Читать книгу The Easiest Way - Arthur Hornblow - Страница 6

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If Laura Murdock was not quite so young as she looked, she was far from appearing her real age, which was twenty-five. A casual observer at most, would have accorded her twenty. In her case Nature had been unusually kind. Her skin was soft as a new-born infant's, her complexion fresh as the unplucked rose, her expression innocent and unsophisticated. A priest unhesitatingly would have given her absolution without confession. Her baby face, her childish prettiness and air of unaffected ingenuousness, her good taste in dress, her natural refinement, and cleverness in keeping men guessing had been, indeed, the chief keystones of her success. And, most remarkable of all, perhaps, was that she had been able to retain this prettiness and girlishness after what she had gone through, for, at the time this narrative opens, Laura Murdock had already lived a career which would have made a wreck of most women.

Born in Melbourne, of English parents, she came at an early age from Australia to San Francisco. Her father was connected in a business capacity with one of the local theatrical companies, and the young girl naturally drifted to the stage. She had only a mediocre histrionic talent, but what was perhaps more important, she had uncommon good looks, and she soon found that beauty was not only a valuable asset, but a sure lever to success. The critics praised her, not because she acted well, but because she dressed exquisitely, and pleased the eye. Managers and authors flattered her. Soon she found, to her amazement, that she was the success of the hour. Stage Johnnies raved about her; sent her flowers and invited her to supper; women envied her, and said spiteful things. Portraits of her in various attitudes appeared in the newspapers and magazines. In a single night she was carried high on the top wave of sensational popularity.

The outcome was only logical. Even a virtuous woman could not stand the strain, and Laura was not virtuous. Of neurotic temperament, inherently weak, if not actually vicious in character, with the spirit of the courtesan strong within her from an early age, fond of luxury and personal adornment she could not legitimately afford, it was not surprising that she listened to the flatterers and went to the devil quicker than any woman before her in the whole history of gallantry. At the end of her first season, her reputation was completely in tatters. Accepting the situation philosophically, she did not pretend to be better than she was, but she was clever enough not to cheapen herself by entangling herself too promiscuously. She had lovers by the score, yet none could boast of having really won her heart. A woman of superficial emotions, she was entirely without depth, yet so long as it suited her purpose, she was able to conceal this shallowness and profess for the admirer of the moment the greatest affection and devotion. This is an art and she was an adept at it. Sensually she quickly attracted men, and it was not long before she became a prime favorite in the select circles that made such resorts as "The Yellow Poodle" and "Moreland's" famous, yet in her dissipations she was always careful not in any way to indulge in excesses which would jeopardize her physical attractiveness, or for one moment diminish her keen sense of worldly calculation.

One day, obeying a foolish impulse, she married. The venture was, of course, a failure. Her selfish vacillating nature was such that she could not remain true to the poor fool who had given her his name. To provide the luxuries she incessantly demanded, he embezzled the funds of the bank where he was employed, and when exposure came, and he was confronted with a jail sentence, she was horrified to see him kill himself in front of her. There was a momentary spasm of grief, a tidal wave of remorse, followed in a few brief weeks by the peculiar recuperation of spirits, beauty and attractiveness that so marks this type of woman. Gradually she became hardened and indifferent. She began to view life as a hunting field, in which the trophy went to the hardest rider. Deceived herself by men, she finally arrived at that stage of life known in theatrical circles as "wised up."

Coming to New York, she attracted the attention of a prominent theatrical manager, and was given a part, in which she happened to make a hit. This was enough to immediately establish her reputation on the metropolitan stage. The fact that before reaching the age of womanhood, she had had more escapades than most women have in their entire lives, was not generally known in Manhattan, nor was there a mark upon her face or a single coarse mannerism to betray it. She was soft voiced, very pretty, very girlish, yet she was no fool. Her success did not turn her head or blind her to her shortcomings as an actress. She realized that in order to maintain her position she must have some influence outside of her own ability, so she laid plans to entangle in her net a hard-headed, blunt and supposedly soubrette-proof theatre manager. He fell victim to her charms, and in his cold, stolid way, gave her what love there was in him. Still not satisfied, she played two ends against the middle, and finding a young man of wealth and position, who could give her in his youth an exuberance of joy utterly apart from the character of the theatrical manager, she allowed him to shower her with presents. When his money was gone, she cast him aside and demurely resumed her relations with the unsuspecting theatre manager. The jilted lover became crazed, and one night at a restaurant, attempted to murder them both.

