There was nothing dignified about the manner in which big Sam Rossiter packed his trunk. He fairly stamped the clothing into it and did a lot of other absurd things. When he finally locked it and yanked out his watch his brow was wet and he was trembling. It had taken just five minutes to do the packing. His hat was on the back of his head, his collar was melting, and his cigar was chewed to a pulp. Cane and umbrella were yanked from behind the door and he was ready to fly. The umbrella made him think of a certain parasol, and his heart grew still and cold with the knowledge that he was never to carry it again.
“I hope I don’t meet any of ’em,” he muttered, pulling himself together and rushing into the hall. A porter had already jerked his trunk down the stair steps.
As he hastened after it he heard the swish of skirts and detected in the air a familiar odor, the subtle scent of a perfume that he could not forget were he to live a thousand years. The next moment she came swiftly around a corner in the hall, hurrying to her rooms. They met and both started in surprise, her eyes falling to his travelling-bag, and then lifting to his face in bewilderment. He checked his hurried flight and she came quite close to him. The lights in the hall were dim and the elevator car had dropped to regions below.
“Where are you going?” she asked in some agitation.
“I am going back to New York,” he answered, controlling himself with an effort. She was so beautiful, there in the dim hallway.
“Tonight?” she asked in very low tones.
“In half an hour.”
“And were you going without saying good-by to—to us?” she went on rapidly.
He looked steadily down into her solemn eyes for a moment and an expression of pain, of longing, came into his own.
“It couldn’t make any difference whether I said good-by to you, and it would have been hard,” he replied unsteadily.
“Hard? I don’t understand you,” she said.
“I didn’t want to see you. Yes, I hoped to get away before you knew anything about it. Maybe it was cowardly, but it was the best way,” he cried bitterly.
“What do you mean?” she cried, and he detected alarm, confusion, guilt in her manner.
“You know what I mean. I know everything—I knew it before I came here, before I saw you. It’s why I am here, I’m ashamed to say. But, have no fear—have no fear! I’ve given up the job—the nasty job—and you can do as you please. The only trouble is that I have been caught in the web; I’ve been trapped myself. You’ve made me care for you. That’s why I’m giving it all up. Don’t look so frightened—I’ll promise to keep your secret.”
Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, but no words came; she seemed to shrink from him as if he were the headsman and she his victim.
“I’ll do it, right or wrong!” he gasped suddenly. And in an instant his satchel clattered to the floor and his arms were straining the slight figure to his breast. Burning lips met hers and sealed them tight. She shivered violently, struggled for an instant in his mad embrace, but made no outcry. Gradually her free arm stole upward and around his neck and her lips responded to the passion in his. His kiss of ecstasy was returned. The thrill of joy that shot through him was almost overpowering. A dozen times he kissed her. Unbelieving, he held her from him and looked hungrily into her eyes. They were wet with tears.
“Why do you go? I love you!” she whispered faintly.
Then came the revulsion. With an oath he threw her from him. Her hands went to her temples and a moan escaped her lips.
“Bah!” he snarled. “Get away from me! Heaven forgive me for being as weak as I’ve been tonight!”
“Sam!” she wailed piteously.
“Don’t tell me anything! Don’t try to explain! Be honest with one man, at least!”
“You must be insane!” she cried tremulously.
“Don’t play innocent, madam. I know.” In abject terror she shrank away from him. “But I have kissed you! If I live a thousand years I shall not forget its sweetness.”
He waved his hands frantically above her, grabbed up his suit-case and traps, and, with one last look at the petrified woman shrinking against the wall under the blasts of his vituperation, he dashed for the stairway. And so he left her, a forlorn, crushed figure.
Blindly he tore downstairs and to the counter. He hardly knew what he was doing as he drew forth his pocket-book to pay his account.
“Going away, Mr. Rollins?” inquired the clerk, glancing at the clock. It was eleven-twenty and the last stage-coach left for Fossingford at eleven-thirty, in time to catch the seven o’clock down train.
“Certainly,” was the excited answer.
