Society's Nothingness and Its Sacrifice.

Our scenes change to New York, six years later, "Bridge" at Mrs. Lambert's! Every lady within her circle of friends, rejoiced when the date for such an event occurred. First, because Mrs. Lambert was at all times a charming hostess. Second, and chiefly, she was as generous as she was charming. At her affairs, the prizes offered were the most expensive the society season of that special set produced.

Now, Mrs. Lambert was in her glory today. She was about to entertain a guest of importance, namely. Miss Edith Esterbrook, twenty-year-old daughter of a very wealthy and distinguished family, for whom she had many years possessed a "social longing." Through careful and tactful maneuvers the great privileged intimacy with the Esterbrooks was at last established, and today, for the first time, Mrs. Lambert could introduce Miss Edith to her willing circle. The few times that she had met the girl, she noticed her quiet reserved beauty with a sort of awe. Rumor declared that society counted her an intellectual bore and only tolerated her for her family's sake. But that mattered little to Mrs. Lambert's aspiring mind. The only daughter of the Esterbrooks could afford to be eccentric. Her individual character was the last consideration.

A half hour before the guests arrived, the hostess descended to the parlors. Hastily she scanned the tables for card-playing, and noticed with satisfaction that her new maid had intelligence enough to arrange every detail most satisfactorily. Then she walked over to the long table in the farthest room, and inspected the array of refreshments spread daintily for a buffet luncheon. Everything conceivably appropriate was there to tempt the most fastidious tastes of the "bridge players." There was absolutely nothing to criticize—the arrangement was perfect—and Mrs. Lambert trilled a gay little song in a low happy contralto, as she sailed through the large spacious rooms, to view herself in the long mirror.

Her dark, massive brown hair was thrown gracefully back in a full fluffy pompadore effect. Beneath this luxuriance, a face of sensitive delicate beauty smiled contentedly. The small, irregular features seemed perfectly in harmony, one with the other, and the dark blue eyes were kind.

The world had used Mrs. Lambert well, and with customary ease, she had used the world well; that is, that part of the world which she met daily in her own sphere. There was absolutely nothing aggressive in her nature. She would not care to search to find out how "the other half lived." Her nature was the type that smiles impartially on all and calmly sums up the philosophy of life in one trite phrase—"Live and let live." From her earliest remembrance, she was admired, petted and loved, and now after nine years of married life, her husband was still obedient to her every capricious whim.

The "outer woman" responded quickly to all this lavished happiness, but the "inner woman" possessed the restless spirit which such dormant life creates, and only was her light gay temperament preserved by a constant searching after and indulging in petty excitement.

As the mirror reflected back her graceful figure, charming even in the difficult lines of the strictly "Directoire," she noticed with a childish petulant frown, that the pale blue satin was not dark enough to enhance the color of her eyes.

"Pshaw!" she exclaimed softly. "My eyes must be changing either in color or in sight. I thought I had matched them perfectly. Perhaps it is the light."

But turn her graceful head as she would, the eyes still looked darker than the dress. She gave a little sigh and dismissed the frown. Then she turned from the mirror, and dropped into a soft nest of cushions in a cozy window seat.

As the bell announced an arrival, Mrs. Lambert slowly arose while the maid opened the door.

"May I speak with Mrs. Lambert, please?" asked a soft, gentle voice, and Mrs. Lambert caught a glimpse of Miss Esterbrook, as she entered the foyer and turned toward the reception room.

The hostess immediately came forward, graciously extending her hand in welcome.

"I'm so glad to see you have come early. It will indeed be a pleasure to visit a little while before the game starts," she said.

At a glance she took in the general pleasing effect of the tall slim figure, and graceful poise of the head, massed with an abundance of golden hair. Her face of the Madonna type, was rather too pale in its fairness, but deep violet eyes lent color and its sweet expressiveness was attractive.

"I don't know how to tell you why I have come so early," she returned in a natural, musical voice, quite exceptional in these days of high staccato and affected tremolos. "Indeed, when you planned this reception for me, I ought to have guessed you would entertain with 'Bridge.' But you didn't mention it to me, and thoughtlessly I did not ask. Afterwards, mother received cards, but she mislaid them. She did not mention the game until today. Can you forgive me when I tell you that I do not play 'Bridge?'"