From that time on, her career was a succession of brilliant coups in gaining the confidence and love, not to say the money, of men of all ages, and all walks of life. Her powers of fascination were as potent as her professions of reform were insincere. She never made an honest effort to be an honest woman, she never tried to do the square thing. Yet, like other women of her type, she found all sorts of excuses for her wrongdoing. She pretended that she was persecuted, a victim of circumstances, and was ever ready to explain away the viciousness of character, which was really responsible for her troubles.

In spite of her success on the stage, she was an indifferent actress. Her lack of true feeling, her abuse of the dramatic temperament in her private affairs, had been such as to make it impossible for her sincerely to impress audiences with genuine emotional power, and therefore, despite the influences which she always had at hand, she remained a mediocre artist.

Her meeting with Willard Brockton was, from her point of view, the best possible thing that could have happened. Brockton was a New York stock broker, and like many men of his tastes and means, was a good deal of a sensualist. Of morals he frankly confessed he had none, yet he was an honest sensualist for he played the game fair. He never forgot that he was a gentleman. He was perfectly candid about his amours and never expected more from a woman than he could give to her. He was honest in this, that he detested any man who sought to take advantage of a pure woman. He abhorred any man who deceived a woman. The same in love as in business, he believed that there was only one way to go through life, and that was to be straight with those with whom one deals. A master hand in stock manipulation and other questionable practices of Wall Street, he realized that he had to pit his cunning against the craft of others. He was not at all in sympathy with present-day business methods, but he did not see any particular reason why he should constitute himself a reformer. Although still in the prime of life, he cared nothing for society and held aloof from it. If he went to the trouble to keep in touch at all with people of his own set, it was simply for business reasons. What he seemed to delight in most was the life of Bohemia, with its easy camaraderie, its lax moral code, its contempt for the conventions. He enjoyed the company of women of facile virtue, the gay little supper parties after the theatre, and the glass that inebriates and cheers, in a word, he enjoyed going the pace that kills. He was a man of many liasons, but none were as serious or had lasted so long as his present pact with Laura Murdock. No woman before had been clever enough to hold him. He appeared very fond of her, and completely under her influence. His friends shook their heads, looked wise, and took and gave odds that he would be so foolish as to marry her.

The couple took seats at a table, the cynosure of all eyes. Every head turned in their direction, conversations were temporarily suspended and there was much whispering and craning of necks, to get a glimpse of the young woman whose reputation, or lack of it, was already so notorious. Far from being embarrassed at this display of public interest, Laura seemed to enjoy the attention she excited. Languidly sinking into her seat, she said to her escort with a smile:

"Don't they stare? You'd think they had never seen a woman before."

Brockton laughed as he lit a fresh cigar.

"How do you know they're staring at you? I'm not such a bad looker myself."

Laura ran over the menu to see what there was to tempt her appetite.

"Bring me some lobster," she said to the waiter.

"And a bottle of wine—Moet and Chandon white seal," broke in Brockton, "frappé—you understand, and make it a rush order. I have to get away in a few minutes."

Laura pursed her delicately chiseled lips together in a pout. She liked to do that on every possible occasion, because, having practiced it at home before the mirror, she thought it looked cunning.

"You're surely going to give yourself time to eat a bite, aren't you?" she cried in affected dismay.

The broker looked at his watch.

"I must be in Boston early to-morrow morning. The express leaves the Grand Central at 12:15. I've just time to drink a glass of wine and sprint for the train. That's why I kept the taxi waiting outside. I hate to go. I assure you I'd much rather sit here with you. But go I must."

