He knew her family name, for he had heard someone at the church corner, on Sunday, refer to them as "those Lawton girls," and had winced at both tone and words.

And the Lawton girls, meantime, were discussing the probable result of their visit to Mrs. Van Camp.

"I'm afraid the chances are against you," said Dorothy, anxiously. "You know how she goes on about family. 'Old families and the proprieties'

are words of sweetness to her, though she is as gay as a girl and as droll as a Merry Andrew--on occasions. 'The stage'--only two words--but when spoken in relation to Mrs. Van Camp's G.o.d-daughter, Sybbie, I'm afraid you can't manage her."

"She won't need managing, Dorrie. She's mercenary to the point of worshipping Mammon, but, thank heaven, she never meanders as mamma does, who wanders away from the subject into tortuous and serpentine courses.

No manoeuvring will be required with G.o.d-mother Sybil. I shall marshal my facts, dwell upon the honor of being introduced by Miss Morrell into the profession--she has professed the greatest admiration for her all her life--and, as she knows already our unspeakably helpless condition, I'm sure she will come to a quick decision. Oh, mercy! They are already lighting the gas. How I do detest the tunnel! I always come out so sticky and p.r.i.c.kly about my face and neck--and grimy, too!"

"Oh," answered Dorothy, "I wouldn't object to being sticky and grimy, if only I were not afraid. But, Syb, I can't help it; I never have pa.s.sed through this tunnel yet without taking part in an imaginary accident."

"You should follow the example of your religious friend, Mr. Walton,"

laughed Sybil, "who declares he always fills in the time by praying."

"Yes, and I think he should be ashamed of himself!" indignantly interrupted Dorothy. "It's nothing short of an insult to his Maker to pa.s.s through the beautiful green fields and the warm, sunny air reading a newspaper; and, when entering a foul, ill-smelling, black hole of man's creating, to begin praying because he can't do anything else!"

Under cover of the roar of the train Sybil laughed aloud, delighted to have got a rise, as the slang phrase is, out of Dorrie's mild temper.

The men, looking waxy pale under the light of the overhead lamps, were folding up papers, settling hats afresh and preparing for the famous American rush from the train when Sybil, noticing that her sister's eyes were closed, exclaimed, with malicious triumph: "I believe you are praying yourself! You are, at this very moment!"

"Well," smiled Dorothy, "you see, you don't know how frightened I am, and anyway I don't reserve my prayers for an otherwise useless moment. I prayed this morning, with my eyes open, looking right into G.o.d's rising sun!"

Crash! _Recoil!_ CRASH! And a swift, appalling darkness, cut across by one woman's piercing scream! Running footsteps! The venomous hissing of escaping steam; the stench of gas; and then in that Stygian darkness, rising clear above the undertone of groans and short-breathed oaths, was a girl's voice crying: "Dorrie! Dorrie! Oh, Dorrie!"

Noises outside were growing louder, and Sybil scrambled up from the floor, where she had fallen, and, mad with terror, stretched out groping hands in the direction she had last seen Dorothy, and oh! blessed G.o.d!

encountered two little hands, that closed on hers. The next moment she had her utterly silent sister in her arms, and impatiently shook away something warm that kept creeping, creeping down her temple and her cheek. The din outside was awful, the darkness an anguish! Suddenly there was a flare of a match--it went out! A groping, searching hand struck Sybil's shoulder. Another match, a wax one, was lighted, and the young man she had jested about, hatless and very pale, asked, swiftly: "Is she hurt? I hope she has not fainted?"

He leaned closer, and Dorothy's great, strained blue eyes stared up at him from her sister's breast.

"Can't you speak, dear?" pleaded Sybil. "Oh, she is half killed with fright!" she added, turning to the stranger, and again the creeping thing was on her cheek, and Dorothy cried, sharply: "Blood! blood! Oh!

