Benn.
Bellefonte, Pa., April 20, 1928.
=
THE SLANDER GIRL.
A good many people called Mrs.
Hoare Hassard a snob and she did
not deny it. She was “proud of her
pride,” as she put it. To her friends,
or rather to those acquaintances who
pretended to be friends, she explained
candidly and casually that a social
position such as hers demanded hau-
teur, poise, a frigidity of mind and a
formality of manner which was like-
ly to be misconstrued; that it involved
also the exercise of a certain ruthless-
ness which was bound to make ene-
mies. If that constituted snobbery,
so be it; one could not be a leader and
march in the ranks.
Ambitious? Certainly she was am-
bitious. Ambition, the firm deter-
mination to get ahead at whatever
cost, always had been and always
would be the dominating motive of
her life. She had started that way
as a girl.
This was quite true. Henry Has-
sard had discovered the sort of per-
son she was soon after meeting her,
and he had been attracted as much
by her mental energy as by her un-
deniable good looks. At that time she
had been working in a western va-
riety theatre, and western variety the-
atres were not nice places of employ-
ment. Drinks were served in the cur-
tained boxes and out of every dollar
spent by the patrons for refreshment
a percentage went to the “actresses”
who promoted this conviviality. Sal-
aries were nominal; nevertheless,
some of the girls got ahead very
rapidly.
Virginia Hazen, that being her
name, was neither better nor worse
than her companions, which is a man-
ner of saying that she was no better
than she should have been, but she
was very much smarter than they,
and more important by far, she had a
level. Henry Hassard was awake to
the danger he ran in making such a
girl his wife, but he had never de-
nied himself much of anything, and in
those days as well as there young
men had a way of marrying whom
they chose.
Hassard took the chance. He
brought Virginia back to New York
with him as his bride and he intro-
duced her as the daughter of a
wealthy Montana mining man. No-
body pried into her history, for she
promptly made friends of her hus-
band’s friends. Inside of five years
she had become one of the leaders of
the social world in which they moved.
Now this success, so immediate and
so extraordinary under the circum-
stances, was by no weans entirely due
to 'Virginia’s beauty or to her force
of character, although they had some-
thing to do with it, as did her theat-
rical schooling. Henry was, in the
main, responsible. He drilled her, he
coached her, he ground her down, he
smoothed and polished her until she
fitted her new position to a nicety. He
practically made her over. She was
hard; it was a patient, painstaking
job on his part; but good workmen en-
joy handling refractory material, it
takes such a high finish and it fits so
precisely when it is done,
Nobody runs straighter than a re-
formed crook, nobody becomes so nar-
roi: or so bigoted as the ungodly per-
son who has been “saved,” no woni-
an guards her reputation more care-
ful'v than she who repents of some
youthful folly. Virginia ran straight,
she grew as narrow as the groove in
which flowed her daily life, and of all
the matrons of Westchester county,
none was so careful of her good name
and so jealous of her standing as she
who had neither name nor standing
of her own. She made a splendid
wife, and a good mother but she
learned to dispense with friends.
Friends, her husband had warned her,
are likely to become confidantes.
The Hassards lived “up the Hud-
son,” at that time a section favored
by some of the smartest families. As
the years went by the character of
the environment changed; it became
less fashionable but more respectable,
if such a thing were possible. More
conservative, too. The most respect-
able, the most conservative members
of the community were the Henry
Hassards, and Virginia became its so-
cial dictator. In comman with her
better neighbors she looked down up-
on residents of the newer and less
seasoned sections of suburban New
York. All this, of course, was a mat-
ter of years in the doing.
The Hassards had one child, a son.
When Henry, Senior, died his widow
mourned him sincerely, then settled
herself to the earnest task of being
a good mother to Henry, Junior, and
of rearing him to fill the place his
father had left vacant. It was as
much for the boy’s sake as for her
own that she refused to surrender
the reins of her dictatorship. She
adored the boy, he was her idol; she
vowed that she would bequeath to him
the finest, the firmest, the most re-
spected social position of any young
man in New York, and so jealously
guarded every ounce of power, every
atom of prestige she had gained.