As far as his amours were concerned, women of the Laura Murdock and Elfie St. Clair type appealed strongly to the broker. Not only did he enjoy their bohemianism and careless good-fellowship, but he entered fully into the spirit of their way of living. He professed to understand them and in a measure to sympathize with them. Entirely without humbug or cant, he recognized that they had their own place in the social game. They were outcasts, if you will, but interesting and amusing outcasts. He rather liked the looseness of living which does not quite reach the disreputable. Behind all this, however, was a high sense of honor. He detested and despised the average stage-door Johnny, and he loathed the type of man who seeks to take young girls out of theatrical companies for their ruin. Otherwise he had no objection to his women friends being as wise as himself. When they entered into an agreement with him there was no deception. In the first place, he wanted to like them; in the second place he wanted them to like him. His iron-gray hair, contrasting with their youth, not only made him look like their father, but his manner towards them was distinctly paternal. He insisted also on their financial arrangements, being kept on a strictly business basis. The amount of the living expenses was fixed at a definite figure and he expected them to limit themselves to it. He made them distinctly understand that he reserved the right at any time to withdraw his support, or transfer it to some other inamorata, and he gave them the same privilege. While he consulted only his own selfish pleasures, Brockton was not an uncharitable man. He was always ready to help anyone who was unfortunate, and at heart he sometimes felt sorry for these women who had to barter their self respect to indulge their love of luxury. He hoped that some of them would one day meet the right man and settle down to respectable married life, but he insisted that such an arrangement could be possible only by the honest admission on the woman's part of what she had been and the thorough and complete understanding of her past by the man involved. He was gruff and blunt in manner, yet well liked by his intimates. They thought him a brute, almost a savage, but almost every one agreed with Laura that he was "a pretty decent savage." She and the broker had been pals for two years, and she had never been happier in her life. He was most generous with his money and his close relations with several prominent theatrical managers made it possible for him to secure for her desirable engagements. There was no misunderstanding between them. He knew exactly what she was and what she had been. He any way. He always told her that whenever she felt it inconsistent with her happiness to continue with him, it was her privilege to quit, and he himself reserved the same right. As far as such an irregular marital relation as this could be said to be desirable, it was an ideal arrangement.

"How long will you be gone?" asked Laura, as she toyed with a lobster claw and glanced around the café, to see who was there.

"I've no idea," answered Brockton. "I may return day after to-morrow or I may be detained there a week or longer. It's a big job, you know—in connection with floating a big issue of railroad bonds. There's a barrel of money in it. I may not get back before you go to Denver."

The girl looked up at him quickly, and laying down her knife and fork, leaned across the table. Resting her dimpled chin on her ungloved and tapering hands, which were covered with blazing stones, she said with more genuine feeling than she had yet shown:

"Oh, Will—it was awfully good of you to get me that engagement and let me go. A number of girls I know were after it—some with far more experience than I've had. They're all crazy to play stock at this time of year. Of course, I don't need the money as much as they do, but I'm fond of acting and it's a bully way to spend some of the summer. Besides, I think the air out there—the high altitude—will do me lots of good."

"That's all very well," rejoined the broker with a grimace of mock despair, "but what am I going to do all alone in this dusty, thirsty town, while you're playing Camille, and what not under the shady trees at Denver? I'm an ass to stand for it."

She laid a consoling hand on his arm.

"No, you're, not. You're a darling boy. You know I had my heart set on getting that stock engagement, and you went to all kinds of trouble to make the manager let me have it. Really, Will—I can't say how grateful I am! I won't be so long away—only six short Weeks—and if you like you can come to Denver and bring me East again. It'll be awfully jolly traveling home together, won't it?"

Brockton looked at her and smiled indulgently. He was only joking, just to see how she would take it. Of course he would let her go. He would be a selfish brute if he played the tyrant and consulted only his own convenience.

"All right, kid," he said kindly. "Go and enjoy yourself. Never mind about me—I'll jog along somehow. I'll miss you, though. I don't mind telling you that. When you're ready to come home, just telegraph and I'll take the next train for Denver. If you need any money, you know where to write me. Meantime, put this in your inside pocket."

He pressed his strong fingers down on her open palm, and closed her hand. Opening it, she found five new crisp one hundred dollar notes. A crimson glow of pleasure spread over her face and neck. For a moment she was unable to stammer her thanks.

"Oh, Will—you are so good!"

"That's nothing," he laughed lightly, "have a good time with it. Buy what things you need. You understand—that is only a little extra pin money. Your regular weekly cheque will be sent to you at Denver."

All she could say was to repeat:

"Oh—Will—you are so good!"

He lifted his glass and looked whimsically at her through the dancing bubbles of the foaming champagne. In a low voice he said:

"Here's to my little girl! May she tread the stage of Denver with the grace and charm of an Ellen Terry and return to New York covered with new laurels!"

Calling for the bill, and tossing a ten dollar note to the waiter, he rose hastily:

"I hate to go and leave you here alone, but I must catch that train."