Sybbie's hurt! Can't you help her?" And the match was out, and they were again in that h.e.l.l of darkness and steam and gas and roar! But a calm and friendly voice came to them, saying: "Stay here; take part of these matches and light one now and then while I get out and find what can be done! Oh, here come the torches! Now we'll soon have help!" But before he left them he drew from a pocket a handkerchief, folded it, and swiftly tied it about Sybil's head, and even then the girl smiled at his nave, lover-like excuse: "The blood frightens her so!" And through a few agonized minutes the girls clung tightly together, shivering in a very ague of terror. And then, through the billows of steam, the low-hanging, strangling clouds of smoke, they saw men with lanterns, heard orders, short and sharp, then their friend was lifting them down from the high, high step; and Sybil, with her arms about Dorothy, was aided, led, pushed, or pulled along at the will of the only person who noticed their presence or existence.

There had been much noise--noise of voices, of metal ringing on metal, of hurrying feet--but suddenly it ceased. A moment's quiet came into that place of mad excitement. The crowd before them drew apart. Like lightning, their guide threw himself in front of the girls, whispering: "Don't look! Don't let her look!" And Sybil, with chilling blood, recalled that one piercing cry, that woman's cry, and to save her soul could not help sending a glance toward the four men who bore upon a stretcher a hastily covered form, so still, so pathetically slight!

Covered? Yes, but one little foot in oxford-tie was exposed. A foot so like--so like-- And Sybil caught Dorothy in an embrace fierce enough to wring a cry from her, and the words: "What is it, dear? Are you hurt again? Have you turned your ankle, or-- Oh, Sybbie! It was that poor man! Oh, can't we get out? _Can't we?_" and her voice broke into frightened sobs.

The other two exchanged meaning glances, for, as this outburst had been caused by the sight of two stalwart blue-coated men, who, after the manner of children "making a chair" were carrying on their crossed arms a pa.s.senger whose leg was broken, they trembled at the thought of the collapse that must surely have followed upon the sight of that frail, broken thing, whose mute authority had yet the power to silence the awful din.

How they escaped from the stifling, sloppy, grimy place of torment they could not have told, had the saving of an immortal soul depended upon such telling. There was a ladder, and a failure, and a carrying of the ladder to another place by the aid of a trainman, who roared some advice as he stole a few moments for their service. Then coaxings for Dorrie, sharp directions for Sybil, and--and somehow they were standing in a street, dazzled by the sunlight, sick and faint and dirty and drabbled, but out in the pure air once more. And knowing that Dorothy's life might have gone out from sheer terror but for the aid and encouragement of the grave young man, Sybil held out both hands to him, crying: "I thank you from my heart, and I will serve you at command, for Dorrie's sake, who--who----"

Her lips whitened--trembled. She clutched blindly at his arm for support. Her self-control had been wonderful, but, like everything else, it had to be paid for. The shock to her nerves had been terrible, her wound had bled profusely, and when a strong arm about her waist lifted her over the threshold into a quiet pharmacy she was just barely conscious and no more.

The bald-headed little proprietor closed his doors upon the gaping crowd, and, while reviving Sybil and dressing the really ugly cut her head had received from striking against the frame of a seat, when she had fallen to the floor, he called upon his wife to descend from her room above, and she, with ready sympathy, brushed and pinned up Dorothy's raiment and sponged away the smears and s.m.u.ts from her face.

And when the cheerful little woman turned for a moment to the young man, to tell him she could bring him her husband's second hat, if he did not mind its being a bit burned by the suns of last summer, he overheard poor Dorothy saying: "Whatever shall we do, Sybbie? We bought return tickets, and--and we only have left ten cents, that was to have paid our street-car fare to G.o.d-mother's."

A swift "S-h-h!" from Sybil silenced her. The man's heart contracted with a pang of pity for their distressful situation. The next moment he stood before them, and, addressing the elder, said: "Miss Lawton, I am going to ask permission to introduce myself to you, as there is no one to perform the service for me. I am a sort of neighbor of your family, since I, too, am summering at Yonkers. My name is Galt--Leslie Galt--and in consequence of this accident I ask you to trust yourself and your sister to my care, until I can leave you at your own front door--will you?" He waited for no answer, but continued: "I will have a carriage here almost directly, and we will board a Harlem train, get off at Mount Vernon, and then drive to your house."

Sybil's spirits began to rise. "Don't you think," she asked, glancing at their sooty, oily, dirty white gowns, "we should be sent to the steam laundry before that?"

"No," he gravely replied, though his eye gleamed; "not before, but after, by all means."