Virginia spoiled young Henry pret-
ty thoroughly, as was inevitable, but
she was too sensible to pamper him.
She put him through the most ex-
pensive private schools, where his
body received as thorough training as
his mind, and, due more to her am-
bition than to his, he later became
captain of the Princeton crew and yet
managed to graduate with honors.
Nothing less than the unusual would
have satisfied his mother, for by now
he was more than her idol, he was
her god.
Virginia was sorely disappointed
that he failed of the distinction of
being voted the most popular man of
his class, and she could not under-
stand it. But the truth is Henry was -
as hard and as highly polished as his
mother, and, like her, he had the
knack of exciting admiration but
completely lacked the ability to make
real friends.
After his graduation Virginia set
about arranging a suitable marriage
for him, and naturally she aimed
high. To be frank, she aimed so high
Then came the war. Some of Hen-
ry’s college friends went over, with
the Canadians. Others later joined
the Foreign Legion, and he talked a
good deal about doing something of
the sort, but he never quite got around
to it. He did go across finally, but
not unfil America had entered the
struggle and he had been drafted.
Thanks to Virginia's efforts, he re-
ceived a commission before he sailed.
Followed two years of anguish for
Mrs. Hassard. She suffered, bled;
every day was a torture. Relief work
became fashionable and she plunged
into it—Virginia always led in “the
thing to do.” Her home at Tarry-
town she filled with sick boys in uni-
form, she lived the life of a trained
rurse and ran the place like a hos-
pital. Those boys were soul-sick as
well as body-sick and many of them
yearned for a little something more
than food, amusement, professional
solace, but Mrs. Hassard was an au-
tomaton, there was a remoteness to
her sympathy that chilled instead of
warmed the objects of her concern.
All her love was centered upon her
own son and about him she worried
constantly. Only the mother of a
thoroughly spoiled child can under-
stand her selfish agonies. She was
sorry for these lads, to be sure, she
provided lavishly for their ease and
their comfort and she made a slave
of herself in their behalf, but she
would have sacrificed them all for
Henry. This vast expenditure of
strength, of time, of money she re-
garded not as a voluntary sacrifice
but as a —well, as a sort of insur-
ance premium upon her son’s safety.
It was a bribe to God. Bo
When the news of the Armistice
came she collapsed.
The bribe had taken. Henry re-
turned home in perfect health and as
quite a hero; nevertheless he was
changed. In some ways he was al-
most a stranger to the woman who
.| believed she knew him best. Virginia
was slow to admit the change even
when it came up for comment one day
in the office of Dexter Wood, her at-
torney. She had consulted Wood with
increasing frequency of late, for the
Hassard estate, never, so large as it
was reputed to be, had shrunk alarm-
ingly during the war and now in the
post-war readjustment period it was
shrinking still further.
“Isn’t it time Henry settled down
and went to work?” the attorney in-
quired..
Virginia shrugged. “I don’t know.
Remember, he went through a lot. It
left him fagged.”
“He has had a year to rest up. Does
he understand the condition of your
affairs 7”
“Certainly not. Why spoil his fun?”
“He’d be the last one to jeopardize
your future security—or so I assume
—but that’s precisely what he is do-
ing. - And you're doing him an in-
justice by allowing him to run on.
Figure it out for yourself, Virginia:
there’s barely enough income left to
maintain you in comfort, and at best
you'll’ have to economize.”
“Oh, I've made a start in that di-
rection. I've cut my charities to the
he iled. “Th 1
he lawyer smiled, “They always
go he ok ow, then, Henry has been
tied to your apron-strings long
enough. Put him into business. Oth-
er young men have made good in spite
of their advantages and he can do so
if he puts his mind to it. The trou-
ble is to get him to put his mind on
anything. What is it the war did to
our boys? It made men of some
mighty poor timber and—it spoiled a
lot of promising material. Henry
seems to have—well, to have lost
compression. He’s like a motor that
runs idle but won’t pull a load. For-
give me if—"
“He’s the best boy in the world,”
Virginia declared with conviction,
“and I refuse to be alarmed. I’m hav-
ing my troubles and he’s having his.