"Oh, don't mind me," she replied, smiling up at him. "I'll stay a few minutes yet." Nodding towards the left, she added: "I see Elfie over there. I'll sit with her. Don't worry about me. I'll go home in a taxi."

He took her hand. He would have liked to kiss her, but like most men, he hated to make public demonstration of his feelings.

"Good-bye, little one," he said fondly. "Be a good girl. Write me directly you get to Denver. Be sure to send me all the press notices——" Facetiously he added: "—all the bad ones mind. I'm not interested in the others. And when you're ready to come home, just telegraph, and I'll come for you. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye, Will."

The next moment he was gone.

For some time after his, departure she sat quietly at the table, toying idly with the rich food in front of her. Absorbed in her own thoughts she paid no attention to what was transpiring around. She was singularly depressed that evening, she knew not why. It was very foolish, for she had every reason to feel elated. Things certainly continued to go her way. After all the storm and stress of her past life, she was at last settled and contented. She had plenty of money, a good friend, influence with the theatre managers, and now she had secured the very engagement she had been longing for. What could any reasonable woman possibly desire more? Yet for all that she sometimes felt there was something missing in her life. She was too intelligent not to know the degradation of the kind of existence she was leading, and sometimes the realization of it made her utterly miserable. If it were not for the champagne and the hourly excitement which helped her to forget, she sometimes felt she would take her life. In her heart she knew that she did not love Will Brockton, and she believed him too clever a man to imagine for a moment that she had any real affection for him. They were pals, that was all. He liked her very much—she was sure of that. But it was not love. How could a woman of her character expect to inspire decent love in any man? Theirs was a careless, unconventional tie, which could be broken to-morrow. A quarrel, and she would see him no more. She shivered. The mere thought of such a contingency was decidedly unpleasant. It's so easy, she mused, to become accustomed to automobiles, luxurious apartments, fine gowns and the rest, but so hard—oh, so hard!—to learn how to do without them.

Emptying her glass, she rose from her seat and strolled toward where Elfie St. Clair was still sitting with the two men.

"Hello, Laura!" cried her friend as she came up. "We saw you from the distance. Come and sit down. These gentlemen are friends of mine—Mr. Warner—Mr. Madison—Miss Murdock."

The men bowed, while Elfie made room for the newcomer.

"Won't you take something?" asked Warner politely.

"No, thank you—I've just had a bite."

"Why did Mr. Brockton run away?" demanded Elfie, unable to restrain her feminine curiosity. His sudden departure was unusual enough to suggest a lover's quarrel.

"He had to catch a train—important business in Boston," replied Laura carelessly. Impulsively she burst out: "Oh, Elfie—what do you think? I got that stock engagement after all. I'm perfectly daffy about it. I play leads in 'Camille,' 'Mrs. Dane's Defense,' and such plays as that."

"Where is it?" demanded Elfie.

"In Denver. Don't you remember? I told you I was after it?"

"Denver? Why that's where Mr. Madison comes from."

Both girls turned and looked at the big Westerner. Laura regarded him with more attention. If this man was from Denver, he might be useful to her. She was not the kind to neglect anything that was likely to promote her interests. Looking him well over, she noted his big, muscular frame, his steel-gray eyes, and determined, prognathous jaw. It was a type of manhood that was new to her. He was decidedly worth cultivating.

"You live in Denver?" she said, trying on him the effect of her dimpled smile, which was irresistible to most men.

He nodded carelessly.

"Yes—I'm with one of the newspapers there."

"Oh!"

She was glad now that she had come over to Elfie's table. Decidedly this man would be very useful. It is always a good thing to know journalists. It suggested favorable paragraphs and good notices in the papers. She remembered what a philosophical chorus girl once told her: "Rather a good press agent than great talent." Forthwith Laura exerted herself to be very amiable. She laughed and chatted and when Madison, in his turn, ordered a bottle of wine, she graciously allowed him to drink to her success.

"But you must help me!" she said coquettishly.

"Sure!" he answered gayly, half in jest.

She inquired about Denver, the life there, the theatres, and their audiences. She asked his advice as to the best hotel for her to stop at, questioned him about his own life and work, and sought to flatter him by appearing to take interest in everything he said.

The small hours of the morning still found them there. When at last they parted, she said in that arch, captivating way, which none better than she knew how to employ:

"We will be good friends, won't we?"

"You bet we will!" was his laconic, careless rejoinder.