn as a starving person eats. But even 
 so, I learned all the best things in life through you after- 
 wards. You may believe that, and be glad, if you will. 
 
 It was at Venice that I began to know the difference 
 between real beauty, and what I had supposed to be 
 beauty. 
 
 I have told you enough about myself to make you 
 understand that even when I was little more than a baby, 
 I hated ugliness, and loved things that were soft and 
 smooth and delicately tinted. But I did not know the 
 difference between the false and the real. Venice taught 
 me that, and I learned as a flower must learn, once it has 
 poked its head out of the earth for a first look at the sky. 
 
 From my windows, not only could I see the Grand 
 Canal, and a little canaletto, where the lapping water had 
 painted palace walls with gold and lilac and rose, but I 
 could look across a high wall into a garden. Lovely rich 
 vines and creepers poured over the wall in a green 
 cascade with a spray of purple, and on the other side 
 there was a gentle waving of misty tree tops. But what 
 
To M. L. G. 315 
 
 I loved best was a cypress that shot up like a pillar of 
 black smoke out of the olive haze. When I saw it 
 against the morning blue, I knew that there was a 
 God. 
 
 Some people would think me mad, or very childish, to 
 find God through a tree, that seemed to point me up to 
 Him. But you are not " some people." You and I have 
 had such miraculous talks, not about ourselves, but about 
 the big mysteries, and the oneness of everything in the 
 universe. I am not even sure that I have not told you 
 once before about the tree in the Venice garden. Yes, I 
 think I did tell you the day we went to the place where 
 
 A — lived on the river, and we watched the sunset 
 
 behind those willows that dipped trailing branches into 
 the crystal water. But I will let all this that I have 
 written stand now, because it is connected with things 
 which I know I never told you. 
 
 Could a tree be an " epoch," as Venice was to me, and 
 the play ? It was not the tree alone, but the tree against 
 the sky which seemed to teach me in a moment the 
 secrets of eternity. If a bad thought came into my 
 mind, I hurried and looked at the cypress. I got to im- 
 agine that I could hear it give out a ringing note, and I 
 associated it with bells in the open campaniles which I 
 was seeing for the first time. 
 
 St. Mark's was a great epoch. I knew nothing about 
 architecture, even less than I know now, for Venice sent 
 me to Ruskin ; and if anybody had asked me a few 
 weeks before I came to Italy, I should have said that I 
 hated cathedrals. 
 
 But St. Mark's ! I sat for hours nearly every day, 
 when the weather grew cool in October, just inside the 
 
316 To M. L. G. 
 
 door, gazing up the nave, soul and body bathed in the 
 golden dusk. It was there I found out that to be really 
 beautiful a woman must be of noble nature, because 
 beauty comes partly from the inside to the outside. 
 And everything round me, wherever I looked, was so 
 beautiful, that I longed more and more ardently to be in 
 the picture, to become a part of it, not to be a dark blot 
 splashed on the blue and gold. I saw why I had wanted 
 to change my whole self, after going to that play in 
 Paris — or, rather, I thought that I saw. But I did not 
 really see the whole, only half the truth. Now I know 
 that beauty and harmony is not all the soul needs. 
 Then, it seemed all that could be necessary. 
 
 I used to say to myself as I sat in St. Mark's : " A 
 woman such as I was is out of the picture of the world's 
 beauty. She's an apple with a spot of decay on its rosy 
 side." I thought of the girl in the play, and the dread- 
 ful end of the last act. I had seen the horror of her 
 degradation with my uneducated, bodily eyes. But now 
 the real Me had waked up and was seeing with spirit 
 eyes. 
 
 Venice was a bath for my soul. I was never tired of 
 washing in its rainbow waters of beauty, and trying to 
 feel that I was one with all beauty. Beauty flowed in 
 waves around me, while the waters of the canal flowed 
 round the sides of the gondola, a stream of pale opal, 
 lit with secret fire by each stroke of the oar, as a flame is 
 lit by a match. 
 
 I began to think real thoughts, long thoughts, concrete 
 thoughts, such as had never before shaped themselves in 
 my mind. The second time I saw you — that wonderful 
 second time ! — it was in a garden, you know ; and some- 
 
To M. L. G. 317 
 
 how we talked of thoughts and gardens. You said : 
 " If you have beautiful thoughts in your mind, you have 
 always a garden in flower." I never forgot that simile. 
 