He is readjusting himself physically,
mentally, psychologically—"
“Morally, too, I hear.”
“And I'm going through a similar
experience, finanically. Our boys
lived fast and furiously over there;
everything was brutal, abnormal. I
presume you mean Henry is learning
to slow down, trying to get in step
again. Well, what of it?”
That was not what Dexter Wood
had meant but he let it pass. As a
matter of fact, it seemed to him that
Henry Hassard was speeding up in-
stead of slowing down. “Of course
the simple and the direct way to solve
his problem and yours, too, is to mar-
ry him off to some rich girl. With
your social acquaintance and your
technique that should be a simple
matter.”
Virginia smiled at her attorney.
“Naturally, I don’t share your prej-
udice again~t marriages of that sort,
Dexter, for mine turned out so well.
Prankly, that’s precisely what I have
in mind for the boy and I dare say
I must get it at once. But as for his
—indolence, I think he has been loaf-
ing largely to please me. He knows
I want him near me.”
When his client had left, Wood sat
frowning for a awhile. Virginia was
the smartest woman he had ever
known, but she was blind on one side.
If he was any judge of human nature
Henry Hassard, Junior, was as nearly
no good as any young man of his ac-
quaintance.
‘Mother and son had a frank talk
thereafter and Virginia was a little
dismayed at the willingness with
which Henry offered to go to work.
Somehow she got the idea that he was
relieved to escape from the monotony
of home life and to evade her espion-
age. When she sounded him out on
the subject of matrimony she got no-
where. He was lackadaisal; the mere
thought of marrying, whether for love
or for money, rather bored him.
He confessed that he had been pret-
ty well spoiled by girls and that the
ones his mother thought highest of
struck him as particularly uninter-
esting. It would be pleasant, without
doubt, to share in a large fortune, but
the girls of his acquaintance who had
fortunes large enough to share with
anybody were either too dumb, or too
intelligent, too slow or teo lively to
suit him, and only 2 few were good-
looking. After all, a chap didn’t need
much money if he had good friends.
5 whom you choose, of
that there was no target to shoot at. | course,” the mother told him, “only
be sure you marry the right sort of
girl. You know any number of them
and you surely wouldn't have it in
your heart to marry the wrong sort.”
“I presume not.” is
“You have a name, position, and
you're supposed to be comfortably
well off. Beware of any girl who
runs after you. For heaven’s sake,
don’t bring me a—a chorus girl. Do
you promise 7”
“I promise,” Henry laughed.
“I mean that figuratively and lit-
erally as well. I know theatrical
women. I was one.” Virginia’s lips
compressed themselves. “And don’t
think too lightly of money. That's
the improvidence of youth. I don’t
mean to imply that money is every-
thing, but it is a great deal more than
we consider it, at twenty-five. Pov-
erty is degrading. Money is a safe-
guard to self-respect; it enables one
to do so many nice things and to
know only the nicest people, Henry,
and to associate with them. It cer-
tainly would kill me if you married
a—a common girl, for it would prove
your own small caliber. The surest
way to measure a man is to measure
his wife.”
“In other words, & man is judged
by the woman he keeps?”
“Exactly! That's why I worked like
a galley-slave to make something of
myself. The only questionable thing
your father ever did was to marry
me.”
“Ridiculous! You're the -cleverest
woman in the county.”
“I admit it, my dear. That’s why
our marriage turned out so well. I
made it succeed. Not many women
could do as much and so again I urge
you to marry well. It’s the best in-
surance in the world.”
