Bellefonte, Pa., March 10, 1916.
Governor’s Lady
A Novelization of
Alice Bradley’s Play
By Gertrude Stebenson
Illustrations From Photographs of
the Stage Production
Dyright, .913, (Publication Rights Reserved
Copy IaL B oaay )
[Continued from last week. ]
CHAPTER IV.
Slade wanted Katherine Strickland
for his wife much the same as he
would have desired a wealthy, clever,
influential man for a partner. It was
to be a union of ambition. There was
no tenderness in his thoughts of her.
He was actuated purely and simply by
the lust for power and the greed of
glory. All the softer, better things in
the man’s nature were swamped by
this torrent of craving for worldly suc
cess that was sweeping him on to com-
mit the most dastardly act in his long
career of trampling over the heads
and hearts of adversaries and oppo
nents.
Even when he was a boy Dan Slade
ad always set his teeth at “You can’t
do it,” or “It can’t be done.” The very
difficulty of a thing strengthened his
determination to do. "All his life long
his success had been punctuated by
the ruin of other men. He had not
advanced so far without pushing other
men back. Now that a woman instead
of a man stood in the way, the result
was the same. His methods might be
quieter, more merciful, but the answer
would be the same. Mary’s sterling
worth, her long years of devotion and
sweet tenderness counted for nothing
once he became convinced that Mary’s
dowdiness, her standpat policy and her
arrested development were stop-gaps
in his own opportunity for progres
sion. He ignored the fact that the lit
tle brown-eyed, patient woman was as
much a part of him as were his eyes
or his arms or any other very essen
tial- part of his being.
It was at just this point in Slade’s
pitiless reasoning that Mary, peering
over the baluster and seeing him
alone, hurried down the stairs.
“Thank goodness, they’ve gone,” she
declared as she came into the room.
Then seeing the numerous side lights
burning she hastened to turn one
after the other down to a glimmer.
“I'm so glad you're not going out,” she
went on, coming over to him and rub
bing her cheek against his sleeve. The
little movement was a pathetically
mute appeal for some caress. “What’d
they say?’ she asked, suddenly, as
she realized that her tender yearning
met with no response.
But her husband was in no com
municative frame of mind.
“You're not mad with me, are yer?”
she questioned, wistfully, very much
“Go Ahead \/ith Your Paper, I'll Take
| My Chances.” :
like an eager child who has been re-
pressed.
“No,” Slade replied, briefly and with-
out much interest.
Mary breathed a quick sigh of relief.
“Ah, then, we'll have a nice, quiet,
pleasant evening,” she declared, add-
Ing coaxingly: “Let's go upstairsand
have a game of euchre. We haven't
played for ever so long.”
Siade looked at her, his eyes drawn
into a deep frown. It was true he
wasn't angry with her, but he was
angry at the thwarting circumstances
that were hemming him in. Her very
manner irritated him now—her quiet
contentment, her calm acceptance of
her failure to meet his guests and fill
her place as mistress of his home mad-
dened him. He was all the more de-
termined to fight for something else—
to begin his campaign for a governsr-
ship and another womaz that moment.
“You can amuse yourself after I'm
gone,” he answered over his shoulder.
“Then you are going out?” Mary's
voice echoed the disappointment she
felt. .
“Yes.” Slade continued to be mono-
syllabic. “But I want to have a talk
with you. Mary—we've got to come
to some understanding.”
“Why, what—?” Mary began, and
then stopped. For the first time she
moticed his changed manner and his
averted eyes. She started to fumble
with her workbasket.
“I can’t put it off any longer, I=
er—" Slade stopped short. He was
/ I
finding this attempt at an “under-
standing” much more difficult than he
had ‘anticipated.
“What is it you're trying to say,
Dan?” Mary's voice was firmer than
his. “What’s in your mind? You keep
hinting at something lately and you
never finish it. What is it?”
' “You're a rich woman in your own
name, Mary. Are you satisfied with
‘what I've settled on you?”
“Why, yes,” came the quick re-
sponse, as Mary's puzzled eyes
searched his for a reason for the
strange question. Then she added:
“You’ve been mighty good to me, Dan.”
“How would you like to go and live
in the country, Mary?”
Glad surprise filled the woman's
eyes. Her thin cheeks flushed as she
clasped her hands excitedly.