 One Venice thought which pleased me (though it was 
 really worth nothing at all) was about trees, and it came 
 as I looked across the wall at the Venice garden I have 
 just told you of. Whose garden it was I never found 
 out, for I made no acquaintances except Pietro. I 
 thought that trees ran in types, like people. Olives 
 were poets. Fruit trees in blossom and fulfillment were 
 happy women, living in homes, among families who 
 loved them. Pines were the explorers and pioneers. 
 Willows were young and beautiful widows. Oaks were 
 
 men like my kind manager, Mr. O , strong to rely 
 
 upon ; and cypresses were the monks and nuns of the 
 tree world. 
 
 You, who have always had your brain filled with 
 thoughts, can't realize what it was for a crude, untaught 
 girl to be able to call thoughts to her, like wild birds 
 which she could tame. 
 
 It is perfectly true, I did not think consecutively in 
 the other days that came before Paris. I only felt, and 
 dreamed. I told you that I was asleep when I was a 
 very young girl. But I came near to thinking sometimes, 
 when I was a little child. If there had been any one 
 then to lead me out into a different life, I might have 
 gone on thinking always, walking up, higher and higher, 
 mounting a golden stairway of thoughts. 
 
 When there was moonlight, often Pietro did not 
 bring me back from the lagoon till twelve or after. I 
 wanted to wait until I had heard the midnight bells on 
 the water. And I would say to myself, as I listened, " Is 
 
318 To M. L. G. 
 
 this I — is it I ? Or was there no ' I ' before ? Am I 
 only just born ?" 
 
 I have found myself wishing since I knew you, that I 
 had met you in Venice. But I think you were with me 
 there. I think I must have begun to feel you in the 
 world. , 
 
 On the water at night, far out towards the Lido, when 
 the gondola seemed to swing in the darkness between sea 
 and sky, I used to pretend that I was the pendulum in a 
 great clock of the universe, where the numbers of the 
 hours were stars, and the pointing hands were long white 
 moonrays. 
 
 You see, my thoughts were not thoughts that would 
 have mattered except to one just out of the desert, but, 
 such as they were, I found them sweet, and hugged them 
 to my breast like bunches of lilies after a long drought. 
 
 How I grew to love the things I began to see, that 
 were not there really ! The things I imagined into the 
 Venice sunsets ; the unseen flowers growing behind the 
 walls of gardens I passed in the gondola ; the man some- 
 where, who was for me. And that man was you. 
 
 A r's broad-minded advice, heard since then, to make 
 
 all ugly things transparent, and see through them, would 
 have helped me never to be ruffled by any modern vul- 
 garity in Venice. But I hardly needed it. I saw things 
 as I wanted to see them. 
 
 I was finding out too much about the deep and high 
 realities of life to sleep much at that time. But I did 
 better than sleep well ; I lay awake well. I had no more 
 dreadful fits of depression, such as I used to have in New 
 York and on tour, when going to bed was like being shut 
 up alone in a black tomb. 
 
To M. L. G. 319 
 
 I wanted to listen to the new thoughts every moment. 
 I wished that my mind could be concave, like an arum- 
 lily cup, so that I might drink in each lovely sound and 
 sight, and absorb them all, into myself. 
 
 Jane said that I was so thin, she could not make my 
 frocks fit properly. But I liked being thin. It seemed 
 as if just so much of my old self had gone away. Still, I 
 did not feel any true remorse for my past. I was only 
 dimly sorry to have been a jarring note in the harmony, 
 although I was not clever enough to know how or why 
 I had jarred. 
 
 I could not bear to think of , or of poor Willy, 
 
 or of any of the men who had ever come near me, except 
 
 Mr. O , my one friend who was absolutely unselfish 
 
 and true, who helped me to " find myself," when I was 
 groping in the dark. 
 
 As I write them down, it comes to me that those two 
 words of his mean a great deal, even more than I realized 
 when they stepped forward in my mind, ready for the 
 pen. " Find myself." Yes, they do mean a great deal. 
 I think that to find God, we must first find ourselves ; for 
 God gjves intimate help through the living spark of Him- 
 self He has put into our hearts, once we have found out 
 what it is. That must be why, and how, He has given us 
 Himself. 
 