Henry Hassard found a job. With
a bond house, of course. As time
went on he took to living at one of
his clubs and his mother saw him
only at week-ends, for commuting
wearied him. Bv and by even those
visits became infrequent and Virginia
began to consider selling her Tarry-
town place and taking a house in
town. But the home was heavily
mortgaged and Henry argucd against
such a move. Bond selling, as he ex-
plained, was a peculiar business; it
involved a deal of night work and it
called for personal contacts. A fel-
low had to fit his habits to those of
his moneyed friends. If Virginia
came to town it would handicap rath-
er than help him.
In order to avoid completely losing
touch with her son Mrs. Hassard
made it a practice to go to the city
once a week and have luncheon or
dinner with him. Sometimes they
went to the theatre. She did not care
much for the theatre, for it aroused
memories too long ignored, too thor-
oughly stifled; it was like visiting the
grave of some indiscretion. Moreover
she did not aprpove of the modern
stage, for the frankness of the spok-
en drama caused her to cringe and
she could see little except vulgarity
in the musical shows.
The first show Henry took her to
was one of the latter sort. It was
“The Slanders,” a “seven-seventy” re-
vue, the tickets for which sold at a
heavy premium. Hardened theater-
goers gasped at “The Slanders” and
nudged their neighbors and askea
what next. Naturally, it was a great
success. It was advertised as a sump-
tuous eye and ear entertainment.
Virginia conceded that much and
more. As she told Henry, it was an
eye, ear, nose and throat entertain-
nent: a bust, body and thigh show.
She could have sat through it with
the boy’s father and taken a certain
sophisticated enjoyment out of its
lavish splendor, but with Henry, the
younger, here beside her she sufferea
an attack of extreme self-conscious-
ness. She wondered what emotions
in him were excited by those beaute-
ous white bodies so nearly naked. Was
it an esthetic enjoyment hz derived?
She could not make herself believe
that it was.
The spectacular climax of this “ed- |
ition” of “The Slanders” occurred in
the second act when, at the conclu-
sion of a bewildering ballet, an enor-
mous jewel box opened, exposing a
perfectly nude girl. Perfect and nude |
would better describe her, for in face
and figure she was exquisite—Virgin-
ia had never seen a more beautiful
creature. For a full minute she posed
against a background of purple vel-
vet, then, as a roar of applause broke
forth, the scene was suddenly blacked
out.
When the house lights came on,
Mrs. Hassard turned to her program,
but Henry informed her:
“That’s Myrna Sloan. You must
have seen her pictures in the roto-
They call her the Slander
“Poor child!” the mother mur-
mured.
Henry faced about and raised his
brows. “What? What do you mean?”
“I was merely thinking of the price
she pays for this applause. I dare
say she cries a good deal.”
“Nonsense! You were a profession-
al, Mother. You must know how they
look at such things. It’s all in the
business.”
“The business has changed since
my time. And the people, too. Why,
the toughest dance-hall girl in the
wildest western mining-camp was a
prude compared with that creature.”
Henry opened his lips to speak,
then shrugged and turned his face
towards the stage.
One day Dexter Wood felt called
upon to tell Mrs. Hassard that her
son was behaving badly. He was
drinking toc much and working not at
all. He was living on borrowed mon-
ey. Nor was that the worst; every
night he was to be seen in the com-
pany of Myrna Sloan, a show girl.
Mrs. Hassard paled, a sickness as-
sailed hex. Myrna Sloan! The Slan-
der Girl! Henry was in love with
that—that naked body! Wood an-
swered the mother’ questions frankly;
yes, the affair was serious and there
was no telling how far it had gone or
where it would end, for the young
people were crazy for each other. It
had already gone far enough to ex-
cite a deal of scandalous gossip and
if something was not done immediate-
ly Henry would probably end by mar-
rying the creature. Could a worse
calamity befall a woman in Virginia’s
position? Her son married to a girl
who posed nightly on Broadway in
the altogether?
