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Bought and Paid For; From the Play of George Broadhurst

by Arthur Hornblow · English · Gutenberg #16249 · 398,025 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Bought and Paid For; From the Play of George Broadhurst

Author: Arthur Hornblow
        George Howells Broadhurst


        
Release date: July 8, 2005 [eBook #16249]
                Most recently updated: December 11, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16249

Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Carol David, Joshua
        Hutchinson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
        at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOUGHT AND PAID FOR; FROM THE PLAY OF GEORGE BROADHURST ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Carol David, Joshua
Hutchinson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at https://www.pgdp.net







[Illustration: WITHOUT FURTHER ARGUMENT, HE SEIZED HOLD OF HER. PAGE
234.]




BOUGHT AND
PAID FOR

_A Story of To-day_

From the Play of
GEORGE BROADHURST
by
ARTHUR HORNBLOW

ILLUSTRATIONS FROM
SCENES IN THE PLAY

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS




Copyright, 1912, by
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

_Bought and Paid For_





CONTENTS

CHAPTER               PAGE

I.                       7

II.                     21

III.                    39

IV.                     52

V.                      67

VI.                     83

VII.                    97

VIII.                  115

IX.                    131

X.                     146

XI.                    160

XII.                   175

XIII.                  191

XIV.                   202

XV.                    216

XVI.                   236

XVII.                  254

XVIII.                 271

XIX.                   280

XX.                    292

XXI.                   312

XXII.                  325





CHAPTER I


"How is he now, doctor? Don't--don't tell me there is no hope!"

The wife, a tall, aristocratic looking woman who, despite her advanced
years, her snow-white hair, her eyes now red and swollen from weeping,
and pallid face seamed with careworn lines from constant vigils, still
showed traces of former beauty, scanned the physician fearfully,
trying to read in the expression of his countenance what the friend
and man of science, out of sheer compassion, was doing his utmost to
conceal. He had just emerged from the sick chamber; the trained nurse,
methodical and quick, and singularly attractive looking in her neat
uniform, had closed the door noiselessly behind him. Two young girls,
one about eighteen and the other some four years her junior, both
possessing more than average good looks, stood timidly in the
background anxiously awaiting, together with their grief-stricken
mother, to hear the dreaded verdict.

The physician paid no attention to them, but paced up and down the
room, his manner stern and forbidding, his head inclined in deep
thought, as if bent under the weight of tremendous responsibilities. A
noted specialist in pulmonary troubles, Dr. Wilston Everett was well
past middle age, and his tall, erect figure, massive frame and fine,
leonine head, crowned by a mass of stubborn, iron-gray hair, made him
a conspicuous figure everywhere. His expression, stern in repose, was
that of a profound student; it was a face where lofty thoughts, humane
feeling and every other noble attribute had left its indelible
impress.

Mrs. Blaine watched him fearfully, afraid to intrude on his
reflections. Finally, summoning up courage, she stammered weakly:

"How do you find him--not worse, is he?"

The doctor made no reply, but for a few moments stood looking at the
three women in silence. He felt sorry for them--so sorry that it was
only by the exercise of the greatest self-control that he kept his
eyes from filling with tell-tale tears. Who, better than he, could
realize the full extent of the misfortune which had suddenly befallen
these poor people? It was almost the same as if it had happened to
himself. Was he not, indeed, one of the family? Had he not been
present at poor Blaine's wedding, brought each of these girls into the
world and played with them on his knees? Now they had grown up to be
young women, they looked upon him as their second father.

Blaine, poor fellow, little thought that the end was so near! That's
what he had got for giving up his life to the most exciting and
ungrateful profession in the world. He had worked himself to death for
a pittance, until, giving way under the strain, his constitution
completely undermined, he proved an easy victim for pneumonia. If he
had been less scrupulous, more of a grafter, if he had seen in his
profession only the money to be made out of it, he might have been a
rich man by this time. But he was honest, honorable to a fault. No
amount of money could induce him to take tainted money. No matter what
legal white washing he was promised, he would have nothing to do with
thieves and perjurers. What was the result? After twenty years of
legal practice he was still a poor man and here on his deathbed,
suddenly struck down in the prime of life before he had time to
properly provide for his dear ones.

Probably there was no insurance. In fact, everyone knew that there was
not. Blaine had admitted as much to him some time ago. He had said
then that he had only $2,000 worth, but intended getting more. Now it
was too late. Only a few paltry dollars--barely enough to bury him.

The comfortably furnished room with its piano, books and pictures and
other scattered evidence of culture and refinement, showed the manner
in which the Blaines liked to live. Through the open window, affording
a fine view of Central Park, with its rolling lawns, winding paths and
masses of green foliage, came the distant sounds of busy traffic on
the Avenue, ten stories below. Of course, they would have to give up
all this. There was not the slightest hope for the patient. He was
past human aid. It was only a question of a few hours, perhaps only
minutes, when the end would come. Yet how could he break the terrible
truth to this poor woman, to these children who now stood watching
him, their lips not daring to give utterance to the dread question he
could plainly read in their tired, red eyes?

There was an unnatural silence. When anyone spoke it was in an almost
inaudible whisper. Each seemed to feel that Death, grim and awful of
aspect, was stalking invisible through the room. From behind the
closed door where the father and husband lay dying there came no
sound. Only an occasional sob from the wife, and the movements of the
two girls as they endeavored to console her, relieved the oppressive
stillness. Suddenly the doctor's eye encountered Mrs. Blaine's
searching, questioning gaze. Averting his head, he said:

"We must wait and hope for the best. You must be brave. He may rally.
I don't like the heart action. That's what bothers me. If there's
another sinking spell--"

Mrs. Blaine laid her cold, trembling hand on his. Quickly she said:

"You won't go away?"

He shook his head.

"Of course not. I'll stay until the crisis is past."

The bedchamber door opened softly and the nurse appeared, with a
worried look on her face.

"What is it, nurse," demanded the physician quickly.

"May I see you a minute, doctor?"

Dr. Everett went towards the bedroom. Mrs. Blaine was about to follow
when he turned and barred the way.

"Let me see him, doctor. Please let me go in," she pleaded.

The physician shook his head. Kindly but firmly he said:

"Not now. We may have to administer oxygen. You'd only be in the way.
You are better in here taking care of your daughters. If you are
needed I'll call you."

He disappeared into the inner room, and Mrs. Blaine, feeling faint
from anxiety and suspense, sank exhausted into a chair. The two girls,
nervous and ill at ease, too young to grasp the full significance of
the calamity that had befallen them, approached timidly. Fanny, the
elder girl, stood still, alarm and consternation written plainly on
her face. Her younger sister, bursting into a paroxysm of weeping,
threw her arms round her mother's neck.

"Oh, mother!" she sobbed. "Surely God won't let papa be taken from us!
I wouldn't believe in Him any more if He couldn't prevent that!"

Mrs. Blaine raised one hand reprovingly as with the other she caressed
her daughter's beautiful, long, dark hair.

"Hush! Virginia, dear. It's wicked to talk like that. God does
everything for the best. If it is His will, we must be resigned."

