Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1914-05-17

1mpatlently stopped the nervous fingers OF
the girl.
NO, Kitty, not the nightdress. Bring me
my blue silk chamber robe. | shall sit up
and read.
But, Madame
Helen slenced her with look "And then
you may 60 Kitty. l will finish undressing
alone
"A hot water bottle for Madame? Your
electric VIBRATOR" asked the girl helplessly.
NO, no. am not ILL., only wish to be
alone
"Your book"
@Yes yes!"
Helen took the novel and opened it on the
marker She pretended to read under the
soft light of the electrolier while the girl
carefully hung her clothing on the forms in
the closet, and laid out upon the bed the
dainty, lace trimmed gown.
The girl hastily finished her task and
closed the door with a bang. Helen flung
the book from her with an angry gesture.
Then she clasped her hands about her knees
and sat looking far into space.
XIHY," she asked herself aloud, as if con
=" ming part, why should he rise up
out of the past on this night of all nights to
damn me with those eyes?'
She unclasped her hands and fell to study
ing her rings, one of them diamond soil
taire, another plain band of gold, as if
from them she sought an answer.
why" she continued, couldn't you have
left us happy in the deluson that all my
dreams had come true:?'
The rings not answering, she clasped her
hands in her lap, her sinuous shoulders
thrown forward, her eyes looking far away.
1t is her attitude, YOU will recall, in the last
big scene of "The Rungs of the Ladder,
where Hilda Crossways, when she had scaled
the topmost rung of the ladder of Ambition,
is suddenly brought face to face with herself;
when she learns, after it is too late, that her
true mission in life was Love, not Fame;
that all the time she has been climbing blind
ly she has loved, worshiped, the very man
whose life she had 50 selfishly blighted.
Helen Brinsley's voice, as she spoke, was
vibrant with that suppressed emotion for
which the public pays her so lavishly.
"The ladder? You were the first rung of
that ladder, Owen. trampled you under
foot to reach the next rung. l scaled the
ladder over your heart l made you the
hideous, loathesome thing you are tonight.
You cannot punish me. | have been my
own punishment l trafnpled my own heart
down with yours. The rungs of the ladder?
| have climbed them. Success? Fame?
W hat are they worth beside one precious
drop from that bleeding heart? No, l am
punished enough, because love
you!
She smiled bitterly as she found herself
repeating the lines of the play. "Pshaw!
| There's no sincerity in me. | wonder if it
really was my own heart, and not the heart
of Hilda Crossways, that | tore to pieces
tonight and exhibited to the morbid gaze of
the public:?'
A sudden suspicion crossed her mind that
brought with it a flush of anger. Handel
how could he have known what was in my
hearth How could that monev-soaked brain
of his know that it was my life-my life, and
not the life Of Hilda-that he was capital
izing? But if he did know, which he GER
tainly could not, would his infamy be any
less than mineo Is not Success my god just
as much as Money is hiso Have | not pa
raded my own heart, my own finest, most
holy instincts of womanhood, for the enter
tainment of the rabbleo | have won the
world; but have lost my own soul!'
The same wan, bitter smile came into her
face as she found herself again drifting for
her sentiment into the lines of the playa
nervous shrug of the sinuous shoulders; then
a shiver of nerves ran all through her body.
No, it was not nervousness: it was a draft
from somewhere blowing directly on her
back Had that careless, inpudent Kitty
left window openo She turned, with an