The blow stupefied Mrs. -Hassard
and it likewise angered her. So! this
was the answer to her prayers, the
reward for all her sacrifices. Better
if Henry had fallen in France! The
love, the hopes, the ambitions of a
lifetime threatened, thwarted, shat-
tered by that—strumpet! It was too
frightful. Then something like ter-
ror smote her as she saw agin the
milk-white body of the Slander Girl
in all its devastating beauty. To her
distracted mind it was the ghost of
her own passionate youth risen to
wither her old age.
Of course, Henry was not to blame.
The creature had trapped him; she
had used her flesh for a lure. With-
out doubt she planned to marry him.
ginia knew and over whom she had
lorded it these many years! She
could hear their snickers. It was their
turn now; the pedestal she had so
laboriously built for herself was fall-
ing. Virginia Hassard’s son the
husband of a harlot! She could have
screamed.
Panic-stricken, she telephoned for
Henry and commanded him to come
at once to her. He inferred that she
had learned the truth and he came
prepared to have it out with her. He
had never learned to tolerate criticism
or to brook interference and so they
promptly clashed. Flint struck steel
and sparks flew. Henry as much as
told his mother to mind her own busi-
ness and when she refused to do so
he warned her that if she persisted
in calling him to account for his per- |
sonal conduct he would leave the
+ house and never return. He was free,
. white and twenty-one and his life was
his own to do with as he chose. What
right had she to disparage a girl she
knew nothing about?
Virginia declared that she knew
enough about Miss Sloan. She would
never have her in her house, she
would never recognize her.
Very well. That ended the discus-
sion. Henry refused to argue the
matter one way or the other or to
combat his mother’s rock-ribbed prej-
udice. But as for his “disgraceful
affair,” this “sordid infatuation,” to
quote her words, he proposed to fol-
low his own desires as far as he
pleased and to account to no one. So
| that was that. If there was nothing
jelse to talk about he’d get back to
'town and go to bed. He’d had a pret-
ty rough night and was feeling rotten.
| Naturally that encounter ended
i Mrs. Hassard’s trips to the city and
| Henry's visits to Tarrytown. They
1 saw nothing of each other for some
| time. Then the mother’s yearnings
i proved too much for her and she sent
for him on some business pretext.
She managed to get him out several
times.
He was not looking well and each
time she saw him he looked worse
than before. He was haggard and
nervous, he was irritable and his
hands shook. He had no appetite.
Business, he confided, was none too
good and he was not getting ahead.
For the first time Virginia did not
volunteer to aid him. She suspected
that he and the Sloan girl were ae-
tually living together and she could
not bring herself to encourage the
liaison. She would have given him
her last dollar, gladly, but reasoned
‘that to do so would merely serve to
nourish the vampire that fed upon
him. Better to starve the creature
until she let go, dropped off. Virgin-
ia knew the breed.
Secretly she rejoiced at her son’s
suffering and at his impending break-
down, telling herself that the sooner
it came, the sooner she would get him
back. There was nothing physically
wrong with him; his ills were men-
tal. No wonder he was looking like
a death’s head; what jealous lover
could endure to have his light o’ love
expose her body to the world? The
professional view-point, indeed! What
,man could share in that?
This state of affairs could not con-
tinue very long. Henry had too
much pride, he was too finely bred.
He'd snap eventually. He'd come
home.
Henry Hassard, the Second, did
snap finally, but not in the manner his
{ mother had expected. He came home,
but not to the shelter of her arms.
The crash occurred without warning,
A strange voice called Virginia over
the phone at four o’clock one morn-
ing and it began by warning her to
! prepare herself for a shock. She di-
vined what was coming and although
she felt herself upon the point of
swooning she managed somehow to
;cling to the instrument and to listen.
| She even asked a few questions in a
thin, reedy voice. When had he been
stricken? How? Why had not she
been summoned ?
i It had come swiftly. There had
been no time to send for anybody . .
[A doctor? Oh, to be sure! And he
‘had done all that was possible . . . .
Henry had not suffered greatly. Ev-
erything was being attended to. Did
she have any directions to offer?
Dexter Wood rang up twenty min-
utes later but was told by Virginia's
agitated maid that her mistress was
prostrated. The doctor was on his
way.