Clasping her sobbing child to her breast, Mrs. Blaine sat in silence,
her heart throbbing wildly, straining her ears to hear what was being
done in the inner room, momentarily expecting to be summoned. As she
sat there, enduring mental torture, each moment seeming like an hour,
she rapidly thought over the situation. In spite of her grief, her
helplessness, her brain worked lucidly enough. She realized that her
husband was dying. Her life's companion, the father of her children,
was going away from her--forever. Like a lightning flash, her whole
life passed suddenly in review: She saw herself a young girl again,
about Virginia's age, and with the same fondness for gaiety and
companionship. She, too, had been fond of music, art and literature,
and she was filled with ambition to make a name for herself. One day
she met John Blaine, then a young law student. It was a case of love
at first sight. They did not stop to consider ways and means. They got
married, and to-day, after thirty years of loving companionship, her
only regret was that she could not die before him. John had been a
loyal friend, a faithful companion, both in fair weather and foul, and
now their life's journey together had come to an abrupt end. It was
too dreadful to think of. It seemed to her that all these happenings
of the last few days--this sudden sickness, the coming of the trained
nurse, Dr. Everett's grave demeanor--was a hideous dream from which
she would soon awake.

Their situation was, indeed, desperate. It had taken practically all
John's income to live respectably. Living expenses were high and rents
exorbitant. What made matters worse, there was practically no life
insurance. John had intended taking out more, but it had been
neglected. After the funeral and other expenses what would be left of
the paltry $2,000? They would have to find a cheaper apartment. The
girls--she herself--would have to find work of some kind. It would be
terribly hard on the girls. Not only they lost a loving, devoted
father, but at an age when a nice home, and comfortable surroundings
meant everything in ensuring their future, they would find themselves
penniless and forced to go out into a cold, unsympathetic world to
earn their living. Fanny, she knew, would not mind. She was fond of
work and had no artistic aspirations; but the blow would fall heavily
on poor Virginia, who had set her heart on going to high school.

"Why are you so silent, mother dear?" asked Virginia suddenly. "Of
what are you thinking?"

"Just thinking--that's all," sighed Mrs. Blaine.

Virginia, not to be put off so easily, was about to insist on an
answer less vague, when suddenly the bedroom door opened and Dr.
Everett appeared. He advanced quickly into the room, his coat rumpled,
his manner strangely agitated. It was so unusual to see the physician
otherwise than calm and dignified that it seemed incredible that
anything, no matter how important, could ruffle him. Mrs. Blaine's
instinct told her the reason. Startled, she sprang to her feet.

"My God!" she exclaimed. "He's not--"

The doctor shook his head.

"No; a weak spell--that's all. You'd better come in. The children can
remain here."

The next instant the two sisters were alone.

For a few moments the girls, their arms clasped round each other's
waists, stood still, as if spellbound, staring at the door which
mercifully veiled from their view the tragedy of life then being
enacted in the adjoining room. Terror-stricken, too frightened even to
cry, they sat down and waited, straining their ears to hear what was
going on. Why had Doctor Everett summoned their mother? If Dad was
worse, if the crisis had come, why were they, too, not permitted to
see him? Instinctively they felt that their fears were only too well
founded. They shuddered, and it seemed to them that they felt a chill
in the air as if the Angel of Death had already entered the apartment
and was hovering near them. Virginia, nervous and hysterical, began to
cry. Fanny, endeavoring to appear brave, but inwardly as nervous, took
the girl in her arms and spoke consolingly and sensibly to her as
became an elder sister.

But Virginia obstinately refused to be comforted. Burying her face on
her sister's shoulder, she gave free vent to the storm of tears which
had been gathering in her girlish bosom all day. Devoted to her father
even more than to her mother, the mere thought of losing him was
intolerable. He was her comrade, her adviser, her mentor. All she had
undertaken or was about to undertake was to please him. If she had
excelled in her studies and advanced more rapidly than other girls in
her class, he was the cause. She needed his praise, his censure to
spur her on in her work. With him gone, it seemed to her that her own
life, too, had come to an end, not realizing, in her youthful
inexperience, that it had not yet commenced.

She was a singularly attractive girl and gave every promise of
developing into a remarkably handsome woman. Slight and somewhat
delicate in build, she was of brunette type, with a face oval in
shape, small features and large, lustrous eyes shaded by unusually
long lashes. The nose was aristocratic, and when she spoke her mouth,
beautifully curved, revealed perfect teeth. Her hands were white and
shapely, and the mass of dark, silky hair which fell luxuriantly over
her shoulders was the despair of every other girl of her acquaintance.

But it was not the possession of these mere externals that made people
look twice at Virginia Blaine. If she had had only beauty there would
have been nothing to particularly distinguish her from the many
millions of girls to whom Nature has been kind. Beauty _per se_
has no permanent power to attract. One soon tires of admiring an
inanimate piece of sculpture, no matter how perfectly chiselled. If a
woman lacks intelligence, _esprit_, temperament, men soon grow
weary of her society, even though she have the beauty of a Venus de
Medici; whereas, even a plain woman, by sheer force of soul and wit,
can attract friends and make the world forget her ugliness. What made
John Blaine's younger daughter an especial favorite was that in her
case good looks were allied with brains. She made friends by her
natural charm, her vivacity, her keen intelligence and uncommon
strength of character, which, despite her youth, she had exhibited on
more than one occasion. She was a merry-hearted, spirited, independent
kind of a girl with decided views of her own regarding right and wrong
and with the courage to express them. As the poet wrote:


  Her glossy hair was clustered o'er her brow
  Bright with intelligence and fair and smooth;
  Her eyebrow's shape was the aerial bow,
  Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth
  Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow,
  As if her veins ran lightning.


Two sisters more unlike in character and tastes it would be almost
impossible to discover. Fanny, the elder, lacked not only Virginia's
good looks, and also her brains. Yet she was good-natured and
easy-going, and, as long as she had her own way, managed to get along
with everybody. She went through the lower grades of public school,
but did not shine as a particularly bright pupil, evincing little love
for books, and shirking study when possible. Her fondness for
amusement and her uncultivated taste also led to her associating
habitually with companions beneath her socially. She was a thoroughly
good girl. A vulgar allusion would have shocked her, an impertinence
she would have quickly resented; yet she seemed of a coarser fibre
than the rest of the family, the reason for which, seeing that both
girls had equal advantages and opportunities, only an expert
psychologist could explain. She had gone through school mechanically
as an unpleasant task to be gotten over with as soon as possible,
taking no interest in her work, and when she came out her brain was a
sluggish and unresponsive as one might expect. Well aware of her
shortcomings, she made light of them, insisting laughingly that she
was the dunce of the family and Virginia its genius. She would do the
drudgery of housekeeping while her sister went to college.

There was no bitterness, no jealousy in this apparent rivalry. Fanny
was devoted to her little sister and proud of her cleverness. She
declared that one day Virginia would make a brilliant marriage and
then she could pay it all back. That Virginia should ultimately go to
college had been fully determined on. Everything attracted her to a
liberal education. She was ambitious; she craved knowledge and showed
talent in almost everything--in music, composition, painting. To her a
liberal education would mean everything--the widening of her mental
horizon, the initiation into keen, intellectual delights. No matter
what sacrifice was to be made, to college the girl should go. So
declared the parents.

Now all was changed. This blow which robbed her of her father also
shattered her hopes for the future. All this flashed through
Virginia's mind as they sat there, waiting. Turning to her sister, she
said through her tears:

"If the worst happened--Fan--if Dad died--we couldn't go on living
here, could we?"

Fanny shook her head. Sagely she replied:

"No, I'm afraid not. Father's got no insurance. Mother says we've
lived up to everything. I guess I'll have to go to work--"

"So will I," said Virginia quickly.

