Governor's Lady A Novelization of Alice Bradley’sPlay By Gertrude Stebenson Illustrations From Photographs of the Stage Production Copyright, SE {Pubes 0 Big Rights Reserved) [Continued from last week.] Merritt stood with his elbow on the mantel, looking moodily into the fire. “Wesley,” she cooed again. “Why don’t you—if you can’t get in—why don’t you boom Slade? They say he’s buying everybody.” “Well, we've been bought.” Her husband’s tone indicated just how little consideration such a plan would have from him. “No, but you've been defeated six times,” she objected, determined to argue this new possibility that had just occurred to her. “Wes—if the senator has gone back on you—look out. Sell out. I must have clothes.” She stopped as the senator himself entered from the smoking room. “They're asking for you, Wesley,” and Merritt, glad of the interruption, hurried out. “Ah—good evening, Fannie.” Strick- land took her hand in his smooth, affable way. “I’m sorry, Fannie, that Wesley doesn’t take more to Slade. It’s a great mistake. Why don’t you tell him so?” “Oh, my gracious!” har manner changing to suit the occasion. “What infiuence could I possibly have with my husband? He’s a man of iron will. Why, I have to do everything he tells me myself. I wouldn’t dare to meddie with his affairs.” “Well, just coax him, Fannie, the way a nice, sweet, womanly woman can,” urged the senator, knowing full well that the Merritts had one me- nage for private use and quite another for publication. “I want to go tc Europz and my husband says he 2an’t afiord it.” Her voice dropred to a sugary whine. “We can’t all be millionaires lige Mr. Slade, can we?” Just think. It would cost $10,000, to say nothinz »f clothes.” ; “Don’t worry about that trip to Ea- rope, Fannie,” the senator advised, meaningly. “I think,” and he paused significantly, “I think you'll earn it.” With that he started toward the smoking-room. “Wesley,” he called, and as Merritt appeared in the door- way, remarked: “I believe your wife has something to say to you.” “Oh, yes, Wesley—I have something most important to say.” “Well, if it’s about that trip to Eu- rope,” growled Merritt, asserting him- self as he would never dare to do when he was alone with her. “Now, Wesley, come with me to the balcony,” Fannie coaxed in what she considered her prettiest manner. “You’ll excuse us, senator?” As Fannie dragged her husband out of the room Hayes, returning from Vee aE OW “} Couldn’t—Oh, Rob! | Couldn't.” the smoking-room, and Katherine, re turning from her talk with the re porter, found themselves alone. Kath: erine was nervous and ill at ease, Immediately she began to busy her gelf folding copies of her father’s speech and inserting them into mail ing envelopes. “Slade’s doing it,” Bob remarked. “They are nearly all wiped out in there. Those who haven't been be guiled, have been bullied or bought— ‘Hold on! That sounds like the head. lines in a Socialist paper—" “What’s happened to you?” he broke off abruptly. “I can’t find a trace of you left. Ever since you came back— I've been hunting for one sign of the girl I knew. Your notes—the very let: ters you wrote me from Europe sound: ed as. if some one else had written them. Who is it who's occupying your mind, Katherine?” “I don’t know what you mean,” the | girl evaded. “You used to care a lot for me,” reflectively, his mind recalling the warm, eager welcome of her arms the day he had declared his love for her, six years before. “I only thought I did,” she declared, but her eyes dropped before his steady gaze. “You did care,” positively. “You did care. I could tell. When you went away the first time you did. Why, it was only a question of my luck turning. You were going to wait for me. I always knew that. Then 1 met Slade. Even the senator's got a good word for me now. But you—”" his voice broke and he leaned forward and laid his hand over hers as it rested idly on the table. “Heavens!” he exclaimed, as he snatched his hand away. “What 1 ought to have done was to have rid- den up here, taken you over my shoul: der and galloped off with you on a broncho.” “Oh, Rob,” she breathed, pleased at his domineering tone. really “That's the sort of a man to get’ on with a woman like you,” he ac- cused. “A brute! A man could do anything with you if he once con- quered you. long understandings,” he broke off, disgustedly. “I've lost you and I don't know how, or why. liked me better than anyone else, and I adore you yet,” he finished, impul- sively clasping her hand with both of his. Katherine patted his strong fingers with her free hand. “Pleace, Rob, I know you do,” and she left him to pass back and forth the length of the room. “I can’t” she sighed. Then hurriedly: “If I only had the courage. Oh, Rob!” and she turned on him with a helpless little gesture. “What do you in he demanded. “l mean I'd have in this little hole in the West,” she burst forth, vehemently. “No—no, I can't face it—always'” “Well, suppose it ci here?’ Bob stood wi “It’s a home. ean by courage?” to—to live liere ! mean to stay ith folded arms. Everyone vegetates more or less at home. Katherine!” his voice became moe tender, “do you really mean that?’ And he put his arms around her shoulders and looked long and earnestly into her upraised face. “l couldn’t—Oh, Rob, I couldn’t,” she protested. “Ai. this month I've been weakening—but I—” “Ah,” he interrupted, his face close to hers. “You're wearing my flowers, too—I saw that when 1 came in. And my picture—you are still keeping that.” “But I—I can’t quite,” she began. “I'm dreadfully troubled, Rob,” she finally managed to say. She turned from his embrace. ‘We'd be poor and then we'd be like the Merritts,” with a tragic spread of her arms. “I'm used to the world. I want to live— everywhere—to see things. I'd die here, vegetating!” “Oh, no you wouldn't,” Hayes start- ed to remonstrate, when the door of the smoking room opened and Slade appeared. “lI was just going to look you up, Robert. I thought you wouldn't go without seeing me, but—" “No, of course not.” Hayes did ot attempt to conceal his annoyance at the interruption. Katherine moved slowly toward the door. ‘I'm not driving you away, am I, Miss Katherine?” Before she could answer Fannie Merritt came sweeping in. She was radiant. Her beaming face and Mer- ritt’'s sullen one made the situation plain to all in the room. “My dear,” she exclaimed, turning to Katherine. “You were quite right! Mr. Slade is a great man. I'm leaving my Wesley here to work for him. I'm off for Europe next week,” she gushed as Hayes helped her into her evening wrap, “leaving my poor, dear boy all alone. You will be good to him, won't you? Good night, Mr. Slade; thank you,” and, closely followed by Kath- erine, she hurried out to her waiting motor. Slade’s face was a study in amused complacency as he realized that he need fear nothing more from Wesley Merritt or his “tin-horn tooting sheet.” The self-esteem that was slowly but completely obscuring clear vision, prevented him from seeing that his money, not himself, had brought about the change. The money he had made was his—was he—himself. He con- fused its vast power to bend the Mer- ritts and their world with his own strength. CHAPTER VI “Mrs. Slade won't sign over the cot. tage,” Hayes began abruptly. “I can’t do anything more.” “She must.” ‘Slade uttered the words through set teeth. “She can’t live there. Robert, you are the only person who knows us both thoroughly. I want you to bring this matter to a finish quietly and kindly and—now.” “Why don’t you see her and have it out with her?” Hayes suggested. “We had it out the night I left the house and told her not to wait up for me,” Slade reminded him. “I never quarrel with anyone more than once.” He eyed Hayes critically for a min. ute. . “You're with me, aren't you?” as if an idea had just occurred to him, “I'm awfully sorry for Mrs. Slade,” Hayes began, when Slade interrupted. “Look here, Hayes—I want a di vorce,” and he seated himself squarely | in front of the astonished Hayes. “A divorce?” There’s nothing in these | I do know yon “That's what I want,” and his pe shut grimly. “But, my God!” Hayes was amazed. “You didn’t want it in the first place. [ “ Think I'd Like to Make a Bargain With You.” All you wanted was to live your own life. Do you expect me to help you get rid of Mrs, Slade?” “Don't go crazy,” Slade advised, not a suggestion of feeling evident in his voice or manner. “if you do you are due for a sur prise. I can’t go sticking a knife inta that vwoman’s heart. I won't.” “You're a h—1! of a lawyer!” Slade’s anger was rising. “I'm not that sort of a lawyer,” Hayes rose- asgif to dismiss the sub- ject “Whatever sort of a lawyer you are I made you, Hayes.” “I know you did,” returned Hayes, bitterly. “You've told me that before and this is what comes of letting a man make you!” “You bet, rank ingratitude,” hotly. Hayes leaned forward, his arms on his knees and looked Slade square in the cyes. “I honestly think you're crunk with ell this pow=r and prosperity. That little woman was the apple of your eye. I always said to myself: ‘There’s one man who does stick to his wile!’ I didn’t believe wild horses could drag you away from home—" “One minute!” interrupted Slade. “All that has nothing to do with you. Neither you nor anyone living can interfere with me now. Have you stopped to figure out, and I say it with all kindness and with all respect, what sort of a governor's lady Mrs. Slade would make, feeling as she does?” “Well, what sort of a governor would you make if you were di- vorced?”’ Hayes questioned, mock- ingly. “Those men in there,” and he jerked his thumb toward the smok- ing-room door; “will they stand for that?” “They’ve got to—I own them, boots and ali!” “But you don’t own public opinion,” thundered Hayes, banging his fist down on the table, scattering the copies of the senator’s speech in all directions. “Why don’t 1?” Slade questioned with an arrogant smile disfiguring his mouth. “I'm going to buy half of Merritt’s paper tonight. I guess that will be public opinion enough for me. More than that, I'll stand as a man whose wife has deserted him, That's how it will end. Mrs. Slade will de- cide where she’s to live—but it must be at some distance.” “You won't get your through desertion,” Hayes scoffed. know her. You can’t do it.” “I can’t do it, eh?” Slade’s eyes held a nasty expression. ‘That's what they've been telling me all my life. Ever since I was a barefooted little brat running around the mines they’ve said to me: ‘You can’t do this and you can’t do that.” But I always did it. Let me tell you, young man, after all I've conquered no wom- an is going to stop me! “Can’t do it, eh?” he repeated, pug- naciously. “You watch me do it! You young jackanapes! I'm as good as deserted now. The only question is: Are you going to see Mrs. Slade—put her aboard a train east or not?” “Mrs. Slade has been my best friend,” Hayes answered quietly. “I love her dearly—I—" his voice broke. “All right. That settles it. You turn over every scran of paper of mine you have by”’—he thought a moment— “by tomorrow night. Then you can walk the ties to the devil, young man, and go back where I found you.” As Hayes turned to go, Strickland hurried into the room. “Merritt has just introduced a very unexpected subject in the smoking- room—the question of—well, you've got to know it, Slade—the question of Mrs. Slade.” ; Hayes wheeled around and watched to see what effect this announcement would have on Slade. “There are strangers there who learned of your—er—domestic difficul- ties for the first time tonight,” Strick. land continued. “Merritt has thrown the bombshell.” ; “Why, I thought—" Slade began to protest. “He's all right,” came the senator’s reassuring tones. “It had to come out. He’s got his coat off in there for you now. He maintains that the [Continued on page 7, Col. 1.] divorce “1 all i il f oi k il i (iy / min : ; i, } : a FY Pre to ruin your eyes, paying to smell burn- ing wick and the odor of poor kerosene? Are you doing these things? 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