"But," Dorothy began, anxiously, "do you suppose mamma and----?"

"I am going to send them word," broke in Galt, "that you are quite safe before I get the carriage. You are safe, you know, physically, mentally, morally. Only your wardrobe's ruin is complete." And gayly donning the proprietor's ancient hat he hurried away, in their service.

And so it happened that the rea.s.suring telegram had not yet reached the old White house, though a rumor of an accident in the tunnel had, when a shabby old hack came rattling up the gra.s.s-grown drive and stopped before the sagging porch, where Let.i.tia, ghastly under all her rouge, stood clinging to John Lawton, who trembled visibly all his length. And when a strange man got out he closed his eyes a moment, and pa.s.sed his tongue over his dry under lip.

Then, as thrilling sweet as had been their faint birth-cries, there came to his ears two joyous "Papas! Mammas!" And then ensued a very whirlwind of embraces, of kisses, of cries, of exclamations! And when Sybil had said: "Mr. Galt saved us and brought us back to you, papa!" the old man held out his hands and grasped those of the young man. His kindly, frightened blue eyes gazed and gazed. His piteous old mouth trembled and formed words that would not be said. And like a flash Leslie Galt saw again Dorothy's wide blue eyes and fright-stricken mouth, as she lay upon her sister's breast, beneath the flare of the waxen taper. And, recognizing the likeness between father and daughter, he opened his heart to the helpless old gentleman then and there. Though John Lawton never got his thanks into words, his silent grat.i.tude made a deeper impression than did the bursting dam of Let.i.tia's eloquence. And Lena, rushing upon the scene to inquire as to the welfare of her Miss Ladies, started out joyously with: "Ach! You com' all right again? Eh? You com'

back mit all your arms und legs und feet, und--und [a look of horror growing on her face] mein Gott! mein Gott! Get avay, quick, und put yourselves by der vash-tubs!" an ending which sent everyone into laughter.

And as the girls were swept away by their mother, one blue flash met a waiting pair of gray eyes; and as John Lawton walked down to the gate with Leslie Galt, who had asked for and obtained leave from Mrs. Lawton to make a call of inquiry next day as to the young ladies' healths, they paused a moment, and Lawton, holding his new friend's hand tightly, waved his left, indicating all the forlorn and neglected old place in one gesture, and said: "You see, our daughters are all we have left on earth--all, all! And you----"

He gently drew his hand away, lifted his hat punctiliously, and, turning, walked slowly back to the decaying old White house!

CHAPTER X

CALLING ON THE MANAGER

It was the last week of the season at the Globe Theatre, and it was closing in a blaze of glory. To leave a good taste in the mouth of the public, the actor-manager, Stewart Thrall, had given it a final week of Shakspere. "Romeo and Juliet" was playing with a very good and beautiful young woman as star, who could not quite hide her contemptuous misunderstanding of the pa.s.sion-shaken little maid of Verona, the swiftness of whose love is ever matched by its purity; and who, therefore, seized upon the potion scene, making much of it and of the final scene of all, so that it was not an ideal Juliet, but a most beautiful woman in a rich and picturesque setting, who, brilliantly successful in other characters, was accepted readily in this, because, forsooth, nothing is so successful as success.

A large and beefy but an emphatic Romeo, who had to enthuse for two, an exquisite Mercutio, a deliriously droll Nurse, and an excellent general cast by their united efforts gave this very pleasing performance, whose seven repet.i.tions would do much to dim the memory of the many French abominations that earlier in the season had freely scattered wink, innuendo, and double-entendre while trailing their chic indecencies about the same stage. Of course a few real lovers and students of Shakspere felt the pity of the marred, misunderstood characters, while keenly enjoying other more poetic presentations; but Stewart Thrall was appealing to another cla.s.s, the great uncultivated, who, though secretly bored to extinction, dearly loved to pose (for one week only) as patrons of the Bard; and as they exchanged plat.i.tudes with one another, when meeting by chance at the box-office window, they invariably congratulated themselves upon having one manager in their midst who dared to produce Shakspere.