"What nonsense you talk, Virgie!" interrupted her sister almost
angrily. "As if you were intended for work! Nature intended you to be
a lady, and a lady you'll be if I have to work all the flesh off my
bones. Don't you suppose mother and I haven't talked it over already."
With mock contempt she went on: "You work! What at, I'd like to know.
Giving music lessons or writing articles for the ten-cent magazines!
It's different with 'yours truly.' I'm not a highbrow. I never cared
for books or culture and all that sort of thing. But I guess as a
saleslady in some store I'll make a hit. Anyway, I'll make enough to
keep things going--so there'll be enough for you and mother.
Now--there isn't any use arguing. It's college for yours, Virgie, and
when you graduate you'll marry a millionaire and we'll all be happy
and comfy."

Virginia was about to protest when suddenly there was a commotion
behind them. The bedroom door was abruptly opened and Dr. Everett came
in, supporting Mrs. Blaine, who was weeping bitterly. The two girls
sprang to their feet with a startled cry.

"How's father?" they exclaimed.

Staggering to a chair, Mrs. Blaine clasped both her children to her
breast.

"Your father is in Heaven!" she murmured.

Then she fell prostrate on the sofa, her whole being shaken by
convulsive sobs. Virginia, panic-stricken, darted forward, but the
Doctor held out a restraining hand.

"Don't, child--let her cry. It will do her good."




Chapter II.


"Fanny! Where are my scissors? Did you take my scissors?"

Seated in the centre of the small parlor, before a round table fairly
well lighted by an electrolier suspended from the middle of the
ceiling and littered with chiffons and laces, Mrs. Blaine stopped
sewing and began a laborious search all over the board for the missing
article. Finally the scissors were found hidden in the folds of what
some day would be a graduation dress, but no sooner were they in use
than something else was missing. Impatiently, the widow called out:

"Fanny! I do wish you'd come here. I'll never get this dress done. Did
you see the roll of satin ribbon?"

But Fanny, busy just then with a customer in the outer shop, paid no
attention to the summons. Virginia's new dress could wait--it was a
whole month to graduation day anyhow--but business was not so good
that one could afford to neglect a possible purchaser.

Four summers had gone by since John Blaine's death yet in that
comparatively brief space of time, his widow appeared to have aged ten
years or more. Now bent, infirm, a chronic invalid, she did not look
as if she would long survive him. The world goes on just the same no
matter whose heart is breaking, and time flies so quickly that the
happenings of a decade seem only of yesterday. But John Blaine was not
forgotten. The flowers that each week decorated his grave, placed
there by loving hands, served to keep fresh the father's memory.

As far as was possible, the bereaved wife tried to keep to herself the
sorrow that had slowly but surely undermined her health and made her
an old woman before her hour. In her heart she knew that she would not
long remain after the dear departed one; all she asked was that she
should live long enough to see her girls happily married and taken
care of. At first it had seemed as if existence without him was
impossible, yet the regular routine of life must go on. Besides it was
not fair to the girls. Her own life was irretrievably wrecked, but
theirs had barely begun. It would be selfish to allow her grief to
cast a permanent shadow over their young lives. They loved their
father very dearly; his death had been a great shock to them. But they
were young. They had a thousand outside interests to distract their
attention. And youth, with its gaze still turned upward to the stars,
soon forgets.

When everything was settled, the widow found herself with a little
less than $3,000, all she possessed in the world. To attempt to live
on the interest alone of such a slender capital was obviously an
impossibility, so it was decided that they would move uptown, where
they would not be known, and open a little millinery shop. This was a
bright idea that had occurred to Fanny. She had always been clever at
trimming hats. Why not put her skill to commercial profit? She and her
mother could very well attend to such a business, while Virginia
continued in school. If they were only fairly successful, the income
would pay expenses, carry them along and help keep their capital
intact. Dr. Everett heartily approved the plan, not only because it
might prove a source of steady income, but also because it would be
distraction for the widow and help her to forget. Mrs. Blaine somewhat
reluctantly consented, and the girls set out enthusiastically to look
for a shop.

After no end of running here and there all over New York, they found
just what they wanted in one of the cheaper and more recently
developed districts of Harlem. It was a narrow little store, with a
fair-sized show window on Broadway, and with living rooms in the rear.
Fanny declared it was just too cute for anything, and as she was the
prime mover in the enterprise, a lease was signed without further
delay, and the Blaine family took immediate possession.

At first the girls were as delighted with their new home as are
children with a new toy. It being Summer time, there was no school for
Virginia, so she was free to assist in the store. She dressed the
window and waited on the customers, and after a very busy day, which
kept her on her feet from morning till night, thought she had never
had so much fun in her life. For the nonce, books and music were
forgotten. She was a smart little saleslady, succeeding in selling one
after the other, for ten dollars, hats which had cost Fanny not more
than two. But her coöperation was not to be for long. It was quite
decided that in the Fall she was to go to High School. This was her
mother's wish, and it had also been insisted upon by Fanny as a
condition of their taking the store. Virginia, at heart, was glad
enough to acquiesce. As they were too poor to keep a maid, she would
willingly have stayed at home and shouldered her share of the daily
toil, but an education meant a great deal to her, more than to most
girls, and she would have relinquished her schooling only with bitter
regret.

Autumn came with its cooler weather and longer evenings, and when High
School opened Virginia was sent to resume her studies, while her
sister and mother, busy in the store, exerted every effort to keep the
little household going. The younger girl felt keenly the sacrifice
they were making for her, and determined to prove worthy of it. She
began to apply herself more energetically than ever. A clever, brainy
girl, she was highly sensitive to every surrounding influence, with
ideas and ideals of her own, in full sympathy with the social side of
life, yet independent and self-reliant, and just beginning to choose
her own path in the bewildering maze of the world's devious
thoroughfare. In High School she made astonishing progress. Her fine
mentality enabled her to grasp quickly the most obtuse scientific and
economic problems, and her natural taste for _belles lettres_
making languages and general literature comparatively easy, she soon
distinguished herself above the other girls of her class. Especial
talent she showed for public speaking, having a good command of
English, with forcible delivery and sound logic. So successful,
indeed, was she in this respect, that in her final year, as graduation
day drew near, she was picked out from among three hundred and fifty
girls to deliver the class oration at the graduating exercises.

Mrs. Blaine, overjoyed at this fulfillment of her fondest hopes, at
once said she would make the graduation dress. Fanny and Virginia,
knowing well the labor it would involve, demurred. It was too much of
an undertaking. Their mother was far from strong; the sewing would
tire her eyes. Besides, they could not spare the time from the store.
It would be cheaper and quicker to buy the dress ready made. Even Dr.
Everett, when consulted, shook his head and tried to discourage the
widow from a task which he was afraid might prove beyond her strength.
But Mrs. Blaine was not to be put off so easily. Since their father's
death, she had let the girls have much their own way, but this time
she was determined. It would be a labor of love, she insisted. Daddie,
himself, would have wished it. And so, without further ado, work on
the beloved graduation dress was commenced.

And such work as it entailed! Running down town each instant, to buy
satin and ribbon and laces and lining, unable to find what was wanted,
or else purchasing something that did not suit and having to take it
back and exchange it for something else. The girls literally wore
their shoes to pieces, but they did not mind. They knew that making
this graduation dress was the one great joy that had come into their
mother's life since their father's death, and they were amply rewarded
when, after a long and arduous shopping tour they returned home with
the required article and handed it to her as she bent low over her
work at the board she would look up with a smile and exclaim:

"Oh, isn't it beautiful? That's just what I wanted! Now I can get on
with Virginia's dress."