“A telegram came a few moments ago for you, sir, but I thought you were in bed,” and the other tossed a little envelope out to him. Mechanically Rossiter tore it open. He was thinking of the cowering woman in the hallway and he was cursing himself for his brutality.
He read the despatch with dizzy eyes and drooping jaw, once, twice, thrice. Then he leaned heavily against the counter and a coldness assailed his heart, so bitter that he felt his blood freezing. It read:
What have you been doing? The people you were sent to watch sailed for Europe ten days ago.
GROVER & DICKHUT.
The paper fell from his trembling fingers, but he regained it, natural instinct inspiring a fear that the clerk would read it.
“Good Lord!” he gasped.
“Bad news, Mr. Rollins?” asked the clerk sympathetically, but the stricken, bewildered man did not answer.
What did it mean? A vast faintness attacked him as the truth began to penetrate. Out of the whirling mystery came the astounding, ponderous realization that he had blundered, that he had wronged her, that he had accused her of—Oh, that dear, stricken figure in the hallway above!
He leaped to the staircase. Three steps at a time he flew back to the scene of the miserable tragedy. What he thought, what he felt as he rushed into the hallway can only be imagined. She was gone—heartbroken, killed! And she had kissed him and said she loved him!
A light shone through the transoms over the doors that led into her apartments. Quaking with fear, he ran down the hall and beat a violent tattoo upon her parlor door. Again he rapped, crazed by remorse, fear, love, pity, shame, and a hundred other emotions.
“Who is it?” came in stifled tones from within.
“It is I—Rossiter—I mean Rollins! I must see you—now! For pity’s sake, let me in!”
“How dare you—” she began shrilly; but he was not to be denied.
“If you don’t open this door I’ll kick it in!” he shouted. “I must see you!”
After a moment the door flew open and he stood facing her. She was like a queen. Her figure was as straight as an arrow, her eyes blazing. But there had been tears in them a moment before.
“Another insult!” she exclaimed, and the scorn in her voice was withering. He paused abashed, for the first time realizing that he had hurt her beyond reparation. His voice faltered and the tears flew to his eyes.
“I don’t know what to say to you. It has been a mistake—a frightful mistake—and I don’t know whether you’ll let me explain. When I got downstairs I found this telegram and—for heaven’s sake, let me tell you the wretched story. Don’t turn away from me! You shall listen to me if I have to hold you!” His manner changed suddenly to the violent, imperious forcefulness of a man driven to the last resort.
“Must I call for help?” she cried, thoroughly alarmed, once more the weak woman, face to face, as she thought, with an insane man.
“I love you better than my own life, and I’ve hurt you terribly. I’m not crazy, Helen! But I’ve been a fool, and I’ll go crazy if you don’t give me a chance to explain.”
Whether she gave the chance or no he took it, and from his eager, pleading lips raced the whole story of his connection with the Wharton affair from first to last.
He humbled himself, accused himself, ridiculed himself, and wound up by throwing himself upon her mercy,
uttering protestations of the love which had really been his undoing.
She heard him through without a word. The light in her eyes changed; the fear left them and the scorn fled. Instead there grew, by stages, wonder, incredulity, wavering doubt and—joy. She understood him and she loved him! The awful horror of that meeting in the hallway was swept away like unto the transformation scene in the fairy spectacle.
When he fell upon his knee and sought to clasp her fingers in his cold hand she smiled, and, stooping over, placed both hands on his cheeks and kissed him.
What followed her kiss of forgiveness may be more easily imagined than told.
“You see it was perfectly natural for me to mistake you for Mrs. Wharton,” he said after awhile. “You had the gray jacket, the sailor hat, the purple parasol, and you are beautiful. And, besides all that, you were found red-handed in that ridiculous town of Fossingford. Why shouldn’t I have suspected you with such a preponderance of evidence against you? Anybody who would get off of a night train in Fossingford certainly ought to be ashamed of something.”
“But Fossingford is on the map, isn’t it? One has a perfect right to get off where she likes, hasn’t she, provided it is on the map?”