And some declared, with enthusiasm, that he deserved a public vote of thanks for thus giving their sons and daughters an opportunity to study a Shaksperian drama. And Mr. Thrall, sitting in the box-office out of sight, but not out of hearing, smiled sardonically, and signed a cable order to his Paris agent to secure a great Frenchman's newest, wittiest indecency for New York's future delight, knowing well that the Shaksperian poseurs outside would be found among its most generous patrons.

Then, glancing at the treasurer, busy over his floor-plans, change-drawer, and ticket stamps, he said: "By the way, Barney, you reserved the wrong box for Claire Morrell last night. I told you plainly the right box--didn't you understand me so?"

"Yes, sir," replied that young man of amazing collars, throwing back his head and tilting up his cruelly sc.r.a.ped jaw in an effort to escape the strangle-hold of the white linen long enough to answer his employer's question. "Yes, sir; but--but you remember you were standing on the stage when you called out to me to hold the right-hand box, and I thought you meant the box to your right as you stood, and that, of course, is the left box on the seat chart; and so I reserved that, and----"

"And spoiled the evening for Miss Morrell, who, for some reason, will never occupy a seat on the left of the house if she can help it."

"Well, sir, I thought----" writhed and twisted he of the collar.

"Don't think, then, Barney. I'll do the thinking if you'll do the obeying. Next time ask--that's easier than thinking, or [with a laugh]

it would be to anyone else. Barney, that infernal collar will cut your head off one of these days. Why don't you have it lowered a couple of inches and enjoy some of the comforts of life?" And, striking a match, he lifted it toward his cigar, stopped suddenly, shook out the small flame, put the cigar back into the box on the shelf, and turning to Barney said: "I'll take your place five minutes. I want you to run as quickly as you can round to the confectioner's and get me some sugared violets. Hurry, now, that's a good fellow!"

And Barney, s.n.a.t.c.hing his hat from the nail, made a dash for the street, wondering as he ran "who was coming to see the governor, for, of course, he wasn't going to squat down there alone and stuff himself with violets." By which anyone can see what a coa.r.s.e-minded young person this seller of tickets was.

But he was swift of foot, and was soon back in his place at the office window, while, dainty package in hand, his employer came out, crossed the vestibule, and, entering his private office, proceeded to untie his parcel and pour the fragrant, crystallized violets into a charming bonbonniere standing on the corner of his desk.

The prevailing tone of this room was a dull, rich red, and it made an agreeable background for the figure of the man standing there, Stewart Thrall, the actor-manager of the Globe Theatre, who was at that moment expecting a call from the popular actress, Claire Morrell, and a certain young lady who wished (oh, foolish young lady!) to go upon the stage. A tall man, of excellent figure. He was a well-groomed, clean-skinned man.

There was nothing of the long-haired, floating necktied, fur-coated, comic-journal actor about him. He was no "beauty man," either; but, as a certain very great lady had once truly said, "He had eyes and a manner."

A charming manner it was--gracious, graceful, sincere. And as one takes a certain simple base for a sauce, and, by adding various flavors or acids, produces innumerable different sauces, so to that natural manner he, by adding a touch of dignity or sternness or jollity or deprecation, came very near making himself all things to all men. His closely cropped hair was black--not the blue-black of the Latins, but that darkest brown that is America's black--and his eyes were those Irish blue ones that are "smudged in" with black lashes, luminous, quick sparkling, softly darkening, wooing, winning, faithless eyes--an actor's eyes par excellence, but with a droop of the heavily fringed lids that played sad havoc with the dreams of the romantic girl patrons of the theatre.

Stewart Thrall was a popular idol. His stroll down the sweet sunny side of Broadway was a triumphal progress. Glances, smiles, turning heads, and flattering remarks trailed after him like a tail to the kite of his vogue. He had earned his popularity--it had not been thrust upon him. He had been shrewd and clever and determined. He had acted up to the motto of his choice: "To be agreeable." He made everything serve him. If he had a friend in a high place he never forgot it or allowed anyone else to forget it either. If he went occasionally to church on a fine Sunday, where wealthy pewholders vied with one another in courteous hospitality, he saw to it that that was the church attended by his banker. "The recollection will do him no harm and may do me a service," he would say to himself with a laugh. When he went to a dance he never failed to bestow attentions upon any homely girl or woman who wore jewels, and in more than one instance the effects of such a one's grat.i.tude had been distinctly felt in the box-office.