Thus, between working and studying, the days passed pleasantly enough.
The little shop prospered, and all three were happy, each in her own
way, Fanny in looking after the customers, Virginia in doing her
lessons, Mrs. Blaine in working on her beloved graduation dress.

It was about this time that a romance came into Fanny's heretofore
prosaic existence. So far the poor girl had not enjoyed much of life.
Her time spent between four walls, there was a very narrow horizon to
her outlook on things. She rarely went out, took no part in the
pleasures and gaieties of other young women of her age. When not
waiting on customers, she was cooking. Yet she was always good-natured
about it. Laughingly she called herself Cinderella, because, while her
more favored sister might be dressing up to go to recitals, lectures
or concerts, she would be in the kitchen washing up the dishes. She
took it amiably, yet there were times when she had a quiet cry all to
herself, when she thought that her mother, instead of being so much
engrossed in making a fine graduation dress for sister, might remember
that she, too, needed something pretty to wear.

When, therefore, one evening at a neighbor's party, she happened to
meet a young man who went considerably out of his way to pay her
attention, she was greatly flattered and gratified. The very novelty
of it startled her. Until now none of the eligible young men had so
much as looked at her. Virginia, quite innocently, of course, had
always monopolized their society. But this particular young man, whose
name was James Gillie, seemed not in the least attracted to Virginia.
In fact, he rather avoided her, appearing to be somewhat intimidated
by her well-bred manners and cultured conversation. He made no secret
of his preference for the homelier virtues of the elder sister, whose
irrepressible propensity for picturesque, up-to-date slang and
free-and-easy style put them on a more equal social footing. So began
an acquaintance which resulted in the young man becoming a frequent
and intimate visitor at the Blaine home.

Mr. James Gillie was an original in more ways than one, and it was
some time before either Mrs. Blaine or Virginia could bring themselves
to approve Fanny's liking for a young man with ways so uncouth and
vulgar and whose antecedents were obviously so plebeian. Of Irish
parentage, but American born, James Gillie was a product of the newest
America, the typical _gamin_ of New York's streets, fresh and
slangy in speech, keen to the main chance, not over scrupulous, shrewd
and calculating. Fair and slight in build, he was about twenty-six
years old and his upper lip was adorned with a few thinly scattered
hairs, which he proudly termed a moustache. Otherwise he was
unintelligent and ordinary looking, one of the many thousands of New
York young men who, graduates of the slums, have been left to shift
for themselves, and whose chief intellectual pastime has been standing
on street corners reading baseball returns. Not only had he no
education, but he was rather proud of the fact, affecting to despise
bookish people as prigs and "high-brows." Incompetent and lazy,
without any real ability, he worked only because he had to, and his
standing grievance was that he was misunderstood, unappreciated and
underpaid. The one good side to his nature, and the one which,
perhaps, appealed most to Fanny, was the unconscious possession of a
rich fund of humor. He was funny without intending to be, and this not
only made him a diverting companion but ensured him a welcome
everywhere. With the straightest of faces, he would say funny things
in so ludicrous a manner that a roomful of people would go into
convulsions. He laughed with them, not realizing they were laughing at
him, but ever preening himself on being a very witty and clever person
indeed. His greatest fault was inordinate vanity. He had the highest
opinion of his own capacity, and he could never understand why
capitalists generally did not tumble over each other to secure his
services. At the present time he was earning the magnificent salary of
ten dollars a week as shipping clerk, but this, he explained, was only
a nominal stipend, as a starter. Before very long he would be
president of the company. His hobby was inventing things. So far he
had not made enough by his brain to purchase a collar button, but
ideas were coming thick and fast, and he was convinced that the day
was not far distant when he would make a great fortune. That is why,
all things considered, he believed himself, despite his obscure origin
and lack of education, a desirable match for the proudest girl in the
land.

"Fanny! Where's my tape measure? I can't find my tape measure."

Once more Mrs. Blaine laid down her work and began to rummage among
the mass of chiffons and laces piled up before her. In the shop
outside she could hear her daughter laughing and talking. Impatiently
the widow called out:

"Can't you come and help me, Fanny? Who are you talking to?"

"It's Mr. Gillie, mother," came the answer. "He's helping me close the
store."

A look of anxiety crossed Mrs. Blaine's face. It went against the
grain to entertain a person like Mr. Gillie, but for her child's sake
she said nothing, and when he called, as he had done very frequently
recently, she had tried to receive him as cordially as possible. But
to-night she was very tired. At times she felt dizzy and faint. His
interminable chatter and boasting would only weary her more. So,
hoping the visitor would take the hint, she called out again:

"Isn't Virginia home yet? It's getting very late."

"She couldn't be here yet," called out Fanny. "The concert's not over
till ten. We've all closed up now. I'm coming right in."

A moment later the young girl appeared, followed more leisurely by Mr.
Gillie.

The shipping clerk entered jauntily, a lighted cigar in his mouth,
full of self-assurance. He wore a check suit much too small for him, a
pink tie, and patent-leather shoes. Fanny's face was red and her
manner somewhat flustered, but this the mother, bent low over her
work, did not notice.

"Good evening, m'm," said Mr. Gillie, coolly seating himself without
waiting to be asked. Sitting back, crossing his legs and carelessly
flecking his cigar ash on the floor, he added in patronizing tones:
"How's the world using you?"

"Good evening, Mr. Gillie," returned the widow graciously. "How are
you?"

"Oh, fairly well to middlin'." Glancing at the littered table, he
said: "Still busy on the graduation dress, I see."

Mrs. Blaine sighed wearily.

"Yes--it's taking me longer than I bargained for. Sometimes I feel
very tired. I wish Virginia was here to try it on."

Fanny glanced at the clock. With a quick, significant look at Mr.
Gillie, she said quickly:

"She'll be here any moment now. The concert is usually out by this
time." There was an awkward pause and then she stammered: "Mr. Gillie
has something to say to you, mother."

Mrs. Blaine laid down her work and looked up in surprise.

"Something to say to me?" she echoed in amazement, looking inquiringly
from her daughter to the visitor.

But Fanny, her face crimson, had already bolted into the kitchen,
while Mr. Gillie, his chair tilted backward, a picture of magnificent
unconcern, coolly blew smoke rings into the air.

"Something to say to me?" repeated Mrs. Blaine.

"Asch--ooah!"

His chair suddenly returning to the floor level with a thud that shook
the house, Mr. Gillie sneezed violently, a physiological phenomenon
which curiously enough never failed to present itself when any
extraordinary pressure was put upon his brain cells. Wiping his watery
eyes with a pink-bordered handkerchief--a color he rather affected--he
began eloquently:

"Mrs. Blaine, you're a sensible woman. I feel I can talk to you plain.
There comes a time in every man's life when he feels lonesome--when it
looks good to him to have someone round all the time, looking after
things--his dinner, his clothes, and so on. Why, sometimes I go around
for weeks with my suspenders only half fastened, just because I've got
no one to sew a button on. It gets on a feller's nerves--yes, it
does--until at last he says to himself: 'Jimmie, my boy, you've
knocked about alone long enough. You want to hitch up with some girl
and take it easy a bit.'" He stopped a moment to gauge the effect of
his words, but as Mrs. Blaine gave no sign that she understood what he
was driving at, he proceeded: "I'm not much good at speechifying. With
the frills all cut and to come to the point, this is what it is: Fanny
seems the kind of girl I'm looking for, and I don't see I could do any
better. I've just asked her, and now it's kinder up to you--"

The widow took off her spectacles and gasped. Could she have heard
aright? He was actually asking for Fanny. She was amazed not so much
at his monumental selfishness and impudence as that Fanny herself
could have given him the slightest encouragement. She fully realized
that times had changed since the days when they lifted their heads
proudly in the world, but to sink as low as this seemed too terrible,
too humiliating. Yet, after all, could she blame her daughter? What
was her present life, what would be her future, without education,
without money--unless she had someone who could take care of her?
Dissembling her indignation as much as possible, she inquired suavely:

"This takes me very much by surprise, Mr. Gillie. You will, of course,
allow me leisure to talk it over with my daughter. May I ask if your
means permit you to provide a comfortable home for Fanny--the kind of
home to which she has been accustomed?"

