Infatuation
mustn't! You're degrading me! I--I can't stand it!"
"You know my reasons for wanting you to hear it," he said coldly.
"And you are going to force me to?"
"Yes, I am--for your own good, Phyllis."
As their eyes met something within her seemed to break. In all her life
her father had been everything that was kind and gentle and indulgent.
His arms had ever been her refuge; she had cried out her baby sorrows on
his shoulder; how often, in contrast to other girls, she had thought
herself the most fortunate of women to have such a father. Now, in her
direst need he was pitiless and inflexible. He was determined to
humiliate her with that horrible letter--for his manner, everything,
said that it was horrible. To gain his point he was willing to sweep
away the fabric of all these years. Oh, the stupidity of it, the
cruelty! Nothing could ever be the same again between them after that.
He could degrade her, but it would cost him every iota of her love.
Her bosom swelled. Her anger was at so white a heat that she no longer
felt the fears and shrinkings that had at first assailed her; her heart
beat high, but to another and a fiercer measure.
What a moment for him to begin again: "'You ought to know the goings-on
of that girl of yours, and if nobody else--'"
"Papa, _Papa_!"
"My dear, you must not interrupt me. I insist on--"
"Then let me read it to myself."
He paused, looking at her in indecision; and from her to the coals in
the grate. She perceived the meaning of his hesitation, and laughed
scornfully.
"Oh, you can trust me," she said, holding out her hand. "Do you want my
word, or what? I won't destroy it. Rest assured I shall give you the
pleasure of knowing I am reading every word of it."
He resigned it to her, tugging at his mustache, and watching her
covertly as she moved nearer the light and began to read. He marveled
at her composure, her decision. She was not evading the ugly task--her
eyes moved too slowly for that, and her face reflected too clearly the
unsparing comments on her behavior.
It was coarse beyond belief. Only a man half out of his wits could have
allowed any woman of his family to read such a thing. Many of the
expressions she had never heard before, but it is a peculiarity of gross
Anglo-Saxon to be readily understood. Nothing was lost on Phyllis,
either in the description of the man she loved, or the accusations of
the vilest kind leveled at herself. It was an infamous production,
soiling and disgusting, nakedly spiteful, and nakedly pornographic.
She perused it unflinchingly to the end; studied the signature, "One who
knows," and handed it back to her father.
"I thought people were put in prison for writing such letters," she said
in an even voice.
"So they are," he returned curtly, "though that isn't quite the point."
"What is the point?"
"To know how much of it is true."
Again her composure startled him. "Is it possible you believe any of
it?" she asked.
"Yes, I do," he said.--He was holding the letter in his hand, like a
lawyer in court, cross-examining a witness. He was determined to get at
the bottom of all this.
"Is it true you went to the theater twice?"
"As a spectator--yes."
"Is it true that you wrote a letter to him?"
"Yes."
"Is it true you invited him here?"
"Yes, he came once."
"And it's true you met him afterwards on one of the streets in the
Richmond district?"
"Yes."
"It's true you let him kiss you there before everybody--embrace you--hug
you like a silly servant-girl?"
She ignored the insult, and answered imperturbably: "It was a deserted
place; I didn't know any one was spying on us."
"And it's true to-day you met him again?"
"Yes."
"And drove together in a closed cab?"
"Yes."
"Now, Phyllis, my girl, on your honor; I am asking you this as your
father; I have the right to ask it, and the right to a sacredly truthful
answer--the affair has gone no further than this?"
"No."
"On your honor?"
"On my honor."
"And all the rest of it?"--He touched the letter.
"Lies, Papa--revolting, hideous lies."
He stumbled towards his chair; seated himself in it; reached for the
cigar-box. He had expected a scene; he had expected tears, pleading,
and repentance. He had a penetrating sense of having mismanaged
everything. Perhaps he ought not to have shown her that letter. It had
shocked her through and through, but not in the way he had intended. He
had meant it to be like a surgeon's knife--one sure swift stroke, and
she was to rise cured, disillusioned. The effect had been
disconcertingly different; he had affronted her to the quick, he had
roused a defiance all the more to be feared because it was cool,
subdued, controlled--the kind that is apt to last.--He lit his cigar,
and blew out breath after breath of smoke. He must not make another
mistake. He would think a little while before he began again.
She glided slowly towards the door, but with an air so unconcerned, so
free from any suggestion of flight, that he suspected nothing. The fact
of her leaving the door ajar seemed to imply an immediate return.
Several minutes passed before he suddenly became uneasy. So peremptory
was his conviction that she was near that he cried: "Phyllis, Phyllis,"
before rising to find out what had become of her. But she was not in
the corridor outside. He sought her boudoir--nor was she here either.
Her bedroom off it? It was empty, too. Thoroughly alarmed, he descended
the stairs, softly calling out, "Phyllis, Phyllis!" He was answered by
a servant's voice below: "Is it you, Sir?"
"Yes, Henry, I am looking for Miss Phyllis?"
"She went out a minute ago, Sir."
"Went out?"
"Yes, Sir."
Good God, she was gone!