 The beauty of Venice and the thoughts it gave me 
 made me listen for messages to my spirit, and they often 
 came. I grew to feel that it was worth being born and 
 living a whole life just to see a single sunrise if one could 
 get its message, for one might learn from it in a moment 
 all that a long life ought to have taught but had not. 
 And it came to me that the universe, with its suns and 
 
320 To M. L. G. 
 
 stars, the earth, with its seas and forests, we with our joys 
 and sorrows, are all, all one and the same. Even the 
 merciless storms are not other than our own moods, on a 
 grand scale. 
 
 It was wonderful to dare feel myself part of the great- 
 ness. 
 
 One day a vast cloud-shadow sailed slowly over the 
 lagoon, like an immense purple canopy. It darkened the 
 water, and made Venice and her islands look livid as 
 drowned corpses. Then, slowly as it had come, the 
 deadly blackness passed away, leaving the lagoon and 
 the sky above clear as crystal. Suddenly I wondered 
 whether the black cloud-shadow which had passed over 
 my soul would leave the stain of its darkness always, or 
 whether I too might become crystal clear, and so be 
 truly a part of the beautiful picture life was making all 
 around me. I wanted so much to become crystal clear 
 that I made the allegory fit, and I went on to tell myself 
 that ugly images reflected in a mirror do not mark the 
 glass. 
 
 It was the happiest day of my life, for the beauty of 
 everything had begun to give me a shamed sense of my 
 own shortcomings, the false notes my one little broken 
 reed had been making in the harmony. I am not sure if 
 that heavy load of regret was remorse or not. If not, I 
 never knew a high, noble remorse until I wanted to be all 
 good, so that I might be worthy of your love. 
 
 The happiness of that day, after the passing of the 
 cloud-shadow, never quite died down in my heart, until 
 after I loved you. It was as if I had confessed myself a 
 sinner, and had been generously absolved by Nature. 
 Yet, when I began to love you, I doubted that I had ever 
 
To M. L. G. 321 
 
 been really absolved. I saw how easy it had been to be- 
 lieve a thing because I wished to believe it. But love 
 came to me not as he comes to happy young girls, in the 
 form of a little laughing Cupid, wreathed with roses. He 
 came as a stern accuser, and bade me fall on my knees. 
 Then, in a vigil, kneeling on the threshold of his temple, 
 which I hardly dared to cross, I saw that I had been 
 dressing myself up in a fancy dress of spun glass, which 
 I had thought pure crystal. 
 
 But all the days after that day, till my second meeting 
 with you, I was happy. 
 
 I discovered Ruskin in Venice, and, better still — a 
 thousand times better still — Browning. You know that 
 beautiful book-shop at the corner, as you come out into 
 the piazza of St. Mark's ? It was there I picked up " The 
 Stones of Venice," and began to read, and read, standing 
 with the volume in my hand, and only waked up when 
 some one pushed against me. I bought the book and 
 took it home. Another day it was Browning who 
 plunged me far down under the surface of things, so 
 that I forgot where I was and what was happening around 
 me. 
 
 Can you believe that, actress as I was, I had never 
 seriously read Shakespeare since I grew up, until I 
 bought there, at that shop, a little volume containing 
 " The Merchant of Venice " ? Yet it is true. 
 
 I had seen a few, a very few, of the plays produced by 
 popular American actors, and I had been thrilled by 
 them. But I imagined it was the acting that thrilled 
 me. I had not been seized by any desire to read for my 
 own pleasure. After " The Merchant of Venice," in 
 Venice, I went on and read everything, every tragedy, 
 
322 To M. L. G. 
 
 every comedy, every sonnet. It was a wonderful time 
 for me — the birth of my intellect. 
 
 From Venice, Jane and I went to Florence ; and it 
 was there I first saw olive trees massed together behind 
 black cypresses. It was like looking at moonlight from 
 between prison, bars, just as I was looking out at the light 
 from the prison of my past. But I thought then that the 
 doors of the prison were open. Now I know that they 
 were never open. It was a dream I had. 
 
 At last we went to Rome, and stayed there all winter. 
 I took a little flat of a few rooms, with a servant to come 
 in for two hours each day, for I had to economize. I 
 
 knew that if I chose to go back to America, Mr. O 
 
 would find an engagement for me somehow, though it 
 was late in the season, and his companies were made up. 
 But I couldn't go back. I would rather, as I felt, have 
 lived on crusts of black bread and a little water in Italy 
 than have luxury and a greater success than I had ever 
 known, in New York. And that was not because I did 
 not love my own country. I did and do. I had short, 
 sharp spasms of homesickness, even then, and I would 
 have defended America eagerly if any one had attacked 
 her with a word of dispraise. Yet nothing would have 
 tempted me, at that time, to go back. I was standing 
 on tiptoe to catch the glory of the world, and Italy was 
 the hospital of my mind and soul. I had gone through 
 a cure for my body. Now I was having a cure for spirit 
 and brain. 
 
