# The Three Thirty-Twos/Chapter 1

pp. 23–26.

### I.

FAY BRUNTON was one of those stars who suddenly shine out on Broadway in full effulgence, and are almost as quickly darkened. Most people will remember her name, but I doubt if many could name the parts in which she appeared. But to those of us who knew her, she remains a vivid and lovely memory; she was so beautiful! And that was not all of it; beauty is not uncommon on Broadway: it was her great sweetness of nature that endeared her to us; her girlishness; her simplicity.
She was not a great actress; her smile was her passport to popular favor. She had only to come out on the stage and smile—and she was always smiling—for the house to be hers.
She was so plainly enjoying herself you see; and in her smile there was a confident expectation of friendliness that touched the hardest heart. In the ruthless and artificial world that centers on Broadway, a thing so sweet and natural was simply irresistible. In a single season the whole town took Fay Brunton to its breast.
My employer, Madame Storey, who knows everybody in the great world, had become acquainted with Fay, and through her I had met the girl. By degrees, I can hardly say how, Fay and I had become intimate friends. She brought color and incident into my life. To a plain jane like me, she was simply marvelous. I was the recipient of all her charming confidences—or nearly all; and as well as I could, I steered her with my advice among the pitfalls that beset a popular favorite.
For one in the limelight she was incredibly ignorant of evil. And you could not bear to put her wise to the ugly side of life. I can see now that I was wrong in this.
How bitterly I regretted that I had not warned her against Darius Whittall in the beginning. But I had thought that her natural goodness would protect her. Goodness, however, is apt to be blind. Whittall's name had been connected with Fay's for several months now, but he was only one of many. I had hoped that one of the young men would win out; particularly one who was called Frank Esher, a fine fellow.
I banked on the fact that Fay had been shy about mentioning his name in her confidences. As for Whittall, he was a notorious evil liver. It was not what he had done however, but what he was; black evil lurked in his eyes. His wife had committed suicide some weeks before. To me he was no better than a murderer.
How well I remember the morning that Fay came to our office to tell us. It must have been November, for the trees in Gramercy Park had shed their leaves, though the grass was still green. This was during Fay's second season when she was appearing with huge success in “Wild Hyacinth.” She came in beaming, and I marked the gleam of a new pearl necklace under her partly opened sables. What a vision of youthful loveliness she made, sparkling with a childlike excitement! One thought of a little girl who had been promised a treat.
She had Mrs. Brunton with her. This lady was not her real mother, but an aging actress whom Fay had rescued from a cheap boarding-house, and set up as her official chaperone. Such an arrangement is not unusual on the stage. Mrs. Brunton was a typical stage mamma; over-dressed over-talkative; a foolish woman, but devoted to Fay, and people put up with her on that account.
When Fay came to call, business was dropped for the time being. I took her in to my mistress. What a complement they made to each other! That one so dark and tall and wise; the other simple, fair and girlish. Alongside my regal mistress, the girl looked the least bit colorless, but that was inevitable. There is only one Madame Storey. Fay was not aware that she suffered by comparison with the other, and if she had been, I doubt if she would have minded.
Mrs. Brunton was in a great flutter. “Oh, I hope were not interrupting anything important! Fay couldn't wait a minute! What I have been through since last night you wouldn't believe! I didn't sleep a wink! And then to be hauled out of my bed at eight o'clock! Eight o'clock! And dragged here half-dressed. Is there a mirror anywhere? I know I'm a sight—!”
And so on; and so on. The exasperating thing about that woman was that her talk never meant anything. She surrounded herself with a cloud of words. Nobody ever paid any attention to what she said. Talk with her was a sort of nervous habit like biting the finger nails.
Meanwhile Mme. Storey was gazing into Fay's face with searching kindness. Nervously pulling off one of her gloves, the girl mutely exhibited the third finger of her left hand. I caught a glimpse of an emerald that took my breath away.
“Who is it?” asked Mme. Storey.
“Darius Whittall,” she murmured.
It was a horrible shock to me. Fortunately no one was looking at me at the moment. The thought of seeing my friend in all her youth and loveliness handed over to that murderer—for such he was in all essentials—was more than I could bear. The bottom seemed to drop out of my world.
Mme. Storey's face showed no change upon hearing the announcement, though she must have known Darius Whittall better than I did. She infolded the girl in her arms, and murmured her good wishes in Fay's ear.
