A Soldier of the Legion

by C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson

  CHAPTER III

  THE LAST ACT OF "GIRLS' LOVE"

  The wail of grief that echoed through New York for Rose Doran, suddenlysnatched from life in the prime of her beauty, sounded in the ears ofMax a warning note. Her memory must not be smirched. And then again camethe temptation. As she lay dying he had decided what to do. But now thatshe was dead, now that letters and telegrams by the hundred, and visitsof sympathy, and columns in the newspapers, were making him realize moreand more her place in the world she had left, and the height of thepedestal on which the Doran family stood, the question repeated itselfinsistently: Why not reconsider?

  Max had thought from time to time that he knew what temptation was; butnow he saw that he had never known. His safeguard used to be in callingup his father's image to stand by him, in listening for the tones of abeloved voice which had the power to calm his hot temper, or hold himback from some impetuous act of which he would have been ashamed later.He had seemed to hear the voice as Rose slept her last sleep, under herwhite veil, but later it was silent. It left him to himself, andsometimes he was even persuaded that it joined with the voice of Rose,whispering that siren word, "Reconsider."

  Jack Doran had loved Rose. Perhaps on the other side of the valley hehad forgiven her, and wished above all other things that her memoryshould remain bright. If Max reconsidered, it would all be easy. No onewould be surprised if he took long leave and went abroad. No one wouldthink it strange or suspicious if a girl "Cousin" should later appear onthe scene: a Miss Doran of whom no one had ever heard, who had beeneducated abroad, and who, because she had lost her parents, was to takeup life in America. Or maybe it needn't even come to that, in case hefound the girl. She might be married. She might prefer to remain whereshe was, with plenty of money from her distant relations, the Dorans, ofwhose existence she would be informed for the first time. There would beno difficulty in arranging this. The one real difficulty was that Max'ssoul would be in prison. The bars would be of gold, and he would have inhis cell everything to make him and his friends think it a palace. Butit would be a prison cell, all the same, for ever and ever; and at nightwhen he and his soul were alone together, looking into each other'seyes, he would know that from behind the door he had locked upon himselfthere was no escape.

  There were moments, and whole hours together, when he said with a kindof sudden rage against the responsibility thrown on him, "I'll takeRose's advice--the last words she ever spoke." But then, in some stilldepth far under the turmoil of his tempted spirit, he knew that hisfirst decision was the only one possible for honour or even forhappiness. And the day after the funeral he made it irrevocable bytelling Edwin Reeves a wild story that had come to him in a strangemoment of something like exaltation. It had come as he stood bareheadedby the grave where Rose had just been laid to sleep beside Jack Doran;and in that moment a lie for their sakes seemed nobler than the truththat would hurt them. More and more, as he thought of it on his way backto the house which had once been "home," and as the possibilitiesdeveloped in his mind, with elaborations of the tale, this lie appealedto his chivalry. Everybody might hear it without fear that Jack or Rosewould be blamed. That was the great advantage. There need be nowhisperings and mysteries. And once the tale was told, there would be nogoing back from it.

  The story which fixed his imagination and inspired him to martyrdommight have made a plot for some old-fashioned melodrama, but Max beganto realize that there was nothing in fiction so incredible as the thingswhich happen in life: things one reads about any day in newspapers, yetwhich in a novel would be laughed at by critics. He would say to EdwinReeves that, shortly before her death, Rose had learned through thedying confession of a Frenchwoman who had nursed her in childbirth thather girl baby had been changed for a boy, born about the same time to arelative of the nurse; that hearing this story she had intended to writeMax, and ask him to go to France to prove or disprove its truth, butthat she had been struck down before summoning courage to break thenews. Edwin Reeves would then understand Rose's anxiety to see Max; andhe would keep the secret, at least until the girl was found. As for whatought to be done in the case of not finding her, or learning withoutdoubt that she was dead, Max thought he might take the lawyer's adviceas a friend of the Dorans, as a legal man, and as a man of the world.Perhaps, if in Edwin Reeves's judgment silence would in that event bejustified, Max might accept this verdict.

  There was that one grain of hope for the future--if it could be calledhope. But there was another person besides Edwin Reeves and EdwinReeves's son (Max's best friend of old days) who must be told at oncehow little claim he had to the Doran name and fortune. That person wasBillie Brookton.

  Max had dimly expected opposition from Edwin Reeves, whose advice mightbe what Rose Doran's had been: to give money, and let everything remainas it had been. It was somewhat to his surprise that the lawyer, afterlistening in silence, agreed that there was just one thing to do, if thegirl still lived. Grant (who was with him in their private office byMax's wish), though more demonstrative, more openly sympathetic, heldthe same opinion.