 It may seem strange to you how sparsely I write 
 about the best part of my life, and also of the worst 
 part, though I spared you few details of my childhood. 
 It is easy to explain why I give you only scattered 
 
To M. L. G. 323 
 
 incidents of my good years. Already I have talked to 
 you of them, though never connectedly. When we 
 were together, I have told you anecdotes of my two 
 years in Italy, and of beautiful things which struck me 
 in travelling there. I am not sure now what I spoke 
 of, and it would be foolish to repeat. The rest is less 
 easy to explain. 
 
 The worst years I hate to dwell upon. In recalling 
 them and writing of them, on the one side I fear to 
 distress you needlessly; on the other, I feel that my 
 real desire to be truthful may make me morbid. It is 
 difficult to steer between rocks in that channel. One 
 thing I cannot myself quite understand. The years 
 
 after I met do not seem as much a part of me, 
 
 the real Me, as the years before I knew him, and the 
 years after I went to Italy. I feel as if my life were a 
 puzzle, one of those picture-puzzles cut in little pieces 
 to be matched together, and as if a part of the wrong 
 puzzle had got fitted in. If it could be taken out, and 
 the first half and the last half put together, then it seems 
 to me that the picture would be complete, as it was 
 meant to be by the Maker. 
 
 Be that as it may, it is a fact that I have forgotten 
 many things in those four or five bad years which do 
 not fit the picture I should have liked my life to make. 
 I have to strain after recollections, whereas everything 
 that happened in my childhood is clearly stamped in 
 my mind as the impress of a seal in soft wax. And it 
 is the same with everything that has happened to me 
 since my first night in Venice. I could tell you all 
 about every day since, I think, if it were worth telling ; 
 all I have done, all the people I have known, almost all 
 
324 To M. L. G. 
 
 I have thought — among the thoughts that count. And 
 clearest of all are my meetings with you. I remember 
 everything that we ever said to each other. I remem- 
 ber how you looked at me, each time, and even what 
 you wore. I could describe your clothes, and your 
 neckties ; your scarf pins and your sleeve links. I 
 remember every turn of your head ; what I thought of 
 you the first time I saw you ; how I changed my mind 
 afterwards, and how wonderful the change was, like a 
 burst of sunlight. 
 
 I am not sure if I told you what I said to A 
 
 about your eyebrows after that first time. But I think 
 I did not tell you, though I have recalled it often since, 
 and smiled a little. You know — for I have told you 
 this — you were the first intellectual Englishman of the 
 class to which you belong, whom I had met, socially, in 
 England. In the first half hour I thought you were 
 
 affected. A said, " It is the Oxford voice." And I 
 
 said, " He has such dreadfully high-souled eyebrows, like 
 Galahad's." 
 
 I never dreamed of caring for you then, though I ad- 
 mired you, almost in spite of myself. " It would be 
 difficult to live up to a man with those eyebrows," I 
 said flippantly to A . 
 
 And it has been like a punishment for my flippancy, 
 loving you as I have loved you since, to remember those 
 words of mine, knowing how hard it is for such a woman 
 as I am to live up to such a man as you ! 
 
 I wonder if you will think me ridiculous when I tell you 
 that since I sent you away I have been twice to Oxford, 
 just in the hope of passing a few " undergrads," or a couple 
 of dons, in the street, and hearing the " Oxford voice " ? 
 
To M. L. G. 325 
 
 Hearing it there, I found that yours is not the Oxford 
 
 voice. It has only a trace of what A meant when 
 
 she laughed that day, and said, " the Oxford voice." 
 Your soldiering life has left a stronger impression on 
 you, I feel now, than anything else. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 WHEN I came to England, it was not so much 
 because I wanted to see England, as that my 
 money was nearly gone, and I needed to 
 make more. I was not yet ready to go back to my own 
 country. I shrank still from New York, and the people 
 I might not be able to avoid there, and I had no eager- 
 ness to act. But I decided that, if I must act, I would 
 rather it were in England than America. 
 