“Not at all! That’s what maps are for: to let you see where you don’t get off.”
“But I was obliged to get off there. My ticket said ‘Fossingford,’ and, besides, I was to be met at the station in a most legitimate manner. You had no right to jump at conclusions.”
“Well, if you had not descended to earth at Fossingford I wouldn’t be in heaven at Eagle Nest. Come to think of it, I believe you did quite the proper thing in getting off at Fossingford—no matter what the hour.”
“You must remember always that I have not taken you to task for a most flagrant piece of—shall I say indiscretion?”
“Good Heavens!”
“You stopped off at Fossingford for the sole purpose of seeing another woman.”
“That’s all very fine, dear, but you’ll admit that Dudley was an excellent substitute for Havens. Can’t you see how easy it was to be mistaken?”
“I won’t fall into easy submission. Still, I believe I could recommend you as a detective. They usually do the most unheard of things—just as you have. Poor Jim Dudley an actor! Mistaken for such a man as you say Havens is! It is even more ridiculous than that I should be mistaken for Mrs. Wharton.”
“Say, I’d like to know something about Dudley. It was his confounded devotion to you that helped matters along in my mind. What is he to you?”
“He came here tonight to repeat a question that had been answered unalterably once before. Jim Dudley? Have you never heard of James Dudley, the man who owns all of those big mines in South America, the man who—”
“Who owns the yachts and automobiles and—and the railroad trains? Is he the one? The man with the millions? Good Lord! And you could have had him instead of me? Helen, I—I don’t understand it. Why didn’t you take him?”
She hesitated a moment before answering brightly:
“Perhaps it is because I have a fancy for the ridiculous.”
NEDRA (1905)
CHAPTER I
THE INSPIRATION
A tall young man sped swiftly up the wide stone steps leading to the doorway of a mansion in one of Chicago’s most fashionable avenues. After pushing the button sharply he jerked out his watch and guessed at the time by the dull red light from the panel in the door. Then he hastily brushed from the sleeve of his coat the telltale billiard chalk, whose presence reminded him that a general survey might be a wise precaution. He was rubbing a white streak from his trousers’ leg when the door flew open and the butler admitted him to the hallway. This personage relieved him of his hat, coat and stick and announced:
“Miss Vernon is w’itin’ for you, sir.”
“How the devil did I happen to let eight o’clock strike nine before I knew it?” muttered the visitor. He was at the drawing-room door as he concluded this self-addressed reproach, extending both hands toward the young woman who came from the fireplace to meet him.
“How late you are, Hugh,” she cried, half resentfully. He bent forward and kissed her.
“Late? It isn’t late, dear. I said I couldn’t come before eight, didn’t I? Well, it’s eight, isn’t it?”
“It’s nearly seventy minutes past eight, sir. I’ve been waiting and watching the hands on the clock for just sixty minutes.”
“I never saw such a perfect crank about keeping time as that grandfatherly clock of yours. It hasn’t skipped a second in two centuries, I’ll swear. You see, I was playing off the odd game with Tom Ditton.”
He dropped lazily into a big arm-chair, drove his hands into his pockets and stretched out his long legs toward the grate.
“You might have come at eight, Hugh, on this night if no other. You knew what important things we have to consider.” Miss Vernon, tall and graceful, stood before him with her back to the fire. She was exceedingly pretty, this girl whom Hugh had kissed.
“I’m awfully sorry, Grace; but you know how it is when a fellow’s in a close, hard game—especially with a blow-hard like Tom Ditton.”
“If I forgive you again, I’m afraid you’ll prove a begging husband.”
“Never! Deliver me from a begging husband. I shall assert all kinds of authority in my house, Miss Vernon, and you’ll be in a constant state of beggary yourself. You’ll have to beg me to get up in the morning, beg me to come home early every night, beg me to swear off divers things, beg me to go to church, beg me to buy new hats for you, beg me to eat things you cook, beg me to—”
“I suppose I shall even have to beg you to kiss me,” she cried.