"You do not play 'Bridge?'" asked Mrs. Lambert incredulously. For a moment she searched her guest's face in silent astonishment, her cheeks flushing hotly with the thought of the social defeat this afternoon would bring.

The violet eyes never wavered but smiled kindly as they noticed her hostess' evident embarrassment.

"No, I do not play, but if you will let me stay and assist you entertain, I shall feel that my sin is forgiven."

Mrs. Lambert sighed relief. "O, if you will stay," she replied smiling once more at ease, "we will all be so glad to teach you."

"I thoroughly understand the game," answered the girl gravely, "I have always enjoyed it, but I have been persuaded to give it up—a matter of conscience entirely, and two weeks ago I promised to never play again."

Mrs. Lambert's face rippled with amusement.

As her maid took the guest's wrap, Mrs. Lambert linked her arm cordially into that of Miss Esterbrook.

"Come, we have just ten minutes to ourselves. I want you to sit by me, and confidentially tell me just how wicked I am—for I adore 'Bridge!'"

Edith felt the charm of the elder woman, and she smiled brightly as they seated themselves in the cozy window seat.

"I fear I could not persuade you," she said thoughtfully, "We all look at things from different standpoints, do we not?"

"Then from what standpoint could you prove my 'Bridge' playing wrong?" Mrs. Lambert asked, dropping her playful mood, and becoming momentarily interested.

The dark eyes seemed to deepen their color, and an intensely earnest expression pervaded her countenance.

"Mrs. Lambert, is not everything a sin which cultivates a small conception of life? Is it not a blight on our social life, that women delight in spending all their spare afternoons in playing cards?"

"I see no harm in such a means to sociability. We must have something to bring us together," Mrs. Lambert replied quietly.

"You have spoken the truth," Edith returned gravely. "We must have something to bring us together, and that something has by common consent become a profitless game of cards. Where has that spirit of womanhood flown that prompted our mothers and grandmothers to gather together in sewing bees, or in musical cliques, or even in reading afternoons?"

Mrs. Lambert puckered her brow in mock despair.

"O, my dear girl, you find fault with us for taking life a little easier than our grandmothers, who used to work even in their playtime, while their husbands sat by and smoked. I really think that we ought to congratulate ourselves that we have learned to enjoy ourselves a little and let the men do the hustling."

Edith relaxed her thoughts and smiled slightly. "I see you are determined to be amused at me," she said pleasantly. "There may come a day when women will find a still greater way to enjoy life. I am not so sure that we are happier for your boasted advancement."

"Not happier, but less unhappy," Mrs. Lambert returned with the slightest shade in her laughing eyes.

"Ah; that is it!" the girl responded eagerly. "But won't you drop these wasteful days? Why don't you choose the happiest, the best?"

She had forgotten herself in her enthusiasm, and had leaned forward, placing her hand on the other's arm detainingly.

Mrs. Lambert's petulant frown gathered quickly.

"You speak as though persuading me from some fearful sin," she returned coldly.

Edith drew her hand away and a crimson flush surmounted her face.

"Pardon me, Mrs. Lambert, I speak too freely. You are offended. But I thought that you wouldn't mind."

For a moment Mrs. Lambert looked intently down at the girl's downcast face. The frown slowly vanished. Then the old sunny smile came back, and her hand impulsively sought that of Edith's.

"No, I'm not offended. You are just too new for me, that is all. New things always irritate me. I like the smooth and trodden path. But you must talk with me again some time." She laughed softly. "On top I don't like it at all, but down deep, it feels real good and refreshing. You are like a whiff of fresh air in a long closed room. I don't like the draught, but I do like the fresh air! Can you understand?"

Edith laughed a genuine girlish laugh.

"Then we must not open the window too suddenly!" she exclaimed brightly, and the two women looked frankly into each other's eyes.

The guests arriving prevented further conversation.