 So I left Italy, saying that I left the home of my 
 heart, and that I could never feel for another land what 
 I felt for it. But immediately I fell in love with Eng- 
 land. I loved it even as the train took me from Dover 
 to London. It was September, one of those dreamy, 
 golden Septembers that come to England sometimes. 
 I had never seen anything like the sweet peace of the* 
 English country, and I felt that London would be kind. 
 
 You know what one of my letters of introduction 
 from Mr. O did for me. It seemed as if some- 
 thing had taken me by the hand and hurried me to 
 England at precisely the right moment. The season 
 that followed I thought perfect, for I did not guess 
 what I lacked in not knowing you. It was then that I 
 
 saw your photograph at A 's, and she told me about 
 
 you ; but I had no presentiment of what was to come. 
 How strange that I had none ! Where could my spirit 
 have been wandering ? 
 
 I met a good many interesting people that winter in 
 326 
 
To M. L. G. 327 
 
 London, but they were mostly in an artistic and theatrical 
 set. It was London itself, not its people, that impressed 
 me most. I have told you that I lived near Westminster, 
 and the Abbey was more to me than anybody or any- 
 thing else in the world. It taught me a thousand things, 
 even about acting, for my hours there alone, nearly every 
 day, gave my character mellowness and depth. If I live 
 to be very old — which I am sure I shall not do — I can 
 never forget the thoughts that came to me in Westminster 
 
 Abbey, in my first winter in England. I told A a 
 
 little of what I felt, and she wanted me to see King's 
 Chapel in Cambridge. It was arranged that she should 
 take me there one day in early spring ; but she was ill 
 and could not go. Somehow I could not bear to give 
 up the excursion, and so I went alone. 
 
 I knew that the afternoon music was famous, but I had 
 to be at the theatre before eight, so I dared not risk wait- 
 ing, even to hear it begin. It was about three o'clock 
 when I came into the Chapel, and no one else was there, 
 for sharp flurries of rain had fallen, and frightened sight- 
 seers away. I sat down to gaze up at the beautiful roof, 
 
 which A had sent me to see, because of its likeness 
 
 to the Henry VII Chapel at Westminster. Another 
 shower had begun, and the dust was so deep that I had 
 to gaze steadily up with wide-open, unwinking eyes, in 
 order to make out the details of the carving, just as one 
 can call stars out of a seemingly empty sky at twilight 
 by looking for a long time. Slowly the details gave 
 themselves to my persistence; the delicate uplifting col- 
 umns, like rows of tall arum-lilies, with lovely heads 
 meeting at the middle of the roof ; and I traced the carv- 
 ings, trying to think out all their meaning. Then, sud- 
 
328 To M. L. G. 
 
 denly a stream of sunlight poured through the black 
 clouds, and in at the west windows. Between the tall, 
 straight stalks of the stone lilies, hovering ghosts of rain» 
 bows floated, which dimmed or pulsed with color as the 
 clouds moved across the sky. It was as if the mirage of 
 some heavenly garden glowed in the church. Rose and 
 gold stained the ivory tints of the carved stone angels, as 
 flower-pollen stains a cheek which brushes a lily. And, 
 as I watched the colors pale and brighten, the organ 
 thrilled, and music broke out in a glorious fountain of 
 sound. It rose and fell, with the floating rainbows, so 
 pure, so sweet, it was like perfume — perfume of the tall, 
 branching lilies. 
 
 Think of sitting there all alone among the rainbows, 
 and hearing the voices of angels singing to me, and to no 
 one else ! I am not sure that this was not the best thing 
 that has ever happened to me, except knowing you ; both 
 great things, and both memories now. Yet I won't say 
 only memories. I tell myself, when I am lonely, but for 
 the friend I have in my own heart, that memories are 
 just as real and living presences as the hours of to-day. 
 For this moment's present is the next moment's past, 
 and what ought it to matter whether a joy is the memory 
 of ten years or ten minutes ago ? I have not strengthened 
 myself yet to the point where it does not matter ; but 
 perhaps I shall reach that point in time, if I have to de- 
 pend mostly on memories for my personal happiness. 
 
 The music was made by a great organist from London, 
 who used to be a chorister at King's Chapel twenty-eight 
 years ago. I found this out afterwards, and I did not 
 need to find out that he was playing for his own delight. 
 He went on and on and on, for sheer joy, as if he could 
 
To M. L. G. 329 
 
 not stop, just like a nightingale or a lark. The music 
 caught me up to a heaven I have never lost sight of since 
 then. 
 