For two days thereafter Mrs. Has-
sard sat like a woman of stone. She
was stunned, she was utterly numbed
in mind and body and this merciful
trance persisted even through the
funeral services.
That funeral was an imposing af-
fair. The church was crowded, the
streets for blocks were lined with
private cars, all Tarrytown and vi-
cinity, most of Westchester county
and a considerable part of New York
city, it seemed, turned out to honor
the son of Virginia Hassard. Spe-
cial writers and camera-men from the
newspapers covered it and the list of
those present was a roster of names
prominent in the social life of the
metropolitan area.
As such things go, it was deeply
mournful and impressive.
Late that afternoon as Mrs, Has-
sard rested in her big, lonely house
on the hill her butler announced that
a woman was calling. The stranger
had called several times during the
afternoon and was waiting.
“How dare you disturb me?” Vir-
i
What a morsel for the people Vir- |
ginia cried. “How dare anybody in-
trude at such——"
| She paused, straightened herself,
for a figure Lad appeared in the door-
way behind the butler. It was the
unwelcome caller. She was small and
plain and immature; grief sat upon
her as it rests upon a child, and she
moved as if a great weariness bore
moved as if a great weariness bore
her down. Unsteadily the elder wom-
an rose; with an effort she controlled
her voice.
“What does this mean? Who are
you?” she demanded.
The girl had paused inside the
threshold and was turning a pathetic
; face this way and that as if looking
for someone. She extended a slim
hand and touched the nearest chair,
caressed it.
“I am Myrna. Myrna Sloan.”
Mrs. Hassard’s eyes widened, they
gleamed ominously and a faint color
rose to her cheeks. Her torpid mina
stirred itself, currents of thought,
stagnant these last two days, began
to move. Calamity had dammed those
channels and they had backed up,
filled with bitter waters, but now they
opened. Even so she stared at her
caller for a moment in speechless sur-
prise. This drab little thing with the
stricken eyes could not be the daz-
zling creature she had seen, the stat-
ue of snow and gold—But yes. The
face was the same.
Virginia regarded her with a fixity
of expression at once curious and
baleful. With a gesture she dismissea
the scandalized servant, then when
she had gone she inquired gratingly:
“What are you doing here?”
Simply the girl told her, “I came
to weep with you.”
There ensued a considerable pause.
Twilight was near, the house was
still. Outside, the evening hush had
fallen and it grew deeper, as if unseen
ears waited to hear what the mother
had to say.
. She broke the silence finally but not
in her accustomed voice; another,
stronger breath than hers expelled
her scornful words and they came
forth discordantly.
“You? You weep with me?”
“Yes. I was Henry’s wife. I loved
him, too.”
5 “Oh, no! Not his wife. That can’t
e
fore you sent for him that time and—
and quarreled over me. He wanted
to tell you the truth but—”
“So! You got him to marry you. At
least he had the decency to hide it.
But don’t tell me you loved him. If
you had loved him you’d never have
married him, ruined him. He'd be
alive today. You—killed him.”
The caller uttered a piteous little
cry of protest, she flinched and turned
he head as if Virginia had cut her
with a whip, but the elder woman ran
on. Those waters of marah which had
been slowly rising within her and
vainly seeking outlet, had broken
forth and they were in turmoil; she
could hear nothing but her own harsh,
rasping voice reviling this Jezebel,
there was room in her brain for but
one emotion. She concluded her out-
burst by declaring:
“You robbed me and you robbed
him, but much good it will do you.
You stole his honor and his self-re-
spect, but that’s all he had. You'll
get nothing more. He had no money
and neither have I. There won’t be
a penny for you. Not a crumb!”
“I gave more than I took,” the Slan-
der Girl declared. “His honor’? He
had lost that long before I met him.
He had no self-respect or he would
not have let me go on working whiie
he lived off my earnings.”
Furiously the mother blazed: “Do
not talk like that! I won't let you.
