CHAPTER IV.

SILAS JOHNSON’S PROPOSAL.

Ten minutes later, when Dollie Marlowe emerged from the private door, her face was flushed and her eyes were blazing.

“The whole thing was a hoax!” she whispered over and over. “That man lured us all there for no purpose but to insult us.”

“I guess that is right,” said a voice at Dollie’s side.

The young girl looked around quickly and recognized the consumptive.

“I got tired of waiting,” went on the girl, “besides, I had a presentiment that the thing was all a hoax, but just for the joke of the thing, do tell me what he said to you.”

There was a tone in her voice that awakened Dollie’s sympathy. It was plain that the girl was both discouraged and disappointed.

“He told me he would make an actress of me, put me on the stage, make me famous, and all that, but he expected me to pay him for my tuition. The idiot! As if I had any money to spend that way,” cried Dollie, indignantly.

“Is that all he said?” asked the other girl, slyly. “I don’t believe you’d be so mad if that had been his only proposition.”

Dollie’s anger was so violent that she was glad to relieve it, and the young girl looked so sympathetic that she didn’t mind telling her.

“He told me I would have to wear tights,” she stammered, furiously, “and, oh, he said a lot more, but I cannot repeat it.”

The sick girl burst into a roar of bitter laughter.

“Same old gag,” she said, shortly. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t tarry. No danger of his interesting himself in my direction.”

“It was disgusting,” said Dollie, who could not understand her laughter.

“I’d have given a dollar to have heard you go for him,” said the girl, looking at her admiringly.

“I didn’t dare to say very much,” said Dollie, more quietly, “I remembered what you said about his having us arrested.”

“You learn quickly,” said the companion, “do you live in New York?”

“I am here with my sister, and we have no money,” said Dollie, frankly. “We are trying to get work, that is why I came here this morning.”

“Haven’t you any friends who can help you?” asked the girl, with interest.

“Not a soul,” said Dollie, her lips quivering a little. “I don’t know what we will do. We can’t live without money.”

They walked on together for a moment in silence, then the sick girl spoke in a cautious manner.

“Mr. Max, that man you just left, has money, I suppose, and he looks like a man who would spend it freely.”

“Well, what of it?” asked Dollie, turning to stare a little.

“I was wondering whether you were wise; you are without friends or money. Don’t you think his proposition was worth considering?”

“What! pay him for teaching me to act!” cried Dollie.

“No, I didn’t mean that,” said the sick girl, slowly, “but——”

“You needn’t go on. I understand you,” said Dollie, her lips curling a little. “Do you think because I am poor I would stoop to dishonor?”

The girl shrugged her shoulders and turned away.

“When you have worn yourself out, soul and body, as I have, you will understand better,” she said wearily. “I have lived an honest life, but what thanks have I for it?”

“You have your own self-respect,” cried Dollie, taking a step toward her.

“Poor food for a starved stomach,” said the girl, half smiling, “but, good-by and good luck, my little rustic.”

Dollie stood still for a moment and looked after the girl. The tears had sprung to her eyes, and were trembling on her lashes.

“Poor soul,” she whispered, with a heavy sigh. “Poor, weary girl. Oh, how I pity her. Then there is starvation and want in this great city of plenty.”

She walked on after this, thinking deeply as she went, but never quite forgetting that she must be alert and watchful.

For although Professor Dabroski was safely in jail, there were times when Dollie almost trembled with dread. It seemed as if his fatal spell was still haunting her senses.

As she turned into the block that led to their furnished room, she came suddenly in sight of a familiar figure, which made her stand for a moment as if rooted to the spot, while the blood coursed through her veins in a perfect torrent.

A young man, with a gaunt, angular figure, dressed in butternut colored garments, a bandana handkerchief around his neck, and a wide brimmed straw hat upon his head, was standing about half way down the block, staring up at the houses in a gawkified manner. Dollie knew him at once. It was Silas Johnson, their next door neighbor at home in the country.

This man, was the husband whom her father had chosen for her—the man whom she had solemnly vowed she would never marry.

What was he doing in New York?

Dollie asked herself the question. It was not possible that Silas should meet her now after her fearful experience with Professor Dabroski. Before she had fairly recovered from her surprise, Silas Johnson saw her and came striding along the pavement, mopping his forehead vigorously with another bandana.

“So here’s where ye be!” was his extraordinary greeting. “I told yer folkes I’d find ye an’ tell ’em how ye wuz livin’.”

“Are they so anxious about us?” asked Dollie, faintly. “I should have thought if they were anxious they might have answered our letters, for both Marion and I have written to mother.”

Silas Johnson eyed her curiously before he answered, much as if she were a stranger instead of the girl he had known from childhood.

“Waal, yew kain’t blame ’em fer not bein’ over pertik’lar about hearin,’” he said, bluntly. “When a gal’s run away an’ disgraced her fam’ly it’s ag’in natur not ter resent it a leetle.”

Dollie Marlowe blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Is that what you came to say to me, Sile?” she asked, hotly. “If it is, I’ll go on, for I’m tired and hungry.”

“No, tain’t all,” said Silas, with a peculiar leer. “I’ve got sumthin’ else tew say tew ye, but I calkulate the street is no place tew say it.”

“It will have to do, Silas,” said Dollie, decidedly, “for Marion is not at home, and I cannot ask you in. There is no one to hear; quick, what else have you to say to me?”

“Waal, ef I must, I must,” was the drawling answer, “tho’ tain’t exac’ly the place fer a man ter pop ther question.”

“What do you mean, Silas?” asked Dollie, sharply.

“Oh, I knew yew’d be surprised,” said the fellow, arrogantly. “’Tain’t every respecterble man thet ud want ye, Dollie, but I’m willin’ ter take ye an’ dew what’s right by ye. Yew see, I’ve got a five hundred dollar mor’gige on yer father’s farm that’ll fall due in Janooary, an’ if yew’ll marry me, Dollie, I’ll give him ther paper; but ef yew won’t——”

“What, then?” asked Dollie, trembling.

“Then I’ll foreclose on him an’ turn em out,” was the decided answer. “It’s yew or the money, an’ the deacon ain’t got no money.”