 Of this, and other things I have written about the years 
 that brought me near to you, I wonder why I wrote them. 
 And I wonder more often what you will think, than when 
 I first began to write. In the beginning I told what had 
 to be told if you were to see the making of me. Lately 
 I have written now and then what I wished to write, be- 
 cause of the pleasure it gave me to put it on paper, per- 
 haps for your eyes to see. If you think I am consciously 
 trying to show contrasts, you will be mistaken. It is not 
 that. Still, I have grown more self-conscious in writing, 
 I feel, and know, as I have gone on. The heart-burning 
 and the shame of laying myself bare, and breaking your 
 ideal, has cooled a little. And in getting past the bad 
 days, on paper, as I got past them in life, I seem to come 
 closer to you, as if I were speaking to you, instead of 
 writing. Sometimes, if I dared, I should believe that our 
 thoughts reached each other ; that my need of sympathy 
 received its answer. At least, it does no harm to feel 
 that. 
 
 I suppose the whole question raised by these extracts 
 from my life, which I have tried to give you from inside 
 and outside, is this : What would I — my Ego — have 
 been if its earthly spark had been lighted in a different 
 environment ? If, for instance, I had been born as a baby 
 into such surroundings as I, the thinking woman, was 
 born into, and then, later, had been pushed down to the 
 level of my real childhood ? 
 
 For me, it is a question without an answer. I would 
 give the little I have worth giving to know what answer, 
 
330 To M. L. G. 
 
 if any, rises in your mind. Yet I can see no satisfactory 
 answer as possible. If, in a different frame, I would have 
 been different, that must argue inherent weakness. On 
 the other hand, if I would have been the same, in spite 
 of a happier start, it seems to argue inherent faults or 
 folly in myself. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 I WISH that my first impressions of England had 
 been associated with you. But I had two years 
 there while you were away ; and then I went back 
 to America to act, still knowing nothing of you except 
 
 what I had heard, and the photograph A had shown 
 
 me, in talking of you. Still another year, or nearly a 
 year passed after I came again to live in England, before 
 we met. Yet all the things I have loved best in England, 
 since I first saw it, remind me of you, as if we had seen 
 them together. 
 
 I hardly know why I did not stay in America, after I 
 went back, because the new point of view I had gained 
 gave me a new interest in everything. And I liked my 
 work, and people were kind. 
 
 It is rather wonderful, and very good, how soon evil 
 can be forgotten or ignored. I had been gossiped about, 
 and some worse things than were ever true had been 
 said and printed. Yet no one seemed to remember. 
 Or if a few did remember, they were silent, and none of 
 the old stories were revived. Often, I scarcely knew 
 whether to laugh or cry over the pressing invitations 
 that came to me from prim ladies standing high on 
 " society " pedestals. Just because I was trying to make 
 up for my long, blank years of ignorant blindness, by 
 reading and studying, I got a reputation as a bookworm 
 and a " recluse," such an odd reputation for an actress, 
 that by those who did not look back I seemed to be 
 
 33 1 
 
332 To M. L. G. 
 
 considered quite a model of all the virtues. It was on 
 the top wave of this reputation that I was swept back to 
 England for the second time ; and those who had been 
 kind to me before were even kinder. I understand very 
 well what sort of idea you had of me before we met. It 
 was like an introduction to a volume, which gives the 
 reader a clue before he begins. 
 
 There is nothing I need write about my life in America 
 during the two years I spent there after my return, for I 
 have no big things to repent of, or be glad of, during 
 that time. But there is just one thing about some one 
 else, not myself, I should like to tell. In a big city, far 
 west, I met Alma — quite by accident. She was mar- 
 ried, not to the man who for her sake had sent all her 
 company east, years ago, but to a friend of his, whom 
 she had known through him, and who knew the whole 
 of her story. She was still lovely, though her outlines 
 were sharpened ; and she seemed happy in a quiet way. 
 I was playing in the town where she lived, and she 
 asked me to visit at her house. I went gladly, for I had 
 loved her through all the years, and had never forgotten, 
 though we had passed out of each other's lives. At first, 
 she was slightly reserved, though sweet and affectionate; 
 but one night her husband had gone east on business, and 
 we sat up very late after the theatre, talking. She told 
 me a good many things about the past, but dwelt mostly 
 on her gratitude to her husband. I thought then, in my 
 heart, that it should be the other way round, for she was 
 so charming, so exquisitely refined and gentle, while he 
 appeared not only commonplace, but even rather com- 
 mon. Now I understand exactly how she felt. 
 