Slander Girl, indeed! You slander
the dead.”
“I tell you only the truth.”
“He was evrything fine and noble
and true and—"
“Does it matter in the least what
he was? I don’t think so. We both
loved him. You loved an ideal, a
counterfeit of your own making. I
loved the real man, in spite of his
faults and the failings, in spite of
the way he treated me. My love was
great enough to -endure abuse and to
make allowances for a hundred weak-
nesses. Surely yours is as unselfish
as mine. The truth can’t make any
difference to us. Why, we're the only
ones who loved him.”
i “That’s not true. You—you’re try-
ing to torture me!” Virginia gasped.
”The—the only ones who loved him?
! You don’t mean that.”
“But I do. His friends had turned
from him. At the church today no-
body cared. They came out of re-
i spect for you. Oh, how I cried! It
i was so lonely for him, lying there
with only us to mourn.”
i “I can’t believe—I won't ... I
‘nursed him at my breast. I raised
‘him to manhood. Do you think you
knew him better than 1?”
| The girl nodded. “Much better. You
were only his mother . . .. I nursed
i him, too—when he was drunk. You
undressed him and put him to bed
j When he was a baby. I did so wheg
{he was a man, a helpless, senseless
i beast. I bathed him, fed him when
the was something to be pitied, not
| petted. He was indifferent to you;
| he was cruel to me. But you loved
{ him just the same and so'did I. And
‘he loved me, in his way. Yes, he
‘loved me and he didn’t want you to
| think badly of me. That's why I'm
telling you all this; I'm sure he’d want
you to know the truth.
“Don’t you understand that it was
for your sake he kept our marriage
secret? You think it was shame over
me that preyed upon his mind, and
that I turned his friends away from
him.” The speaker smiled faintly
hair. “He had no friends when I
married him—nothing but creditors
whom he feared to meet. He forced
me to go on with my posing and he
bought whisky with the money I gave
him. The papers said he died of
pneumonia but it was bootleg liquor.
Towards the last when he learned
that I couldn’t pose much longer he
took to drinking anything—"
“Towards the last?” the mother
echoed. “But—why?” .
“He didn’t want any children . . .
It’s very sad that we who should have
loved him least are the only ones who
: op ‘ i
“But it is. We were married be-
and shook her head of bright silkem
a a
loved him at all. That’s why I came
to cry with you.”
Dexter Wood had finally secured a
purchaser for the Hassard place. His
name was Beilman and he had
brought his wife and two daughters
to Wood's office in a concerted family
effort to beat down the price. Mrs.
Beilman and her daughters wore
magnificent sable coats, the finest
Wood had ever seen. but poverty
harassed them, so it appeared.
“Positively it’s my last offer. If
the place exéctly suited me it’s one
thing, but it don’t. You shouldn’t ex-
pect me to pay a big price for an es-
tate I don’t altogther like? rea-
sonable.” It was Beilman speaking.
He shook his head vigorously, settled
back in his chair and meditatively
plucked a hair out of his nose.
His wife added her persuasive
voice. “It’s in a terribly run-down
condition, the house, Mr. Wood. Hon-
est, the repairs it needs is terrible.”
“Possibly! But it commands a
priceless view of the Hudson.”
“View! A bank would lend Mark
Beilman how much on the view ?”
“There’s no use of arguing. When
Mrs. Hassard went abroad to live she
i set a price on the place and I can’t
shade that price a dollar.”
“You could all the same cable her
that Mark offers cash. Sometimes I
bet even Mrs. Vanderbilt could use
all cash money.”
Wood shook his head. “Impossible!
She left no foreign address. She:
+ wouldn’t be bothered. “Why, none of’
‘her friends have heard from her in.
months. She closed the place after:
i her son’s death and—"
“Another thing! People dying in a
house is bad. Maybe it ain’t so very
! healthy—"
“Mamma!” The elder Miss Beilman
broke in resentfully. “For heaven's
sake, don’t be so cheap. Mr. Wood
knows we want the place and intend
{to have it. What difference does ten
‘thousand dollars make ?”
| “Exactly! You wish to afford your
daughters certain social advantages.
