CHAPTER XVIII

A BELATED WEDDING_

It was in a city in the far West that this small incident took place—­a city of the mountains still so young that some of its stateliest business buildings of stone or marble, with plate-glass, fine furniture, and electric lighting, were neighboured not merely by shanties, but actually by tents.

But though high up in the mountains, the young city was neither too far nor too high for vice to reach it; and so it came about that a certain woman, whose gold-bought smiles had become a trifle too mocking and satirical to be attractive, had come to the young city and placed herself at the head of an establishment where, at command, every one from sunset laughed and was merry, and held out hungry, grasping little hands for the gold showered upon them—­laughed, with weary, pain-filled eyes—­laughed, with stiff, tired lips sometimes—­but still laughed till sunrise—­and then, well, who cared what they did then?

And this woman had waxed rich, and owned valuable property and much mining stock, and was generous to those who were down on their luck, and was quick with her revolver—­as the man who tried to hold her up on a lonely road found out to his sorrow.

Now to this city there came a certain actress, and the papers and the theatre bills announced a performance of the old French play of “Camille.”  The wealthy Madame Elize, as she styled herself, had heard and read much of both actress and play, and knew that it was almost a nightly occurrence for men to shed tears over two of the scenes, while women wept deliciously through the whole play.

She determined that she would go to that performance, though the manager assured the public, in large letters, that no one of her order could possibly be admitted.  And she declared “that she could sit out that or any other play without tears.  That no amount of play-acting could move her, unless it was to laughter.”

And so the night came, and the best seat in the best box in all that crowded theatre was occupied by a woman of forty-five, who looked about thirty-eight, who, but for the fixed, immovable colour in her cheeks and her somewhat too large and too numerous diamonds, might from her black silk, rich dark furs, and her dignified bearing have passed for an honest woman.

She watched the first act with a somewhat supercilious manner, but the second act found her wiping her eyes—­very cautiously; there was that unvarying colour to think of.  The third act found her well back in the shadow of the box curtain, and the last act she watched with a face of such fixed determination as to attract the wondering comment of several of the actors.

When the curtain fell, one of them remarked, “I’d like to know what that woman will do in the next few hours?”

This is what she did.  Keeping back till the house was nearly empty, she left the theatre alone.  Then she engaged a carriage—­of which there were very, very few in that city of the mountains, where the people did most of their going and coming on horseback—­and had herself conveyed to her home, ablaze with light and full of laughter; and bidding the driver wait, she entered quietly and went swiftly to her own apartment, where a man in slippers and dressing-gown sat in a big armchair, sleeping over the evening paper.