 In describing the success her marriage had been, she 
 
To M.L.G. 333 
 
 attributed her happiness entirely to the fact that her hus- 
 band knew the worst there was to know before he asked 
 her to be his wife. But she had been spared the dreadful 
 ordeal of telling him. He had known much of her early- 
 history, and had seen the latter part shaping itself. In 
 spite of everything he had been willing to take her. 
 But whether he had condoned her past life because he 
 was common and commonplace, or in spite of being 
 both, I could not decide, and have never decided. Often 
 and often lately I have asked myself — Which? 
 
 After you and I knew each other, and I began to care, 
 I tried with all my might to stop loving you, for fear of 
 the consequences. I foresaw that loving you would mean 
 suffering for me, perhaps for us both. Sometimes I 
 made up my mind that I would leave England, and go 
 back to live in America. But I was not strong enough 
 — or weak enough, to run away. 
 
 After we had our second talk together — the queerest, 
 most starry talk any woman ever had with any man she 
 was just beginning to know — I could think of nothing 
 and no one but you. I could not imagine how I had found 
 the world worth living in, before I knew you were in it. 
 
 Things you said made me realize how much I still had 
 to learn, and how far off the horizon is. It was like 
 climbing a mountain to go up and up the path of friend- 
 ship with you, finding with each turn a new and unex- 
 pected outlook. The higher the level I reached, the 
 more mountains of almost unattainable knowledge and 
 inspiration I saw, billowing away to the ends of creation, 
 the borders of eternity. And I gloried in that great com- 
 pany of mountains, because you had climbed them all, 
 and knew their names and their most intimate beauties. 
 
334 To M. L. G. 
 
 Even if I had been the woman you nobly believed me 
 to be, I should have been ridiculously small beside you, 
 hardly visible to the naked eye. I realize'd more each 
 day how little I was, at best, how unworthy still, though 
 worthier than I had been. 
 
 I said no longer with the same confidence, " The cloud- 
 shadows can pass and leave no dark trace." I thought 
 that a woman loved by such a man as you should always 
 have walked on mountain tops, in sunlight. 
 
 But in the sudden radiance of learning that you cared 
 for me (learning from your eyes, not your lips) I let 
 myself go, almost deliberately, for a few days, so that, 
 come what might, I should for once have lived. Never 
 had I really lived till those days. I want you to know 
 that now ; never, even in Italy, had I lived with my whole 
 nature, my heart, my blood, my mind, my soul — all, all ! 
 Those days nothing can take from me. I know and 
 cannot forget till the end of me, if end there is, what it 
 was like to, love and be happy. 
 
 But the break came when you spoke. It had been 
 only a mirage of happiness, like the rainbow mirage at 
 King's Chapel. When you told me how you loved, and 
 how high you held me, the vision was shattered. If I 
 could have died, with the white light of your reverent 
 love shining on me, I would have thanked God. 
 
 Do you remember some words you quoted, not then 
 (for we were living too intensely to think of what any 
 other man or woman had said about love), but the next 
 day? 
 
 " A kiss lays low the walls of thee and me." 
 
 If your kiss had laid low the wall of me, and let you 
 
To M. L. G. 335 
 
 see what was on the other side, what look would have 
 come into your eyes ? 
 
 You left me, on both days, believing that I loved you f 
 and was happy in loving. But through both nights I 
 suffered as I had not known I could suffer. It was as if 
 my soul were being flayed alive. I do not think human 
 nature could endure more. 
 
 I wonder if Alma suffered so, when, knowing that all 
 was over between her and Cyril, she bade me good-bye, 
 and drank the poison ? 
 
 I longed desperately, the second night, to go to A 's 
 
 door, and knock ; to beg her to let me in, and then to tell 
 her everything. I did get up at last, and go out into the 
 corridor ; but I went no further. I could not bear to 
 
 be so selfish as to disturb A in the night with my 
 
 troubles. 
 