The muscles of Mr. Gillie's nostrils contracted and for a moment it
looked as if his slight frame were again about to be shaken
convulsively by a mighty sneeze, but the spasm passed. He merely
coughed loudly to clear his throat. Then, glancing round the room in
which he was sitting, he said:

"Oh, I guess we'll be able to put on as good a front as this, all
right, all right." Tilting his chair back until it seemed physically
impossible that he could maintain his balance, he went on between
puffs of his cigar:

"You see, m'm, I'm not the kind of man that's satisfied to go on
working all his life for only just enough to keep body and soul
together. That's all right maybe for pikers--poor devils that have no
spunk--but not for 'yours truly.' I'm a pusher, a climber, I am, and,
what's more, I'm a man with ideas. No one can keep me down in the
world. One of these days I'll be driving my own automobile and Fanny
will be riding in it with me. It's no 'guff' I'm giving you. I'm the
real 'goods.'"

"You are a shipping clerk, I believe," said Mrs. Blaine when she could
get in a word sideways.

"Yes, m'm," he snapped, "a shipping clerk--what of it?"

"Is that a very--lucrative position?"

He laughed derisively as if it was absurd to imagine he was going to
remain a shipping clerk all his life.

"Oh, I'm only a clerk now, but I'll be boss some day--see if I don't."

"Might I ask what your present income is?" inquired the widow blandly.

For the first time Mr. Gillie seemed at a loss for an answer.
Awkwardly shifting his cigar to the other corner of his mouth, he
stammered:

"I'm not getting much now--ten a week--that's all." Hastily he
continued: "But it won't be for long. The big men down town know
me--they know what I'm worth to them. They're just watching me. Any
day they may make me an offer that would land me in Easy Street.
Besides, sooner or later I'll astonish people with one of my
inventions. I'm full of new ideas. Some of them are bound to make
money. It's a cinch!"

How long he would have continued in this strain there is no telling,
for, although not talkative usually, he always became extraordinarily
loquacious when encouraged to speak of his own affairs. Utterly
exhausted by his chatter and feeling dreadfully tired, Mrs. Blaine
began to wish that her unwelcome visitor would go. The room was full
of tobacco smoke and his free-and-easy manner irritated her extremely.
Of course, his proposal was ridiculous, an impertinence. It was
Fanny's fault for having encouraged him. But it was best to say
nothing--to just drop him gently. An awkward pause followed during
which the widow, fatigued as she was, plied her needle more
industriously than ever, while the would-be Benedict, nicely balanced
on his chair, amused himself sending rings of smoke up to the ceiling.
Happily, at this juncture, Fanny returned from the kitchen. She had
noticed the strained silence and feared it boded ill. A glance at her
mother's face was enough. Quickly she exclaimed:

"Now, mother, you must go to bed. Mr. Gillie will excuse you, I'm
sure. It's getting real late."

Taking the hint, the shipping clerk rose to his feet. With a grin he
said:

"That's right, m'm--all work and no play don't agree with nobody.
That's my maxim. Well, good night, ladies!" As he shuffled off,
accompanied to the door by Fanny, he said in an undertone: "It's O.K.,
Fan--I put it to her good and hard--it's you for mine, all right!"

As they passed along the dark passage he profited by the opportunity
to snatch a kiss, and as they bade each other good-bye he said:

"You'd better get after mother. She was for handing me a nice, juicy
lemon, but I gave her a line of talk that fetched her. Good night,
sweetheart!"

Just as he was going out at the front door, Virginia came up.

"Good evening, Mr. Gillie," she said politely.

He laughed as he chucked her playfully under the chin.

"Mr. Gillie?" he echoed. "What's the matter with James or Jimmie? Good
night, little sis!"

With a boisterous laugh he went out into the street and shut the door.
Virginia, astounded, looked at her sister and laughed.

"What's the matter with him to-night?" she exclaimed. "Is he crazy?"
Without waiting for an answer, she added quickly: "How's mother?"

Fanny averted her face. She dreaded taking Virginia into her
confidence; somehow she could not tell her. Briefly she said:

"She's very tired--been working until now. We expected you home
earlier. She wanted to try on the dress."

Quickly removing her hat and coat which she threw on a convenient
chair, Virginia answered:

"The concert was out later than usual. Dr. Everett was there. He
brought me to the corner. How long has Mr. Gillie been here?"

"All evening," replied Fanny. Then suddenly the elder sister flung her
arms round Virginia's neck.

"Virgie!" she exclaimed, "what do you think? Mr. Gillie has asked me
to marry him."




CHAPTER III


Each day brought graduation day nearer, and Mrs. Blaine, becoming more
and more nervous as the great event approached, made strenuous efforts
to get the dress finished in time. There were vexatious delays without
number. It was difficult to find the right material or else something
went wrong with the measurements and all had to be done over again.
From morning till night, day after day, the old lady sat in doors, at
the table piled high with dressmaker's litter, deeply engrossed in her
self-appointed labor of love.

In vain Virginia and Fanny protested. Their mother refused to listen
to them. This dress, she insisted, was her one joy in life. It would
be cruel to deprive her of anything which afforded her so much
pleasure. They said no more, but they noticed with alarm that each day
their mother seemed to age a year. Her cheeks became more hollow, her
face more chalky white. She complained continually of pains in the
region of the heart, and it was plainly discernible that she was
rapidly growing more feeble.

One day when Dr. Everett was paying them one of his regular weekly
visits Virginia took him aside and told him of her anxiety. He seemed
to know already what she had to say. Taking both her hands in his, in
that big-hearted, paternal manner so characteristic of him, he said
impressively:

"Dear child--you must be brave. You cannot expect to have your mother
always with you. She is tired and world-weary. She has earned that
beautiful, eternal sleep which alone brings perfect peace. An organic
disease of the heart, which remained latent up to the time of your
father's death, has now become very pronounced. Trouble and sorrow
have aggravated the condition. Your mother may live for years; then
again she may pass away from us any time. One never can tell what will
happen when the heart is in that state."

A long spell of weeping followed this confidential chat with the
doctor, and for days Virginia went about only a shadow of her former
self.

How cruel was life! she mused. First to lose her father, and now her
best, her only friend! What would she do when her mother was gone?
Fanny was hardly a companion. She was so different; her tastes and
pursuits were not the same. There was not the same bond of sympathy
between them. If anything happened, they would, of course, go on
living together as usual, but how different their life would be!