This is your oportunity. You'll nev-
er have another like it.”
| Mr. Beilman uttered a plaintive
moan. “A fine way to close a deal?
I could cheaper buy a new chain of
stores than a stylish residence. All
right! But it ain’t a bargain.”
An hour later Wood emerged from
the Broadway subway and walked.
west on a street in the fifties, stop~
ping finally at a theatrical boarding-
house. It was a rather dingy, high-
stooped house, typical of the neigh--
borhood. He mounted two flights of
stairs, knocked at a door, and Virgin-
ia Hassard admitted him. She was.
bright of eye, the lines had vanished
from her face, she looked younger:
than her years.
" “What news?” she inquired eager-
¥
“Good news. The best in the world.
I closed with Beilman at your price:
and I have a check in my pocket.”
Virginia laughed in delight. She
took Wood by the hand and fairly
danced with him across the room and
to a chair beside a window. It was:
a sunny, cheerful sitting-room, there
was an agreeable, homelike disorder
about it.
Dexter began speaking in a sub-
dued tone but Mrs. Hassard told him:.
“You needn’t lower your voice. The
King has had his nap and Myrna’s at.
rehearsal. Listen!” From the adjoin-
ing room came the fitful gurgle of a
contented baby. “He’s the dearest
thing. I have him all to myself ev-
ery afternoon.”
“Well, I found the one man in the
world who was willing to meet your
price. Your name doubled the value:
of the place, of course. 1t means you
have nothing further to worry about.
Your future is provided for.”
“Bosh! My future! It means the
baby’s future. It means he'll go to
Princeton and captain the crew, as
his father did. Dexter, you should
see that baby’s back. It’s marvelous!.
Why don’t you have dinner with Myr-
na and me and watch me bathe him?
It’s my night—we take turns, you
know. He adores cold water, and I
fill the tub with toys—boats and
ducks, and floating dolls and—"
“See here, Virginia! Haven't you
anything further to sav shout the.
sale? Or about the sable-coated tribe
of Beilman? There was a hundred
and fifty thousand dollars in fur on
those three women. They've bought
your home, your furniture. Think of
it! They own the things you used to
love. Haven't you any pangs. Any
regrets? Have you completely aban-
doned your life and your old friends?”
“Why, Dexter! I've just found my:
old friends; the only ones I ever had.
I’m too happy to think of anything or
enybody except Myrna and the baby.”
“Gaod Lord! ‘Hapov’! Here, among
bearded ladies and jugglers and—and
the smell of cooking!”
| “Exactly! It’s where I belong,,
| where I always belonged. There's a
family of acrobats in the rear—the
| Trumbling Tempests—and they're
lovely people. Every night after the
. show they have us in for weenies and
near-beer. Casino, the Card King,
and his wife are on the floor below.
You've seen him, I presume, and his
! mystifying tricks. I'm teaching them.
| bridge,, but he’s the dumbest man
| about cards. The house is full of
{ professional people and they were all
so sweet and so considerate when
Myrna had her baby that they won.
"my heart. They took me right in,
| just. as she did—that’s because I used.
|to be in the business. Pangs? Re-
grets? Good heavens, no! I—I've
come home!”
“Don’t they know who you are?”
“Some of them do. But bless you,,
| that. doesn’t make the slightest dif-
! ference with real, genuine people.”
| Again. the speaker laughed happily
{and her listener marveled. “By the
i way, Dexter, you must make it a
point to see the new Slanders when it
opens. Mpyrna’s number promises to
be a bigger hit than the old one. It’s
more beautiful, if anything, and more
daring, too.. You'd never dream she’s
a mother.” \
—Rex Beach. in. The Cosmopolitan.
Judge: “Have you appeared as a
witness in a suit before.”
Witness: “Yes sir, of course.”
Judge: “What suit was it?”
Witness:. “My blue serge.”