Edith found herself introduced to about fifty ladies, all of whom were "charmed" to meet her. She was very much accustomed to meeting strangers who were desirous of knowing the daughter of Mr. Esterbrook, but she cared little for these affairs. She enjoyed meeting individuals, but not numbers. When the room became full of chatty women, all indulging in the same light small talk, Edith became bored. She tried not to show it. Unconsciously she assumed an air of quiet reserve, which some mistook for hauteur. So, in spite of her beauty, she was not popular, and had she not borne the name of Esterbrook, society would have frozen her out. This afternoon she tried to be pleasing, but it was at best a forced attempt. The girl so animated and at home before the guests arrived, became silent and constrained when the room was filled. This irritated Mrs. Lambert considerably.

When asked by most of the ladies individually, "Why, surely you play Bridge?"—Edith seemed capable of only one reply, "Yes, but I have been persuaded to never play again." The ladies raised their brows and exchanged glances. Most of them had heard that Edith was eccentric, so they asked no further questions. It seemed to Mrs. Lambert that she might have given some other reply—not just to show her disapproval of the game that they all enjoyed. The momentary understanding between Edith and herself was soon almost entirely erased by impatience at the girl's frankness.

However, with the guests, the game soon became all absorbing. Of course "Bridge" players of the "Mediocre Social Set" are not for a moment considered gamblers. The prizes are simply the token of good-will from the hostess to her guests. But considering this truth, it was wonderfully interesting to note the zest and feverish excitement with which these ladies played for two long hours. After each game, five minutes' relaxation took place, in which precious moments, the ladies sauntered up to the refreshment table and renewed their energy for the next onslaught. While munching various sweet nothings, they exchanged light appropriate gossip, and learned the minor details concerning friend or foe, as only a "Bridge" could reveal. At last the final game was to be played. All became still as death, and every eye watched the play of each card with feverish excitement. For many, this last game meant the decision for a prize in their favor. O no! these ladies were not gamblers! They were there for the social gathering—the game was a mere pastime! But how interesting would be a "Bridge" party without prizes? Have you ever tried it, hostess? Would you have the courage? In the same breath that you assure me, "My friends are not gamblers," I hear you say, "But a bridge without prizes would fall so flat!"

When the guests were all departed, Mrs. Lambert dressed for dinner in a rather petulant mood. Her afternoon was decidedly a failure. The main object of the entertainment was to introduce Miss Esterbrook to her own circle, and to feel the honor of the introduction belonged to herself. After all her anticipations, her friends showed plainly their decided indifference to Edith.

Mr. Lambert's non-appearance at the dinner-hour added to her ruffled mood.

For one hour she awaited him in her boudoir. During that time, she gave herself up to thoughts now irritating, now pensive. While waiting, she lolled in a nest of cushions. She looked very alluring in her soft, cream-colored gown, and even the little frown, flitting with her thoughts, did not lessen the charm of her childish beauty.

Edith's words came persistently to her mind—"Why don't you choose the happiest, the best?" The words had a disturbing effect. They insinuated that she,—Alma Lambert—was not choosing the happiest and best.

It is strange how our lives often prepare us for a certain phrase to strike home. So the last month had prepared Alma. If she had met Edith two months sooner, scarcely would her question have been noticed. Anyway, it would have been laughed at as eccentric and prudish, and then been forgotten. But the last month had brought a disturbing element into Alma's even existence. Her husband's irritability, so unprecendented in a man of such unbounded good-nature, was a surprisingly new condition to be met with. Often he would come home, tired and haggard, and after the usual fond greeting and caress, he would begin quite unreasonably to talk of money and business depression.

When she declared she did not like to talk or hear about business affairs, he would give some biting reply that made her wince, as if struck by a lash. Before, he had always laughed at her indifference, but he suddenly changed, demanding her interest in all kinds of stupid details.

She couldn't understand this change in him. She didn't try to understand it. But she felt the unpleasantness of the atmosphere, and vague fears of a coming storm shook her habitual complacency.

To night she was more fearful than usual.

An hour after dinner-time, and her husband not home! It had happened many times lately, but never without a telephoned excuse.

"Why don't you choose the best, the happiest?"

The thought brought a little stab from conscience. Perhaps she was not sympathetic enough—perhaps she ought to show more interest in her husband's business, and that made him unlike himself.