Nothing further had been said regarding Mr. Gillie's proposal. Fanny
had not mentioned it again, and both Virginia and Mrs. Blaine were
silent. Instinctively Fanny knew that her mother and sister
disapproved of the match and inwardly she resented it. Why should they
interfere with her happiness? She had a right to look after her own
interests. What better offer could she expect? Suppose James was a
rough diamond; he might still make a better husband than some other
man better educated. He had had no advantages, but he was respectable
and clever. Everyone admitted that he was smart. His ideas were simply
wonderful. One of these days he would make a lot of money with his
brains, and then she would be proud to be his wife. Thus she reasoned
and, once she made up her mind, nothing could alter it. Mr. Gillie
continued his visits and made himself quite at home until, at last,
they all called him by his first name and it became quite natural to
see him there. There was no more talk of marriage, but both Mrs.
Blaine and Virginia soon arrived at the conclusion that he and Fanny
were tacitly engaged.

Virginia sometimes wondered if she herself would ever marry, and, if
so, what kind of man she would choose for a husband. What she knew and
heard of marriage had not filled her with any keen anxiety to enter
the married state, or with any profound respect for matrimony as a
social institution. In theory it was beautiful; in practice it left
much to be desired. Like any thoughtful girl having a broad, sane
outlook on life, she fully appreciated the dangers and unhappiness
that may attend unions entered into lightly and carelessly, without
such safeguards as regards morals and health, as a paternal State
should properly control.

Although a girl of high moral principles, she was not innocent. Are
there any such? Innocence is, of necessity, the sister of ignorance.
The conditions of modern existence render it impossible for any girl,
once she has attained the age of fifteen, to continue unacquainted
with the main facts of life, and some are initiated at an even
tenderer age. How is it possible for any maiden to remain
unenlightened in this regard these days when sensational, muck-raking
prints throw the searchlight of publicity into every boudoir and spicy
details of society's philandering fill column after column in the
breakfast table newspaper? No matter how little curiosity a
healthy-minded girl may have, by reason of a natural coldness of
temperament, to acquire such knowledge, it becomes, in spite of her,
part of her daily surroundings and she cannot escape its
contaminating, demoralizing influence.

Virginia was no fool. Now nearly nineteen, she knew everything about
life which an intelligent girl should know. What puzzled her most was
to determine her own mental attitude towards marriage. Not yet having
met a man for whom she could feel any especial regard, the idea of
forming with any man as close an association as marriage would mean
was repellent to her. The intimate relation the marital tie
pre-supposes frightened and appalled her as it has done many times
before thousands of passionless, strongly intellectual women who,
bringing cold analysis to bear on the sexual instinct, rebel at the
subordinate, humiliating role which the weaker sex is called upon to
play in Nature's vast and wonderfully complex scheme.

Not that she was passionless or lacking in temperament. The girl in
"whose veins ran lightning" could hardly be accused of indifference to
the opposite sex. She liked several young men, but there was not one
of them whom she could bring herself to think of in the light of a
husband. Girls often married for other than sentimental reasons. Of
that she was well aware. Self-interest was at the bottom of most
marriages. Cupid, guileless as he seems, is often a shrewd,
calculating little gnome in disguise. If a girl has no means, no
friends, no way of earning a living, what is going to become of her
unless she seeks refuge in marriage? Her first instinct is to find a
husband, a man sufficiently well off to support both. There was, of
course, only one word with which to brand that sort of thing. It was a
legalized form of prostitution, an approved system of cohabitation
which must be horrible and detestable to any girl of decent instincts,
no matter which way she looked at it, and yet it was a state of white
slavery which society fully condoned and ever approved. Hundreds of
virtuous girls thus sold themselves--to the highest bidder. The slums
had no monopoly of the white slave traffic; it flourished equally well
on fashionable Fifth Avenue, where its countless victims, for the
honor of the system, managed to conceal their tears from the world.
What did bridge-playing mothers care about their daughters' happiness
so long as they were able to procure for them rich men who could give
them fine houses, servants, and automobiles? It was all hideous and
ghastly, when viewed thus sanely, and Virginia shuddered as she
thought of it. To such degradation as this she would never sink. Never
would she marry a man whom she did not truly love. If it came to the
worst she would go as domestic servant or even starve rather than
surrender her self-respect.

Graduation day was almost at hand, but the dress was still unfinished.
There was considerable work yet to be done on it. The nearer came the
important event, the more nervous and exhausted Mrs. Blaine showed
herself. She had already had several fainting spells and on one
occasion the girls were so alarmed that they thought the end had come,
peacefully and suddenly. But the widow rallied and, in spite of her
daughter's protests, insisted on continuing with her work. Marvelling
at her determination, touched by this pathetic exhibition of maternal
devotion, Virginia would sit silently for hours, her eyes filled with
tears, watching the dear, tired fingers swiftly and skillfully plying
the needle.

One evening the little family was assembled in the stuffy parlor back
of the store. Mrs. Blaine, tired after a long day's toil, had sunk
back in her armchair, dozing. Her head had fallen forward on her
breast, a piece of hemming on her knee. In order not to disturb her,
the girls conversed in low tones. Virginia was reading, her favorite
occupation, while her elder sister, engaged perhaps more usefully, was
darning stockings.

Suddenly the front door bell rang. With an anxious glance at her
mother to make sure that the noise had not disturbed her, Fanny
tip-toed out of the room and presently returned, followed by James
Gillie. The shipping clerk entered clumsily, in his characteristic,
noisy style. Jocularly he cried out:

"Good evening, everybody!"

Virginia quickly held up a protesting finger, while Fanny exclaimed
angrily:

"Don't you see that mother's asleep?"

Throwing his hat and coat on a sofa, the newcomer sat down gingerly on
a chair. With a glance at the old lady, he demanded:

"What's she sleepin' here for? Why don't she go to bed?"

Virginia, always irritated by his _gaucheries,_ pretended not to
hear and went on with her book, but Fanny answered him. In a whisper
she said:

"She's tired out." Anxiously she, added: "I don't like the way she
looks to-day. I think it's the heart. I'll telephone the doctor
to-morrow--"

Jimmie gave a snort of disapproval.

"Pshaw! What's the good?" he exclaimed contemptuously. "Those doctors
can't do nothing; they're the worst kind of fakers. All they do is to
look wise, scribble on a bit of paper some words no one can read--not
even the druggist--and charge you a two-spot. It's to laugh!"

"Dr. Everett doesn't charge us anything--so you're wrong for once,"
interrupted Virginia, glad of the opportunity to give him a dig.

"I ain't talkin' about any particular doctor," went on the shipping
clerk, unabashed. "I'm agin all doctors. They're a bunch of crooks, I
tell you. It's you women with your imaginary ailments who keep 'em
going. If doctors had to depend on men for a living, they'd have to
take to shovelling snow."

"Hardly in summer time," said Virginia dryly.

"No," he retorted as quickly; "then they could run ice cream parlors."

Fanny, who had resumed darning her socks, smiled. She enjoyed these
little encounters between her sister and her fiancé. Virginia was no
mean antagonist when it came to an argument, but she was no match for
Jimmie. However, thinking the sparring had gone far enough, she
adroitly changed the conversation.

"Well, how's business to-day, Jim?"

"Oh, on the blink--as usual. Nothing doing; I'm sick of the whole
outfit. But say, girls--!"

"What?" exclaimed Fanny.

"You won't tell anyone if I tell you something?"

Virginia looked up from her book. Even she was interested.

"No," said Fanny, "we won't tell. What is it?"