- “Oh, Dan, you know I'd like it.
You're awfully good, father. I knew
you’d back down and give in. This
is no place for us.”
“You leave me out of the question.”
And to his credit the man became
shamefaced.
“I can’t leave you out of the ques-
tion,” she protested quickly, not an
inkling of her husband’s real meaning
having entered her head. In her per-
fect love and loyalty she was imper-
vious to any hint of neglect or disloy-
alty from him. Had she known his
thoughts her first care would have
been to soothe him as one whose
brain, overtaxed with affairs beyond
her understanding, had suddenly
clouded.
For an instant the man was silent.
His face was turned from hers and he
was looking out the doorway through
which the stately figure of Katherine
Strickland had just passed and through
which he hoped to walk some day—
governor.
“I—I—wouldn’t go with you, Mary,”
he finally turned and looked her
squarely in the eyes. :
“Why—where would you be? Where
would you live? Where would you?”
She stopped and then finished. “Pshaw.
That’s all foolishness, Dan.”
“Mary.” Slade was firmer now. His
voice had a ring of finality, but Mary
didn’t understand. “I can’t go on apol-
ogizing for you eternally! You can’t
have a headache every night! I must
either have a wife who can be the
head of my household or none.”
Into the woman's heart there leaped
a sharp fear, followed by the childish
idea that perhaps, because she wouldn’t
go to the opera, she was to be pun-
ished—sent away alone—until she was
forgiven.
“You're tired of me,” she suggested.
“If that were true and you filled the
bill, we could put up with each other,”
he returned brutally, “but it isn’t so.”
“Don’t you love me?’ she half
breathed the question timidly.
For a brief instant something caught
at Slade’s heart and tugged and tugged.
He turned with a look of infinite ten-
derness and said, simply: “Yes, Mary,
[ do.” His tone was genuine and sin-
cere.
Mary laughed a little, happy laugh.
At the sound Slade’s mood changed
like a flash. It grated on his already
overwrought nerves. It seemed to dis-
miss the controversy, to end the argu-
ment, to ring the death-knell of the
dream that had come to him. The
careless way in which she apparently
dropped the discussion of going away
nettled him. Prompted by a sudden
impulse, he snatched her workbasket
from her lap and flung it the full
length of the room. “D-—n that bas-
ket!” he exclaimed. “Can't I ever see
you without it?”
“Dan!” Mary's gasp of amazement
was the only sound in the room. It
was the first time he had ever been
harsh with her, She shrank back hurt
and frightened. “Why, good Lord,
Dan, you never did that before.”
Then, with quiet dignity, she began
to pick up the basket, the hated darn-
ing cotton, the needles and scissors,
and the little worn thimble. Slade,
watching her slight, stooping figure,
ought to have been ashamed, but his
anger was flaming hot and he didn’t
as much as offer to help.
Mary’s mood changed, too.
“I believe you're doing it to get your
own way,” she sputtered, “but you
ain’t going to get it. I've got as much
right to my life as you've got to yours.”
As she came up to him, he stood
grim and silent, suddenly determined
that if she wouldn't go he would. If
she refused his offer of a home in the
country, then she could have this great
house to herself and he would live at
the club,
“There ain’t anything you could ask
of me I wouldn't do—except—" Mary's.
troubled face was looking into his.
“Except what I ask,” he finished, sar-
castically, and hurried from the room,
curtly ordered his dressing bag packed
and then, hat in hand, his overcoat on
his arm, came back into the room.
“Did it ever occur to you, Mary, that
you're a mule?” he asked. “You're
sweet and good tempered and amiable
but you'd have given the mule that
came out of Noah’s ark points on how
to be stubborn.” !
“How often have I failed you in
these years, Dan?”
“You're failing me now. You won’t
look at things with my eyes.”
“We're not one person, we're two,
Dan,” she reminded him, quietly. -
“Well, that’s the trouble, we ought
to be one. That's just what I'm get-
ting at. We ought to be of one mind.”;
“Whose? Yours?” and Mary's sweet,
mouth puckered into a very little:
smile, -
“I'm done,”
lessly.
“I can remember the time when you
would have thought that was cun-
ning,” she reproached him.
“I'm going to my club, Mary,” he
announced, disregarding her playful
attempt to smooth things over.