  Max ought to have been glad of this encouragement, but somehow, shaminghimself for it, he felt a dull sense of injury, especially where Grantwas concerned. Grant exclaimed that it was horribly hard lines, and thatold Max was the splendid fellow everybody had always believed him to be.Lots of chaps would have been mean, and stuck to the name and money,though of course no honourable man could do that. Grant quite saw howMax felt, and would have to act in the same way himself, no matter whatit cost. If the truth had to come out, every one would say he'd behavedlike a hero--that was one comfort; but, as Edwin Reeves reminded themboth, Max might be rewarded for his noble resolve by learning that therewas no need to make the sensational story public. If the girl had diedor could not be found, it would be--in Mr. Reeves's opinion--foolishlyquixotic to rouse sleeping dogs, and ruin himself, to put money in thepockets of the Reynold Dorans, who had more than they wanted already.

  "You'll feel like getting leave to run over to France, I suppose," saidthe lawyer, "though of course the search might be made for you if youprefer."

  "I prefer to go myself," Max decided quietly.

  "Why not let me go with you?" Grant suggested, with a certain eagernesswhich it seemed to Max he tried to suppress, rather than to show as aproof of friendship. "The governor could spare me for a while, I expect,and it wouldn't be quite such a gloomy errand as if you were alone. I'dbe glad to do it for you, dear old boy, honestly I would."

  Yes, he would be glad. Max saw that. And instead of feeling drawn nearerto Grant Reeves, he felt suddenly miles away. They had drifted apartsince Max had joined his regiment in the West and Grant had become apartner with his father. Now Max told himself that he had never knownGrant: that as men they were so far from one another he could reallynever know him; and he wondered at the impulse which had made him wishGrant to hear the story with Edwin.

  "But suppose it's all true and you find the girl over on the other sidesomewhere?" Grant went on, when Max had answered that the search mightbe long, and it would be better for him to make it alone. "What willyou do? Hadn't my mother better fetch her? Mother's over in Paris now,you know, so it would be less trouble. You mightn't want to bring herback yourself, unless, of course----"

  "Unless--what?" Max wanted to know.

  "Well, you're not related to the girl, and you're about the same age.She'll naturally look upon you as a hero, a deliverer, and all that, ifshe's a normal woman. If it were in a book instead of real life, the endwould be----"

  "Different from what it will be with us," Max cut him short. "Don'tlet's speak or think of anything like that."

  "It only occurred to me," Grant excused himself mildly, "thatif--nothing like that _did_ happen, you mightn't want to come back tothis country yourself, for a while. It's a queer sort of case. And yousee you went through West Point and got your lieutenancy as Max Doran.If you weren't Max Doran, but somebody else, I wonder what they would doabout----"

  "I should
n't give them the trouble of doing anything," said Max quietly."I'd resign from the army. But there'll be other doors open, I hope. Idon't mean to fade out of existence because I'm not a Doran or a fellowwith money. I'll try and make something out of another name."

  "And you'll succeed, of course," Edwin Reeves assured him. "I suppose itwas in Grant's mind that if this extraordinary story proved to be true,and you should give up your name and your fortune to John and RoseDoran's daughter, why you would in a way be giving up your country,too. You say that the confession Mrs. Doran received was from aFrenchwoman: that this person took the child of a relative, andexchanged it for the Doran baby. If we are to believe that, it makes youof French blood as well as French birth. Grant supposed, perhaps, thatthis fact might change your point of view."

  Max had not thought of it, and resented the suggestion which the twoseemed to be making: that he would no longer have the right to considerhimself an American. "But I don't feel French," he exclaimed. "I don'tsee how I ever can."

  "Yet you speak French almost like a Frenchman," said Grant. "We used totease you about it in school. Do you remember?"

  Did he remember? And Jack Doran had called him "Frenchy." Always, itseemed, he had been marching blindly toward this moment.