*CHAPTER XIV*
Once outside the door, she had raced downstairs like the wind, put on
her hat anyhow, and sped into the darkness, without waiting for wrap or
gloves. Her first idea had been to reach the theater, but as she turned
down side streets in order to evade pursuit and get the Fairmount Avenue
car line, she realized that this involved too much time. Her watch,
hastily looked at under a lamp, showed that it was after eight o'clock,
and that she could not hope to gain the theater before the first act
began. She decided to telephone instead, and accordingly, walking very
fast, and sometimes running until a pain in her side forced her to
desist, she made her way to Fairmount Avenue, and to a drug-store she
knew to be there. It was the matter of a moment to look up the number
of the Thalia Theater, unhook the receiver, and get central.
"Nick-el," murmured that impersonal arbiter of human destinies.
"I don't understand--please give me my number, I'm in such a hurry."
"Nick-el!"
"Drop a nickel in the slot, Miss," said the clerk helpfully.
She had come away without her purse. She hadn't a penny!
As quick as thought she pulled off one of her rings, and laid it on the
counter.
"I have forgotten my purse," she said. "Please let me have a quarter,
and I'll redeem the ring to-morrow."
She had been resourceful enough to recollect she needed more than a
nickel--there was the trolley fare to the theater and back.
The clerk took the ring with no great willingness; examined it with
every apparent intention of denying her request; then examined her with
the same sharp look. The horrid creature recognized her, and his manner
changed to a cringing deference. "Oh, Miss Ladd, I beg your pardon, I
didn't know it was you, Miss Ladd. A quarter? Why certainly, Miss
Ladd. Only too happy to oblige you, Miss Ladd. Take back your ring,
and pay any time at your convenience, Miss Ladd." He rang open his cash
register, and passed her three nickels and a dime, together with the
ring. "Put it back where it belongs," he said, smirking and rubbing his
hands. "My, what would the boss say to me if I told him I had kept Miss
Phyllis Ladd's ring!"
She thanked him, and again gave the number at the telephone, dropping in
the nickel that had cost her so much. The clerk, though he had moved
away, was all eyes and ears, and she had an unpleasant sensation of
being watched. But it was too late to draw back now. Her need was too
urgent, too desperate for such irritating trifles to deter her from her
purpose. The horrid creature would stare. Well, let him stare! He
would chatter about it, too, of course. Well, let him chatter!
"Thalia Theater--box-office."
"I want to speak to Mr. Adair at once."
"It's impossible--he's in his dressing-room, and we ring up in eight
minutes."
"I simply have to speak to him."
"Can't do it--it's against the rules."
"Oh, you must, you simply must!"
"Who are you?"
"Miss Ladd!"
"Who did you say?"
"Miss Ladd--L-A-D-D."
"What is it, please, that you want to see Mr. Adair about?"
"Something very important."
"I'm sorry, but I can't do it."
"No, no, please. Mr. Adair will never forgive you if you don't." Then
she had an inspiration. Where or how she had learned the name she hardly
knew, but it flashed across her mind at this moment. "Is Mr. Merguelis
there?"
"I am Mr. Merguelis."
"Mr. Tom Merguelis?"
"Yes."
"Then you might know who I am. Mr. Adair--"
"Oh, say, yes--you're not the little lady that he--"
"Yes, that's me."
"But, my dear, he's in his dressing-room, and that's on the level."
"I simply must talk to him for a second, and you must go and get him."
"Hello, hello--is that you? Hello--yes, my dear, I'm sending for him.
Please hold the line."
What an age it seemed, standing there with the receiver to her ear, and
her heart bursting with impatience. Meaningless scraps of talk strained
her attention; when these stopped she was in terror lest she had been
cut off; at last there was the peculiar jarring and disturbance that
showed someone getting into touch at the other end, followed by Adair's
strong clear challenge.
"Who wants Mr. Adair?"
"I do--it's Phyllis."
"Oh, my little girl, I'm in a frightful rush. Hurry up, tell me what's
the matter?"
"I want to see you as soon as I can--something awful has happened."
"What?"
"I can't tell you here--but can't you guess?"
"Trouble at home?"
"Yes."
"Found out?"
"Yes."
"Your father?"
"Yes."
Adair paused. Events were moving faster than he had anticipated. He
was both thrilled and bewildered at the suddenness of it all.
"It's risky," he said, in a voice that shook a little, "but you'll have
to come up and see me here--there's nothing else for it."
"That's what I want to do," she answered.
"I'll fix it up with the door-keeper to take you to my dressing-room.
Just say you have an appointment with me, and he'll understand. Wait
there for me until the first act is over--will you?"
"Yes, Cyril."
"And you will excuse me if I run? They'll have to hold the curtain as
it is."
"Yes, yes--and I'll be there."
"Au revoir, sweetheart!"
"Good-by--I won't be long."
The stage-door, like most stage-doors, was to be found in a cut-throat
alley, so dark, dangerous, and forbidding in its aspect that it took all
of Phyllis' courage to enter it. A ratty-looking individual, so
compactly built into the entrance that he could open the door by a shove
of his boot, exerted this labor-saving device in answer to her knock,
and glowered at her from over the paper he was reading.
"What do you want?" demanded the ratty individual.
"I have an appointment with Mr. Adair."
He rose without a word; and leading her up some steps, guided her inside
the theater. In the twilight of the wings were some stage-hands in
overalls; an actor whom she recognized as the wicked prince, sitting on
a soap-box, waiting listlessly for his cue; from the stage itself came