“Not at all. That is one thing I’ll beg of you. Lean over here, do, and kiss me, please,” he said invitingly.
She placed a hand on each arm of the chair and leaned forward obediently. Their lips met in a smile.
“You lazy thing!” she exclaimed, her face slightly flushed. Then she seated herself on one of the big arms, resting her elbow on the back of the chair beside his head. For a few minutes both were silent, gazing at the bright coals before them, the smile remaining upon their lips. Hugh had been squinting between the toes of his shoes at a lonely black chunk in the grate for some time before he finally spoke reflectively.
“I can’t afford to be lazy much longer, can I? Married men never have a minute’s rest, you know.”
“We’re not married.”
“No; but we’re going to be, let me remind you. We are to—to announce it tomorrow night, are we not? It has come to that, you see.” He did not look very cheerful, nor did she.
“Yes, I suppose it’s imperative. That is why aunt is giving her reception,—just to tell everybody we’re engaged.”
“And then everybody will shake hands with us and say, ‘Congratulations,’ ‘How lovely,’ ‘So surprised,’ ‘Howdy do,’ and so forth, and we say ‘Thanks,’ ‘How good of you,’ and more so forth. It will be great!” Another silence and inspection of the fire, he taking an altered aim at the black chunk. “Say!” he exclaimed, “wouldn’t it do just as well if I didn’t put in an appearance tomorrow night? Your aunt can announce the thing, as agreed, and you can tell ’em that I have a sick uncle in Indianapolis, or have had my leg broken, or something like that. Now, there’s a good girl.”
“No,” she said. “We fell in love because we couldn’t help it, and this is the penalty—an announcement party.”
“I’ll never quite understand why you fell,” said he dubiously.
“I think we were both too young to know,” she responded. “It seems to me that we’ve been in love ever since we were babies.”
“And it never hurts a baby to fall, you know,” said he, with fine logic. “Of course it may cripple ’em permanently, but they don’t know how it happened.”
For some moments she caressed his brown hair in silence, the smile lingering on her lips after it had left her eyes. His eyes closed dreamily under
the gentle touch of her fingers. “But, dear,” she said, “this is no joking matter. We have been engaged for nearly three months and not a soul knows of it. We’ll have to tell them how we managed to keep it a secret for so long, and why,—and all that. And then everybody will want to know who the bridesmaids are to be.”
“I believe I’d like to know that myself, as long as I’m to walk out of the church ahead of them—provided I don’t get lost.”
“Helen Grossman is to be the maid of honor. I believe I’ll ask Jean Robertson, Eloise Grant, Harriet Noble, Mayme McMurtrie, Ellen Boyland—”
“Are we to have no guests?”
“—and Effa Samuels. Won’t it be a pretty set of girls?”
“Couldn’t be prettier.”
“And now, who is to be your best man?”
“Well, I thought I’d have Tom Ditton,” a trifle confusedly.
“Tom Ditton! I thought you did not approve of him,” she cried. “You certainly did not when he came to see me so frequently.”
“Oh, he isn’t such a bad sort, after all. I’d just as soon have him as any one. Besides, he’s an expert at it. If it was left to me, I’d much rather sit behind the pulpit until it is all over. People won’t miss me while they’ve got you to look at.”
“We could be married so quietly and prettily if it were not for Aunt Elizabeth,” pouted Miss Vernon. “She insists on the church wedding, the teas and receptions and—”
“All that sort of rot,” he interjected, as if fearing she might not express herself adequately. “I like your Aunt Elizabeth, Grace, but she’s—she’s an awful—”
“Don’t say it, Hugh. I know what you mean, but she can’t help it. She lives for society. She’s perfectly crazy on the subject. Aunt Elizabeth made up her mind we should be married in church. I have talked myself black in the face—for your sake, dear—but it was like trying to convert a stone wall. She is determined. You know what that means.”
“No wonder she’s a widow,” growled Hugh Ridgeway sourly. “Your father served you a mighty mean trick, dear, when he gave you over to her training. She might have spoiled you beyond redemption.”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 165