Meanwhile Mrs. Brunton was talking away like steam puffing out of a boiling kettle. I perceived a certain glint of anxiety in the old lady's eye; she knew that Darius Whittall was no paragon for a husband. But he was so rich! so rich! who could blame a mother? She was relieved when Mme. Storey appeared to make no difficulties about the match.
“Well, I never thought he'd be the one!” said Mme. Storey with an appearance of great cheerfulness.
“Neither did I,” said Fay laughing.
“Are you dreadfully in love with him?”
“I suppose so—I don't know. Don't ask me to examine my feelings!”
“Look at her!” cried Mrs. Brunton. “Isn't that enough? Radiantly happy!”
“But if you're going to marry the man,” said Mme. Storey laughing, “surely you must know the state of your feelings!”
“I want to marry him,” said Fay quickly. “Very much. I suppose it's because he needs me so.”
Mme. Storey's expression said: “Hum!” But she did not utter it. She asked when it was going to be.
“Soon,” said Fay. “There's no reason for delay. It will be very quiet, of course.”
“Of course,” said Mme. Storey.
Fay seemed to feel that some further explanation was required. “It's true his wife has only been dead two months,” she said. “But as Darius pointed out, she had not been a real wife to him for years before that.”
“Poor woman!” said Madame Storey.
We all echoed that. “Poor woman!”
By this time I was aware that my mistress was not any better pleased with Fay's announcement, than I had been; but she was too wise to burst out with her objections as I might have done.
“Why do you suppose she killed herself?” she said thoughtfully.
“Oh, don't you know?” said Fay. “She was in love with somebody else. Darius talks about her so nicely. He offered to let her divorce him, but she wouldn't because of her religion. A Catholic, you know. I suppose she could see no way but to end it all. Darius honors her for it.”
“Oh, don't talk about it!” cried Mrs. Brunton. “Don't let that cloud darken this happy day! How that poor man has suffered. And such a gentleman with it all. Such delicacy! I could tell you things about him! But never mind!”
What has he given her?” I thought.
Fay and Mme. Storey ignored her interruption. “But I think,” the former went on with gentle censure, “that she ought to have considered what a dreadful blow it would be to her husband.”
“Still,” said Mme. Storey dryly, “if she had not done it, you would not be marrying him now.”
“No-o,” said Fay innocently. “I suppose not. Of course Darius is going to sell the house at Riverdale,” she continued with an involuntary shiver. “I shouldn't care to live there where it happened.”
Mme. Storey struck out on a new line. “Well! Well!” she said, “what a poor guesser I am! Frank Esher was the one I backed.”
I saw a spark of animosity leap out of the old woman's eye. I suppose it occurred to her that my seemingly candid mistress was trying to gum her game.
“Oh, Frank Esher!” said Fay pettishly. “Don't speak of him!”
“He was so good-looking!” said Mme. Storey dreamily.
“Good-looking, yes,” said Fay with some heat, “But impossible! You don't know! Oh, impossible!”
“I liked him,” said Mme. Storey, “because there seemed to be a genuine fire in him. Most young fellows are so tame! I should have thought he would make a wonderful lover.”
Fay, silenced, looked at her with rather a stricken expression in the candid blue eyes.
Mrs. Brunton rushed in to fill the breach. “Fire!” she snorted. “Preserve us from that kind of fire. That's all I have to say. I don't speak of his rudeness to me. I am nobody. He treated Fay as if she was just an ordinary girl. No sense of the difference in their positions. A dreadful young man! He spoiled everything, So different from Mr, Whittall. He is such a gentleman. You never catch him making a vulgar display of his feelings!”
Fay had recovered her speech. “That incident is closed,” she said. “Frank was simply a thorn in my side.”
But Mme. Storey would not let Frank drop. “By the way, what has become of him?” she asked. “I haven't seen him for ages.”
“We quarreled,” said Fay with an impatient shrug. “He was always quarreling with me. He said that would be the last time, and he went away somewhere. Peru or China or somewhere. Nobody knows where he's gone. Now I have a little peace.”
But the look in her eyes belied her words.
There was a lot more talk. Like every young girl when she first gets herself engaged, Fay could hardly speak a sentence without bringing in the name of her lover. One would have thought Darius was the Oracle. It was absurd and it was piteous.
Darius had no objection to her finishing out the run of “Wild Hyacinth.” But after this season of course she would retire. Darius had bought a town house. No, not a big place on the Avenue; Darius hated show. A dear little house in the East Seventies; Darius had said that was the smartest thing now. Very plain outside, and a perfect bower within. Like a French maisonnette. Darius had such original ideas. And so on.
When they got up to go, Fay said to me wistfully: “You haven't congratulated me, Bella.”
What was I to say? The tears sprang to my eyes. Fortunately she considered that the emotion was suitable to the circumstances. “Oh, I want you to be happy! I want you to be happy!” I stammered.
The words did not please her. She withdrew herself away from my arms somewhat coldly.