Jimmie sat up and cleared his throat as if preparing to make some
highly important communication. Then, leaning forward, he said in an
impressive tone:

"I've got the greatest idea--"

"Really?" exclaimed Virginia sceptically.

Too full of egotism and self-importance to note her sarcasm, the young
man beamed with self-satisfaction as he proceeded enthusiastically:

"Greatest thing you ever heard of! There's millions in it. My name
will ring round the world. If only I can get the backing, my fortune
is made--"

Fanny's face flushed with pleasure as she bent eagerly forward to hear
every detail of this scheme which would some day make her a rich
woman. Even if the dream never came true, the mere hope that it might
was enough to give her a thrill. Virginia remained cold. She was more
cynical, having already heard many speeches of the same kind and from
the same quarter--all dealing with wonderful projects that invariably
met with a sudden death. This announcement of a new idea, therefore,
did not even make her look up.

Expanding his chest, Jimmie proceeded with dignity.

"This idea of mine will revolutionize railroad travel in this
country--do you know that? It will bring Chicago far nearer New York
than it is now. How? By cutting down the running time of the fastest
trains. When the railroad men hear of it--and see how simple it
is--they'll hail me as a public benefactor--"

"But what is it?" interrupted Fanny eagerly. "You haven't told us what
it is."

Beaming with self-importance, he tilted forward on his chair. Fanny,
tense with the excitement of suspense, strained her ears. Even
Virginia deigned to stop reading and pay attention. Clearing his
throat he began:

"You must first understand that the chief difficulty railroads meet
with in maintaining a fast schedule is the vexatious delays caused by
stops at way-stations. My idea does away with all stops. I eliminate
them entirely, and yet I pick up all the passengers who wish to travel
by that particular train--"

He stopped and looked at them as if he expected exclamations of wonder
and demands for further explanation. Virginia looked puzzled. Fanny,
quite excited, beamed with enthusiasm.

"How do you do it?" exclaimed the elder sister admiringly. Assuredly
she had made no mistake when she had selected so gifted a life
partner.

"Yes," demanded Virginia. "How do you pick them up?"

The young man laughed outright. Confidently he went on:

"Pick 'em up? It's so easy that I can't understand why no one ever
thought of it before. Did you ever see the way the fast expresses pick
up mail bags? Near the track there is an upright post, from which
extends an arm. On this arm is suspended the mail bag. The onrushing
train, which is travelling perhaps at a speed of a mile a minute, is
fitted on the outside with a sort of hook which catches the mail bag
and jerks it into the car. Well, that same idea can just as well be
applied to waiting passengers as to waiting mail bags. The passengers
would all be gathered together in a car which would wait on a siding
for the arrival of the express. By some mechanical
contrivance--exactly what it would be I haven't yet figured out--this
waiting car would be instantly switched on to the rapidly-moving
express--would become, so to speak, the rear car. The passengers would
go forward through the vestibule to take their seats in the train
proper and the emptied waiting car would then be unswitched and go
back to the station to begin the performance all over again--all this
while the train was going at top speed. Isn't that some idea? Isn't it
a dandy?"

Fanny was silent. Virginia, hardly able to control her merriment, took
up her book again. Jim was about to enter into further details when
suddenly there was a noise behind them. Fanny started up with a cry.

"Virginia! Look!" she exclaimed.

Mrs. Blaine had half fallen out of her chair. In her sleep she had
lost her balance and slipped down sideways. With the clerk's
assistance the two girls sat her up again. Apparently she was not
hurt, but her eyes were closed. She was strangely silent, and her
hands were very cold. When they laid her head gently back on the back
of the armchair they noticed that she was very white.

"She's fainted!" cried Fanny excitedly.

Virginia, greatly alarmed, exclaimed anxiously:

"Mother, dear, what's the matter? Speak to me."

Still no answer. The girls, now thoroughly frightened, ran for
restoratives. Virginia poured out some brandy. Even Jimmie was
frightened out of his usual levity and self-possession. Quickly taking
her hand, which hung over the chair limp and lifeless, he put his
finger on her pulse.

"Please telephone for the doctor, Jim!" cried Virginia, distracted,
almost in tears.

The young man looked at both girls, his face serious and white. For
once he controlled the situation. Soberly he said:

"It's too late."




CHAPTER IV


In a luxuriously furnished suite on an upper floor of one of New
York's biggest and most expensive hotels two men sat carelessly
scanning the morning newspapers before a table still covered with
breakfast dishes. It was nearly ten o'clock, long past the hour when
most people begin the day's work, and there was nothing, either in the
men's dress or manner, to suggest that they belonged to the effete and
useless idle class. On the contrary, in appearance they were typical
business men--energy, prosperity, masterfulness, showing in their
every word and gesture, in every line of their clean-cut,
strong-featured faces. On this particular morning they were not
looking their best, and the reason, as well as the explanation of
their late rising might possibly be found in the disorder which a
cursory glance around the room revealed. Dress coats, white ties,
patent leather pumps and other paraphernalia of evening wear were
scattered here and there, just as each article had been thrown down
when they had returned home the night before, while on a side table
were a couple of champagne bottles--empty.

They were both comparatively young men. The elder of the two, a big,
athletic fellow with smooth face and strong jaw, did not appear to be
much over thirty-five. His companion was about the same age. Both had
the _blasé_ air of men who had lived and lived hard. All of
life's fiercer joys they had known to excess, which explained,
perhaps, why they were tired and disillusionized long before they had
attained their prime. With a gesture of disgust, the elder man threw
down his paper, and, snatching up a glass of ice-water, swallowed the
refreshing contents at a gulp.

"It's no use, Fred!" he exclaimed. "I'm no good for that late bumming.
I guess I'm getting old. Those midnight orgies never did agree with
me. Hot birds and cold wine are a barbaric mixture, anyhow. I'm going
to cut it out--do you understand?--cut it out. So don't ask me
again--it's no use. I've got a fearful headache this morning--and I'm
so sleepy that I'd like to go to bed for a week. It's idiotic for a
man to make such an infernal ass of himself. It knocks one out and
renders one unfit for business. How can I go down town and understand
what I'm doing when I've got such a head on as this? There's a
directors' meeting to-day, too--very important. What time was it when
we got home?"

"About three o'clock, I should say," rejoined his _vis-à-vis_
laconically, without looking up from his newspaper.

In the fifteen years that they had been intimate friends Fred Hadley
had grown so accustomed to these periodical outbursts from his old
chum Bob Stafford that he seldom paid the slightest heed to his
protests. Both self-made men, each had started practically in the
gutter and by sheer dint of grit and energy forged his way to the
front, the one as a captain of industry, the other as a promoter in
railroading and finance. Men of exceptional capacity, success had come
easily to them, and with success had come money and power. Hadley was
now vice-president of one of the biggest steel concerns in the
country, and Stafford had been even more successful. Attracted to
railroading he had found employment with a western road, and soon
displayed such a positive genius for organization that he quickly
excited the attention of eastern railroad men. Quick promotion
followed, until, at the end of ten years, he became himself a power in
the railroad world. Shrewd deals in Wall Street had already brought
him wealth, and the age of thirty-eight found him in control of half a
dozen systems, his fortune already estimated at several millions, and
his name in the railroad world one to conjure with, not only in Wall
Street, but from New York to Frisco.

Irritated at his companion's silence, Stafford repeated more loudly:

"Do you hear? I'm going to cut it out!"

At last Hadley, his ire roused, looked up.