  Nothing was settled at the end of the talk, except that the secret wasto be kept for the present. And Max learned that Rose had made aninformal will, leaving him all her jewellery, with the request that itshould be valued by experts and sold, he taking the money to "use as hethought fit." She had made this will years ago, it seemed, directlyafter Jack Doran's death, while her conscience was awake. Max guessedwhat had been in her mind. She had wanted him to have something of hisown, in case he ever lost his supposed heritage. He was grateful to herbecause, not loving him, she had nevertheless thought of his welfare andtried to provide for it. Mr. Reeves knew something about the value ofRose's jewels. She had not had many, he reminded Max. Once, soon afterher marriage, and while she was still abroad, all her wedding presentsand gifts from her husband had been stolen in a train journey. Sincethen, she seemed to have picked up the idea that a beautiful woman oughtnot to let herself be outshone by her own jewels. She had cared fordress more than for jewellery, and, with the exception of a rope ofpearls, her ornaments had not been worth a great deal. Still, they oughtto sell for at least twelve or fifteen thousand dollars, countingeverything, and two or three rather particularly fine rings which Jackhad given her.

  "I think she must have meant me to except those from the things to besold," said Max. "She would have known I'd never let them go."

  His first impulse after that interview with the Reeveses was to dash outWest and see Billie, to tell her that something had happened which mightmake a great difference in his circumstances, and to give her back herfreedom. But when he had stopped to think, he said to himself that itwouldn't be fair to go. Face to face, it would be hard for Billie totake him at his word, and he did not want to make it hard. Instead, hewrote, telling her that he was getting leave to go abroad on importantbusiness--business on which the whole future would depend. Perhaps(owing to circumstances which couldn't be explained yet, till he learnedmore about them himself) he might be a poor man instead of a rich one.Meanwhile, she mustn't consider herself bound. Later, when he knew whatawaited him, if things righted themselves he would come to her again,and ask what he had asked before. In any case, he would explain.

  It was rather a good letter, the version which Max finally let stand,after having torn up half a dozen partly covered sheets of paper. Hislove was there for the girl to see, and he could not help feeling that,possibly--just possibly--she might write or even telegraph, saying, "Irefuse to be set free."

  While he waited, he engaged his passage to Cherbourg on a ship that wasto sail at the end of the week. That would give Billie's answer time tocome. Or--just madly supposing she cared enough to have an understudyplay her part for a few days--it would allow time for a wonderfulsurprise, and the greatest proof of love a girl could give a man.

  There was no telegram, but the day before he was to sail an envelopewith Billie Brookton's pretty scrawl on it was put into his hand. Heopened it carefully, because it seemed sacrilege to tear what she hadtouched, or break the purple seal, with the two bees on it, which sheused instead of initials or a monogram. The perfume which came from thepaper was her own special perfume, named in honour of her success andpopularity--"Girls' Love." Max remembered Billie's telling him once thatit cost "outsiders" five dollars an ounce, because there were amber andlots of wonderful, mysterious things in it; but _she_ got it fornothing.

  "How good, how noble you are!" were her first words; and Max's heartleaped. This divine creature, who could have her pick of men, was goingto say ... but as his eyes travelled fast from line to line, the beatingof his heart slowed down.

  * * * * *

  "Come back to me when this horrible business trouble is over, and ask meagain, as you say you will. You'll find me waiting, oh, _so_impatiently! for I _do_ love you. Whatever happens, Max--dear, handsomeMax--you will be the one great romance of my life. I can never forgetyou, or those blue eyes of yours, the day you told me you cared. Theywill haunt me always. Oh, how I wish I were rich enough for both of us,so that we might be happy, even in case of the worst, and you lose yourmoney! But I don't know how to keep the wretched stuff when I have it.And though I make a lot now, I'm not strong, and who knows how long myvogue may last? We poor actress girls, who depend on our health and thefickle public, have to think of these sordid things. It is, oh, _so_ sadfor us! No woman who hasn't known the struggle herself can realize. Dohurry back, with good news for both, and save me from a _dreadful_ manwho is persecuting me to marry him. I met him in such an odd way thelast time I was here in Chicago, but I didn't tell you the story of theadventure, because it would only have worried you. Besides, you made meforget every one and everything--you did truly, Max! But he frightens menow, he is so fearfully rich, and so strong and insisting; and somehowhe's got round auntie. She's so silly; she thinks you oughtn't to haveleft me as you did, though of course you had to. _I_ understood, if shedoesn't. She's only a foolish old lady, but she does fuss so about thisman! If you don't rescue me, he may be my fate. I _feel_ it. Dear Max, Iwait for you. I want you.

  BILLIE.

  "P.S. _Please wire when you know_."

  As he read the letter through for the second time, he could hear throughthe open window of his room a woman's voice singing one of Gaeta'ssongs, the one most popular: "Forever--never! Who knows?"

  The words mingled themselves with the words of the letter: "Come back.Bring good news. Forever--never! Who knows?" And the song was from thelast act of "Girls' Love."