It was a new thought that brought a doubt of herself. She was accustomed to receive affection and to give it only in return. But now circumstances determined differently.

They urged her to take the initiative. This was not easy for her to do, but she longed for the old easy way of loving and spoiling. Perhaps this vague longing and unrest prompted her to surprise her husband to-night, with an extra show of patience and affection. Doubtless he would come home in one of his unattractive moods.

A big sigh of relief accompanied her resolve, and she murmured gently,

"Will is a good old boy anyway, and has always done everything I wished." That summed up her ideal of a perfect husband. So she concluded to spoil him a little in return.

The door opened and Will Lambert entered. Alma started from her nest of cushions.

"Why, Will, how pale you are!" she said kindly, holding out both hands as he came towards her.

He took them both and put them to his lips. Then he kissed the cherry mouth, raised sweetly to his.

"Fatigue and hunger, darling," he said in a weary voice.

"Come then to dinner. I have not dined. Just waited and worried over you. Why didn't you telephone?"

"I didn't intend to be late. Have been walking the streets for an hour, thinking, thinking, thinking. Forgot the hour entirely!"

"Will! Walking the streets! What can possess you!"

"An evil spirit doubtless," he returned with a sad attempt to smile.

During the meal, his color returned and he talked considerably. But Alma noticed his tone was forced, and his dark deep-set eyes had a new haunted expression.

"Where is Harold?" he suddenly asked, looking at the empty chair where their eight year old boy usually sat.

"Harold! why Will, dear, what is making you so strange? You know he retires two hours before this."

"O yes," he replied absently. "I missed the little fellow—that is all. Never thought about the time."

Alma contemplated her husband with a sort of pity.

"He's so worn out, he really acts queer," she thought with a new consideration possessing her.

Dinner over, they retired to their cozy library where the logs burned brightly and all looked cheerful comfort.

"Come, dear," said Alma, drawing his big chair nearer to the fire, and placing a cushion for his feet.

Will looked his surprise. Never before had she attempted to wait upon him. He had always been the willing slave.

"Thank you, dear," he said tenderly, and he dropped his stalwart form into the chair with relief.

Alma reached for his paper and then drew a cigar from the stand. Both she handed to him smiling.

He took them but laid them aside.

"No, no, Alma. I want only you to-night." And he drew her down lovingly into his lap.

Could it be possible that her slight effort had brought back the old perfect order of things again? Will was his old self, lovingly tender, to-night. Weary, yes, but not the slightest irritable. He looked at her long and fixedly for a few moments and she returned his gaze with a sweet questioning smile.

"Alma, I'm fearfully worried to-night over business."

"Forget it. Will," she said lightly, placing her cool hand on his hot forehead. "You say you only want me—then think only of me."

"As usual, you don't want to be bothered talking about it," he said with a shade of impatience.

"No, no. Will" she answered quickly. "I want to talk with you to-night. You must tell me every ugly detail. Perhaps I can help you."

He held her out at arms' length, and eyed her curiously.

"Whence this change? Too bad it didn't come sooner. It is too late now," he said cynically.

Alma felt hurt. Her first attempt to be unselfish he repulsed. Her little petulant frown appeared, and the light died from her eyes.

Instantly his tone changed. Drawing her face down to his, he murmured tenderly,

"Smile, dearest. I need it. Yes, the change has come too late, but thank God it has come. You will have many chances to show your courage, dear."

She drew away from him like a frightened child.

"O, Will, what is going to happen?"

"God alone knows, Alma." Then his eyes shot a sudden fire and the grasp of his hand hurt.

"Alma, whatever does happen, remember that you are mine,—mine always! Tell me, could you ever forget that?" he questioned almost fiercely.

Alma's sensitive form quivered, and her eyes filled. She tried to draw her hands away, but he held them firm.

"You frighten me, Will. Of course I'm always yours. What troubles you, dear?" she asked tremulously.

A great tenderness superseded his sterner mood. He folded her gently in his arms.

"You have said it, dear. I am so doubtful about everything to-night. I was almost foolish enough to think you wouldn't."

Her white arms lovingly encircled his neck and he could feel her tears wet his face.

"Dear Will, I love you—more to-night than ever. I don't know why. Something new has come to me—a sort of mother-love for my poor, tired Will."

