I wonder if Father couldn't sell the farm. That would bring more than a mortgage; but it might take months, and even then I need in a single year more than all he has in the world.

Will any woman who reads the story of my life--the real story which sometime I shall write, leaving out the paltry details which now hara.s.s me--will any woman believe that the most beautiful woman in the world in the wonderful year, of the finding of the Bacillus actually thought of tramping the streets, looking for work, like a story heroine seeking her fortune? I shall have to do something--anything!

But I can't work; I'm not calm enough, and it would ruin my beauty.

The luck must change!

Sometimes I see more clearly than the sordidness of this horrible existence, a big palace with a terraced front and a mile long drive straight to the park gate, past great trees and turf that is always green; and long rows of stately ladies looking down on me from their frames on the lofty wall beside soldiers that have stood silent guard there three hundred years. I can see a beautiful woman courtesying to a Queen and all the world reading it in the morning paper; and a big town house with myriad lights blinking through the fog outside, where shivering wretches watch the carriages drive up to my door. For twenty--no thirty years--I might be the one inimitable and wholly adorable being, clothed with rare garments, blazing with jewels, confidant of statesmen, maker of the men who make history. History! I should _be_ history!

I could do it all myself--I have never had a chance, never yet the glimmer of a chance, but I could do anything, conquer anything, achieve anything!

It is so little that I ask--the money to live upon, and a chance, only the chance--it is maddening to be denied that!--and fair play to live my life and carry out my destiny.

There was a time when I wanted less, expected less; like Cadge with queer, devoted Pros. or Kitty Reid, her hair blowing about her face, happy with her daubs, messing about in the studio. Was I happier when I was like that? I would not go back to it! I would not barter my beauty for any other gift on earth. I shall fight and fight to the last ditch. I don't propose to be a p.a.w.n on the chess-board.

If it comes to that, I shall know what to do!

CHAPTER VIII.

A CHAPERON ON A CATTLE TRAIN.

June 4.

This has been one of my worst days, and I have for a long time had no days but bad ones. Three things have happened, either one of which would alone have been a calamity. Together they crush, they frighten, they humiliate me!

This morning came this letter from Father:--

Hannibal, May 31.

"DEAR NELLY:--

"I take my pen in hand to tell you that we are all well and hope that you are the same. It was a very cold winter and we were so put to it to get water for the stock after the dry fall that I am thinking of putting down a driven well this summer if I can find the money. Ma has a sprained wrist which is painful but not serious. John Burke sent home some little items from the papers. We are glad that you have been having a good time. We were glad that you had gone to Timothy's house, though John Burke said the girl you were with before was very nice. But twas right not to stay long enough to wear out your welcome. I do not see how I can get so much money.

I have sent you all I had by me and we have been pinched a good deal too.

I had a chance of a pa.s.s on a cattle train and Ma said why don't you go east yourself and see Nelly. But I said no school's most done and she'll be coming home and how can I leave? Shaw said she we can tend to everything all right so maybe I will come. I have written to Timothy and will do as he says. I have a feeling Daughter that you need some one by you in the city. Ma sends her love and asks why you don't write oftener.

We wouldn't scarcely know what you was doing at all if it wasn't for John.

"Your Loving Father,

"EZRA D. WINSHIP." It seems I'm to have a new chaperon. He's a little stiff in the joints and his face is wrinkled and his talk is not that of society and he's coming out of the West on a cattle train. Good Lord!

Oh, yes, he'll come. Uncle Timothy'll urge him to take me back to the farm.

I won't go back! As soon as I had read this news I started for the Imperial Theatre to see the manager. I walked, for I have no more credit at the livery stable; and I was grimly amused to see in the shop windows the "Winship hats" and graceful "Winship scarves" that are coining money for other people while I have scarcely carfare.

The unusual exercise may have tired me, or perhaps it was some lingering remnant of the old farm superst.i.tion against the theatre that made me slacken my steps as I neared the office. I remembered my father's tremulous voice cautioning me against play-houses before I started for the city.

"Now don't ye go near them places," he said, wiping his nose and dodging about the corners of his eyes. "They're bad for young girls."

Why do I think of these things? If he cares so much for me, why doesn't he get me the money I asked for; instead of coming here-on a cattle train?

Whatever the reason, Puritanic training or fear of my errand, I walked slowly back and forth in front of the dingy little office of the theatre for some time before I conquered my irresolution and went desperately into the place.

They told me the manager was out, but after a little waiting I began to suspect that this was a dingy white lie, and so it proved; for when I lifted my veil and blushing like a school-girl, told the people in the office who I was, at once some one scurried into a little den and presently came out to say that Mr. Blumenthal had "returned."

Oh, the manager's an important person in his way; he has theatres in every part of the country and is a busy man. But he was willing enough to see me when his stupid people had let him know that I was the Miss Winship! Sorry as was my heart, I felt a thrill of triumph at this new proof of my fame and the power beauty gives.

When I entered his office, a bald little man turned from a litter of papers and looked at me with frank, business-like curiosity, as if he had a perfect right to do so-and indeed he had. I was not there to barter talent, but to rent my face. I understood that; but perhaps for this very reason my tongue tripped as it has seldom done of late when I blunderingly explained my errand.

"Guess we can do something for you," he said promptly. "Of course there's a horde of applicants, but you're exceptional; you know that."

He smiled good-naturedly, and I felt at once relieved and indignant that he should treat as an everyday affair the step I had pondered during so many sleepless nights.

"Must remember though," he added, "on the stage a pa.s.sably pretty woman with a good nose, who has command of her features and can summon expression to them, often appears more beautiful than a G.o.ddess-faced stick. However, it's worth trying. I don't believe you're a stick. Ah,-- would you walk on?"

"I don't understand."

"Stage slang; would you be willing to go on as a minor character--wear fine clothes and be looked at without saying much--at first, you know?

Or--of course your idea's to star-you got a backer?"

"I don't understand that, either."

"Some one to pay the bills while you're being taught. To hire a company and a theatre as a gamble."

"Impossible! I want money at once. I supposed that my--my beauty would command a position on the stage; it's certainly a bar to employment off it."

"Of course it would; yes, yes, but not immediately. Why, even Mrs.

Farquhar had to have long and expensive training before she made her debut. And you know what a scandal there had been about her!

"Not that there's been any about you," he added hastily, to my look of amazement. "But you know--ah--public mention of any sort piques curiosity.

Er--what's your act?"

"My act?"

"Yes; what can you do?"

"Sing a little; nothing else. I thought of opera."

This proposition didn't seem to strike him favourably.

"I don't know--" he hesitated. "You have a wonderful speaking voice, and you've been advertised to beat the band. Who's your press agent?"

"I don't quite know what a press agent is; but I'm sure I never had any."

"Well, you don't need any. Now that I see you--, but I fancied months ago that you were probably getting ready for this. Suppose you sing a little song for me."