 Next morning, when she came into the garden — the 
 dear, enchanted garden — I was there. I had been there 
 since dawn. The sunrise had given me back a little 
 courage, and I had made up my mind to say nothing to 
 her, for I was sure no one could really help me. I meant 
 to let her think that I had only just come down, but she 
 saw by my face that something had happened. She 
 thought that you and I had quarrelled ! I could not bear 
 to have her believe that of us, and somehow she drew 
 from me enough to make her understand. 
 
 Then she gave me the advice of which I told you 
 when I began to write : to marry you, and keep silent 
 about the past. She said : " A woman's past is her own, 
 just as a man's is his." And on principle, I agreed with 
 her. Only, I could not take her advice. She argued 
 with me, insisting that it was a stupid convention for 
 
336 To M. L. G. 
 
 women to tell such things to men ; that men did not wish 
 them told ; they would rather be happy, and not know ; 
 that " confession " was a selfish luxury, and the wish for 
 it a sign of hysteria. I repeated over and over that per- 
 haps she was right, and explained that I had no hysterical 
 longing to confess, rather the contrary ; but that you be- 
 lieved me to be one sort of woman, whereas in reality I 
 was another. And I tried to make her see that to marry 
 you and keep silent, as she advised, would be like a 
 woman who loved a man, disguising herself to represent 
 another woman, whom he loved, for the marriage cere- 
 mony. Still, I did not convince A . She said, " I 
 
 am of his world, and ought to know what is best for 
 him, better than you can." Also she harked back to that 
 old axiom, " The outsider sees most of the game." 
 
 You know how eloquent and enthusiastic she is when 
 she is interested. Almost she persuaded me to take her 
 advice. I wanted so much to feel that she was right, and 
 I was wrong. But when I saw you again, and looked 
 into your eyes, I knew that for me there was only one 
 thing to do, since I could not bear to tell you. I must 
 send you away, and make you think I did not care 
 enough to go with you, after all. 
 
 I am repeating this, so that you may be very sure I 
 loved you, and love you now, and will love you always. 
 Just in case it may be a satisfaction to you to know. 
 But not for anything would I have you think that I 
 suffer through all the days, as I suffered then. I am not 
 writing to call you back, only to give you my whole truth. 
 
 Whatever you wish to think of me, that is what I 
 pray you to think, for I know that you will think chival- 
 rously. 
 
To M. L. G. 337 
 
 I have read over again now what I have written up to 
 this page, and although I am far from satisfied, at least I 
 see that I have done my best to be true. 
 
 Above all things, do not feel remorse if, now that you 
 know the real woman, you decide not to come and not to 
 write. Whatever you decide is best for you will be best 
 for me. And you must not picture me as desperately 
 despairing, or existing feverishly from day to day, only 
 in the hope of hearing from you that I am forgiven. 
 
 It is true that, when I let you go, all personal happi- 
 ness for me went with you. But long hours of calmness 
 came, and I hope to find something like real peace in 
 Venice again. I am going back there soon, to the place 
 where I " found myself." And I tell you once more, I 
 am a thousand times better and happier for having you 
 in my memory, like a picture over an altar, behind a 
 curtain. 
 
 When I think of myself, though I feel — often, not al- 
 ways — that intrinsically I am not worthy of such a man, 
 frankly I am not sure that I would have been as good a 
 woman as I am, if the cloud-shadows had never dark- 
 ened the lagoon. It is not that I hold the belief, already 
 as old-fashioned as the " new woman " of many years 
 ago, that a woman has a right to the same experiences as 
 men, without being questioned. It isn't that. It is only 
 that I am not sure about myself. And I have a strange 
 conviction that to the heart of the Real Me the black 
 shadow never reached. 
 
 I want to be my new self, to shut the door on the past, 
 and live in the present and future. But I can see, oh so 
 plainly, that there is little reason for you to want even 
 that new self at its best in your life. Search your own 
 
338 To M. L. G. 
 
 soul to decide. Yet I think, somehow, that now you 
 will know without reflecting whether we are for each 
 other or not. 
 
 You will not be " spoiling my life " by keeping your- 
 self out of it. There will never be any other man in my 
 life. There never has been any other who counted, in 
 my heart. But while sunrises and sunsets throw their 
 banners across the sky, while winds call, stars throb, and 
 waters murmur to my soul, I cannot lose all that is worth 
 having or live behind prison bars. 
 
 So I say again : put my needs out of your mind, and 
 decide what is best for yourself. 
 
 THE END 
 
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