Mary gazed at him, bewildered by
his swift changes of mood, hurt by
his attitude, almost angry because he
was so unreasonable.
Slade decided, hope-
Then love came rushing up into her
heart. After all he was her Don. What
did this crossness or his nervousness
“Such Didoes; You Kiss Me.”
matter? She went up to him, pulled
his scarf a bit closer round his throat
and as he turned away with a mut-
tered word, waited patiently. Then,
laying her hand on his arm—such a
thin little hand, with his wedding ring
hanging loosely on it—asked: “Shall
[ wait up for you?”
Slade’s face worked convulsively.
She didn’t understand, poor little soul.
He was going away for good, for all
time, and she was asking if she would
wait up for him. More than once be-
fore she had asked that question of
him, the question that from a wife's
lips, carries with it unspoken, tender
pleading. For a space he was torn
with emotions he could not define, had
hardly expected himself to feel. Some- |.
thing bade him turn back upon ambi-
tion and pride and clasp into his arms
this little woman who had worked for
him, with him, who Fad had faith in
him when he was poor, and who had
struggled and cooked and slaved for
him that he might rise to his present
position.
But he struggled against the feeling,
tought it back and conquered.
“No, don’t wait up for me.”
“All right,” Mary agreed. “I won't,
if you don’t want me to,” and then,
with a roguish smile, “but I will wait
up for you all the same.”
Slade was touched, but he stiffened
his shoulders, Wealth he had won,
honors he meant to have—and Kath-
erine Strickland,
“Good-night, Mary,” he called, coldly,
as he hurried out of the room.
Left alone, Mary stood watching
aim, a forlorn little figure.
“Why, he didn’t kiss me.”
ried to the door.
something, Dan!”
Slade, hastening to the door, halted,
nesitated, turned back.
“You come right back here and kiss
me,” Mary demanded, affectionately.
“Such didoes; You kiss me.” She
raised her face for the kiss she thought
was ‘“good-night” and which he meant
as “good-by.” Slade stooped and laid
his lips on hers, gently, reverently,
then hurried out, almost as if he were
afraid to stay a minute longer.
“Such didoes,” Mary laughed to her-
self. She looked around the great
empty room. It suddenly struck her
that she had never really been happy
In this room. Riches had proved a
burden rather than a pleasure. They
had robbed her of Dan’s devotion, his
confidence, his gaiety. She hastened
to turn out the lights, shuddering as
she did so, She grabbed her work-
basket from the table and suddenly
overcome with fright in the great
silent shadowy room, fled to the lighted
hall, calling: “Susie, Susie—"
She hur-
“Dan, you forgot
CHAPTER V.
Mary Slade sat down to the break-
fast table with a certain sense of be-
wilderment. It was the same this
morning as it had been each succes-
sive morning since Dan’s departure.
She could not bring herself to the real-
ization of the fact that Dan had not
come home—apparently did not intend
to come home. >
She had waited up the night he had
gone to the club, just as she
waited up every night of their married
life, no matter where her husband
was or how late he might be coming
home. As the night hours lengthened
into day she was forced to the con-
clusion that Dan meaut to stay away
for the night. That he wouldn't be
home at all through the day never oec-
curred to her. She reasoned that a
night's sleep would clear his mind
and that he would have recovered
from his “tantrum” the next day. But
Dan didn’t “run in” that day nor the
next. The days had become weeks,
yet neither by telephone nor letter had
he sent as much as a word. :
Finally Mary had mustered up her
courage and telephoned his club, It
took courage for Mary to use the tele.
phone on any occasion. She was afraid
of the sound of her own voice the mo-
‘ment she began to talk into the trans.
mitter. This time she feared Dan's
|displeasure and his possible harshs
‘mess, Mr. Slade was out, had left no
‘message, they did not know when he
(would return, was the disappointing
mesult as she hung the receiver on the
‘hook. :
This morning, as the maid served
fher breakfast,. she resolved to try
again. The situation was getting un
‘bearable, It was bad enough to live
in the great how * be surrounded
[Continued on page 7, Col. 1.]
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Meat Market.
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34-34-1y. Bellefonte, Pa
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Compare this issue of the “Watchman” with other county
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Dry Goods, Etc.
—————
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