Never had he known her in such a mood. He asked no reason for it. It soothed and quieted his misery. So he gave himself up to being loved as he never before had been privileged to do.

It was ten o'clock when the bell announced a visitor.

Will started from his chair.

"Who can it be at this hour?" Alma asked wonderingly.

"Who?" returned Will shortly, and they both listened.

Will seemed scarcely able to breathe, until the maid announced "Dr. Cadman."

"Let him come right in," said Will with evident relief.

Dr. Cadman entered, beaming with the freshness of a morning hour rather than tired with the late evening.

Alma and Will advanced to meet him and he took one hand of each simultaneously.

"Too bad to disturb such a happy picture,—firelight and lovelight. How we bachelors do envy you, lucky dogs!" he said, pressing their hands warmly.

"But, George, we love fine pictures, too, but unfortunately we cannot see ourselves," returned Alma laughingly.

"Sufficient that you see one another," returned the doctor banteringly.

"Now, Alma," he continued, as he seated himself near the fire, "I have just a few minutes to see Will on important business. A patient demands my attention shortly. Are you going to be a good little wife and allow us a few minutes' conversation?"

"Assuredly," and Alma smiled assent. "But I will vanish in the meantime, I'm sure to interrupt if I stay."

The two men laughed. As she opened the door, she wafted a kiss to each one and disappeared.

"Dear girl!" murmured Will.

"Dear girl! I should say so, Will. Then why on earth that sad, mournful face? I have the check, old boy! Knew you'd come home anxious, so didn't wait until morning," he added, drawing an envelope from his pocket and handing it to Will. "Twenty thousand dollars you had to have, didn't you? Well, I made it $5,000 over so that Alma couldn't suspect, from your drawing it too tight."

Will took the check mechanically. Speechless and dazed he stood, watching George with increasing pallor.

"Cousin, what ails you?" asked George with alarm.

"You're so good, that is all,—in fact, too good for a wretch like me! and to think that it won't help—all that money even can't save me now!"

Haggard and white he sank into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. Sobs convulsed his form as he hid his face from view.

The doctor was momentarily astounded. Will was not the kind to play the woman, and shame? He couldn't couple the word with Will's straight-forwardness.

He laid a strong, kind hand upon the bent head.

"Will, you're overwrought. Look up. Be a man."

Will's sobs ceased, and he met Cadman's scrutiny with a sullen doggedness.

"George, you will not call me a man after to-night. I couldn't myself, even."

"Come, out with it," returned Cadman briskly "Don't beat around the bush,—and I object to your disowning your sex!"

"For God's sake, don't joke!" exclaimed Will fiercely.

"Far from it! Be quick—what awful crime have you committed?"

George possessed a pair of keen gray eyes that compelled frankness.

Will did not hesitate.

"I've lost all—every cent, George! Got desperate. Was fooled into crazy speculation. Lost all—all, I say, and I'm ruined hopelessly, beyond any help of yours."

George's face became serious, and he watched Will keenly.

"Didn't I tell you that I would get the money for you tonight? Is that all?" he asked gravely. "Will, you are hiding something," he added with firmness.

"Yes, there is more," Will replied, a crimson flush surmounting to his temples. Suddenly he looked around with a hunted expression.

"George, I'm branded a thief! I'll be hounded tomorrow. A thief!—you hear me? Not a man! Alma's husband—a thief!"

George grasped his shoulder in consternation.

"You're crazy, man! Stop such names! you are exaggerating some mis-step. Tell me everything! I'll stand by you. Don't be a coward!"

The hunted expression gave way to one of misery.

"George, you're a brick, but you can't save me. When I lost my own money, I became frenzied—succeed I must or be in disgrace for debt. I don't know how I did it. I took the bank's money when sure of success—meant to put it back—speculated with it, lost all, all! I heard tonight they had discovered it. To-morrow will come the arrest. I'll be a jail-bird soon—a thief behind the bars!"

George's face became stolidly set.

"How much did you borrow?" he asked calmly.

"Fifty thousand," he answered hoarsely.

"Whew!" returned George, with a low whistle.

Both men stared into the fire with tragic silence.

