The dual alliance

Marjorie Benton Cooke

The Dual Alliance

BOOKS BY

THE SAME AUTHOR

Bambi

David

The Girl Who Lived in the Woods

"But I—I hardly know you"

THE DUAL

ALLIANCE

BY

MARJORIE

BENTON COOKE

ILLUSTRATED

BY

MARY GREENE

BLUMENSCHEIN

GARDEN CITY

NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1915

Copyright, 1915,

International Magazine Co.

Copyright, 1915, by

Doubleday, Page & Co.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

PART I

PART II

PART III

ILLUSTRATIONS

PROLOGUE

Barbara Garratry was thirty and Irish. To the casual observer the world was a bright coloured ball for her tossing. When she was a tiny mite her father had dubbed her "Bob, Son of Battle," because of certain obvious, warlike traits of character, and "Bob" Garratry she had been ever since.

She had literally fought her way to the top, handicapped by poverty, very little education, the responsibility of an invalid and dependent father. She had been forced to make all her own opportunities, but at thirty she was riding the shoulders of the witch success.

Her mother, having endowed her only child with the gift of a happy heart, went on her singing way into Paradise when Bob was three. Her father, handsome ne'er-do-well that he was, made a poor and intermittent living for them until the girl was fifteen. Then poor health overtook him, and Bob took the helm.

At fifteen she worked on a newspaper, and discovered she had a picturesque talent for words. Literary ambition gripped her, a desire to make permanent use of the dramatic elements which she uncovered in her rounds of assignments. She had a nose for news and made a fair success, until she took to sitting up at night to write "real stuff" as she called it. Her nervous, high-strung temperament would not stand the strain, so, true to her Irish blood, she gave up the newspaper job, with its Saturday night pay envelope, and threw herself headlong into the uncharted sea of authorship.

She began with short stories for magazines. Editors admitted her, responded to her personality—returned her tales. "If you could write the way you talk," they all said. Now Daddy Garratry had to eat, no matter how light she could go on rations, so she abandoned literature shortly for a position in a decorator's shop. Here, too, she found charm an asset. She worked eight hours a day, cooked for two of them, washed, sewed, took care of her invalid, lavished herself upon him, then wrote at night, undaunted by her first failure.

She used her brain on the problem of success. When the manager of the shop put her in charge of their booth at the Arts and Crafts Exhibition, because, as he said, "you can attract people," she recalled the consensus of editorial opinion, and made up her mind that personality was her real gift. The stage was the show window for that possession, so thither she turned her face at eighteen, and in due course of time joined the great army which follows the mirage of stage success.

But Bob proved to be one of the god's anointed, and from the first the charm of her, her queer, haunting face, which some found ugly and some proclaimed beautiful, marked her for advance. She was radiantly happy in the work, and happier still that she was able to provide more comforts and luxuries for daddy, who was her idol. The real crux of her ambition was the day when she could give him everything his luxury-loving heart desired.

She worked hard, she learned the trade of the theatre. She studied her audiences, noted their likes and dislikes, what they laughed at, and when they wept. Then once again she took up her abandoned pen and began to work on a play. She and daddy talked it, played it, mulled it over every waking hour for months. Then one historic day Bob read it to an audience of daddy and a manager—that was the beginning of the last lap of the race. The manager accepted it and left father and daughter in a state of ecstasy.

"Well, dad, it looks like the real thing this time."

"It does, Bobsie. Ye're not only the prettiest Garratry, but ye're the smartest of the clan!"

"Blarney!"

"I wish yer mither could see ye the day. Ye were such a queer mite, but smart—ye were always smart——"

"What'll I buy ye with our fortune, daddy? A farm in the ould counthry and little pigs——"

"No pigs for me! I'd like me a body servant in brass buttons to wait on me noight an' day. Whin I come down our marble stairs, I want to see him sthandin' there, attintion, so I can say, 'Jimmy—there's yer valley.'"

"You funny old dad! What else? We'll get us a motor car——"

"Shure, an' a counthry place—but no pigs——"

"How about a yacht?"

"We'll sthay on land, mavourneen, 'tis safer."

"But we must go to