"Well?" finally asked Will wearily.

George arose and slowly buttoned his coat before replying.

"I must think it over, old boy!" he said kindly, and his voice was husky through its firmness. "It's a bad case, but there must be a way out of it. I'll get here soon after daybreak. Think it over hard in the meantime. The best thing for Alma, must be your first consideration, yourself next."

"Alma! How can she bear it!"

"She'll bear it like a woman, I hope," returned George quickly. "You have run the gauntlet for her sake, haven't you? You've lived beyond your means, until debts have accumulated to your distraction. I have not been blind to all this. But I never dreamed of this climax."

"For her sake, yes, but that makes my sin no lighter," Will returned gloomily.

"But it makes it less black—anyway to those who care a heap for you!" George exclaimed, grasping Will's hand.

"You care, now that you know what I am?" asked Will, surprise overcoming other emotions.

"Now that I know what you are? I know that you are a man up against a devilish proposition, and all on account of your love for a beautiful, adorable woman. You don't think that I'd break with you for that, do you?"

A glimmer of hope shot from Will's fine, dark eyes.

"You're even better than I thought you," he returned simply, and the two men parted without further remark.

As George was about to leave, Alma met him in the foyer.

"Good-bye little girl," he said gravely, "Will doesn't seem very well to-night. Don't keep him up too late, will you?"

"No, indeed. You notice then, how ill he looks?" she asked, her anxiety lending a pathos to her beauty.

"Yes, he needs a rest and no worry of any kind. I'll step in tomorrow. Good-night," and, fearing to lengthen the conversation, he left quickly.

Alma found Will, leaning forward in his chair, and gazing into the fire with a morbid intensity. So great was his absorption, that he didn't hear her enter the room. She crossed over to him, and, leaning over his chair, gently she raised his head and laid it back against the cushions.

He started slightly. "You Alma?" he said wearily. "Our pleasant little evening is over dear. You had better retire now for I must have an hour or two alone—to puzzle out a business proposition before I can sleep."

"O, Will, you are too tired. George said that you should retire early."

As she spoke, she caressed his forehead and he closed his eyes in gratitude.

After a moment he opened them upon her fondly.

"George himself gave me the problem to solve," he said gently, "I cannot sleep now. Go to dreamland, dearest, and don't make it harder for me by disputing."

"Good-night, then, if you won't come. But don't exhaust yourself, Will."

For answer he drew her down and pressed her closely to his breast.

"Good-night, Alma,—dear little wife," he said in passionate low tones. "Whatever comes, dearest, remember I have always loved you to distraction. You believe it?"

"Yes, yes. I know it, Will. Of course you have."

His strange mood disconcerted her and she was glad to go.

Kissing him lightly, she left the room, turning at the door to say smilingly,

"Remember dear, you must not linger long."

Left alone, George's words came more forcibly to Will's tortured brain.

"The best thing for Alma must be your first consideration, yourself next." The best thing for Alma! The best thing for Alma! Again and again the question reiterated in his mind. He was undeniably guilty. For a time he might be free—on bail until his trial—then the prison! A long torturing shame for Alma. What alternative?

He had thought of one alternative to-night. It had come to him at first as a wild intangible thought, born of despair. But it gradually took shape and became proportionate to reason; he had walked the streets for an hour, courting its possibility.

The thought embodied a lie, and this was the hardest part for Will to submit to. By nature, he was honest. But for Alma's sake, even a lie was within his code of honor.

For one hour he debated with himself, ever bringing excuse to bear upon excuse. Finally his decision came, swift and certain. Alma must be spared the long misery of trial and imprisonment. Yes, at all costs, Alma first.

He arose quickly and went to his desk.

His hand trembled as he took the paper and placed it for writing. But he was none the less resolved for this physical weakness.

The first letter he wrote and rewrote many times.

Finally he finished it and addressed it to Alma.

The second he wrote hurriedly and without recopy. This was to George Cadman. Both letters he left on his desk.

From a small table he took two pictures—one of Alma, one of Harold—and slipping them into his pocket, he hastily made for the door. Turning suddenly, he swept the room with one comprehensive longing glance, then with a heavy sigh he disappeared.