"Look here, Bob," he exclaimed impatiently, "you make me tired. You're
a game sport, I don't think. It wasn't Maude's little party that
knocked you out." Pointing significantly to the empty bottles of
champagne on the side tables, he went on: "That's what did you up. Why
did you soak yourself with champagne when you got home? Do you know
you got away with two quarts of the stuff?"

Stafford passed a hand over his burning brow.

"The deuce I did! I don't remember. I must have been drunk when I got
home. I took the 'fizz' to sober up on. Why did you let me?"

"Let you?" echoed Hadley scornfully. "Is there any man alive capable
of keeping you from the bottle when you've got a thirst on?"

"Yes," admitted Stafford contritely, "I recall that I was d--d
thirsty."

"And instead of drinking ice water, you rang for champagne. You're a
nice kind of fellow to moralize--you are!"

Rising from the table, Hadley yawned, stretched himself, and,
sauntering over to a window, stood looking out upon the busy city
below. From that elevation the bird's-eye view was wonderful. The
broad avenues below, teeming with life, the surging, confused mass of
pedestrians and vehicles, the close network of side-streets filled
with busy traffic, the silvery Hudson with sailing vessels and
steamships departing for every port in the world--all this was a scene
of which the eye never tired. The young man gazed at it for a moment,
and then, retracing his steps, threw himself into an arm-chair.
Lighting a cigar, he said:

"These are bully rooms, all right. The view is splendid. But I don't
see why you need to come to a hotel when you have your apartment on
Riverside--and such an apartment!--a veritable palace, filled with
everything one's artistic taste cares for and furnished and decorated
to suit yourself."

"That's just why," answered his companion dryly.

The railroad man had left the breakfast table, and, seated at a desk
on the other side of the room, was busy glancing over a huge batch of
letters which had come with the morning's mail.

"What do you mean by 'that's just why'?" demanded Hadley, puzzled.

Stafford looked up and smiled.

"Why--it's just as you said. My own place is so attractive that I
can't do any work there. The paintings, statuary, bric-à-brac and
what-not, distract my attention too much. If I have an important
letter to draft, I can't think of what I want to say because my eyes
are fascinated by the Peachblow vases on top of the bookcase. You
haven't seen the vases, have you, Fred? They're 'peaches,' all right.
I gave $3,000 for the pair. That's going some for a bit of breakable
bric-à-brac. Come up to dinner some night and see them. I'll tell Oku
you're coming, and he'll get up something good--one of his swell
Japanese dishes."

"Not on your life," interrupted the other with a grimace. "Japs and
Chinks eat all kinds of freak things--nightingale tongues and such
stuff. No--thanks. Your Oku's a decent little sort, as Jap butlers go,
but when it comes to cooking, give me Christian food and a French
_chef_ every time."

Stafford laughed heartily.

"Fred--my boy--you're shockingly provincial and bourgeois. I'm afraid
I'll never make a cosmopolite out of you. Well, as I said, there is
too much art about the place. It seems sacrilege to even think
business there, so when I'm putting through any big deal, I just slip
away and come to this hotel for a few days. At home I'm an art lover,
revelling in the treasures I have succeeded in collecting; here I am a
vulgar business person, occupied in the undignified task of making
money. Only last week, when I was home, I got thinking out a plan one
night in the library for a merger with a road which is cutting pretty
badly into our business. I had thought out a plan, the details were
working out nicely in my mind, when suddenly my gaze fell on the Corot
hung just above my desk. You know the picture. Did you ever see more
exquisite coloring, a more wonderful composition? Is it surprising
that the plan for the merger quite slipped out of my head?"

"Talking of exquisite coloring," interrupted Hadley irrelevantly, "did
you notice how well Maude looked last night? If she's a day, that
woman is forty, yet no one would take her for more than five and
twenty. She's a marvel. No wonder Stanton is crazy about her."

Stafford shrugged his shoulders.

"Cosmetics and a clever hairdresser can work miracles," he said dryly.

"She's a wonder, just the same--especially when you consider the life
she's led. You know her history--a morphine fiend with the face of an
angel. She knocked about for years before Stanton fell into her
clutches. He's dippy about her--pays for that apartment and gives her
a handsome allowance, bought her an automobile, pays her chauffeur,
and all the rest of it. Did you notice that string of pearls she was
wearing? It cost him a cool $10,000 in Paris last summer."

"Why doesn't he marry her, if he's got it as bad as all that?"

Hadley looked at his friend in amazement.

"You're not in earnest, are you?" he demanded. "Marry a woman of that
kind?"

"Why not?" answered Stafford doggedly. "If the man thinks enough of
her to waste so much time and money upon her let him try and reform
her by throwing around her a cloak of respectability. Why is the woman
what she is? Because pleasure-loving blackguards of Stanton's type
have degraded her and made it impossible for her to hold up her head
again among decent people."

Hadley laughed outright.

"Say, old man," he exclaimed, "it's easy to see you are out of sorts
this morning. When did Bob Stafford start in to be a social reformer?
Who ever expected such advice from the man who could always get away
with more booze at a sitting than any man I ever knew, and who has
been the hero of a hundred _affaires de coeur_, not all as
respectable as that of Stanton and Maude?"

The railroad man took it good-naturedly.

"That's all right, Fred--rub it in all you like. It's because I've
been an ass myself that I can see more plainly than any one, perhaps,
what cursed folly it is. We spend our time and substance on some
wretched wanton, who never gives us a thought save how much money she
can squeeze out of us, and what have we in return? Nothing. The years
slip quickly by; we find ourselves getting old, and there's no one
round who really cares a jot whether we live or die--except, possibly
our relatives, who look forward to the latter. Genuine affection is
absolutely foreign to our existence. We have no one to bestow it on;
no one to bestow it on us. To be quite frank, that is another reason
why I don't care to spend too much time in my Riverside home. I feel
lonesome there. The place is quiet; it lacks the life and bustle of a
hotel, and Oku, decent little Jap as he is, hardly makes an ideal
companion--"

Sending a cloud of tobacco smoke up to the ceiling, Hadley gave vent
to a low, expressive whistle.

"So--that's where the land lays, eh? You are lonesome. In other words,
you want a wife to share with you the artistic treasures of your
Riverside home. You are tired of being a bachelor--"

Stafford laughed--a resounding, wholesome laugh, that fairly shook the
room.

"You've guessed it, Fred, you've guessed it. You're a mind-reader. I
confess I'm tired of bumming. You and Stanton and the rest of the boys
are a jolly crowd. You've given me many a good time, but, I tell you,
old man, I'm tired of it all. I want to cut away and settle down. If
the right girl comes along, I'll marry her--"

Hadley was silent for a few moments, and, sitting lazily back in the
comfortable, deep-seated armchair, contented himself with puffing his
cigar vigorously and emitting a prodigious quantity of smoke. Finally
he said:

"All right, Bob--you know best what you want. Try matrimony, if you've
a mind to, but remember this--don't forget I gave you good warning.
Marriage isn't what it's cracked up to be, by a long shot. The girl
you're courting will seem to you a very different person after
marriage. She'll be an old-man-of-the-sea hanging around your neck
whom you can't shake off. Your trouble will only begin when you take
to yourself a wife." Rising and picking up his hat and gloves, he
added: "Now I must be going. I have an appointment at the office at
11:30. What are you going to do? Coming down town with me?"

Stafford pointed to the mass of papers and letters piled up on his
desk. Shaking his head he replied:

"No--I can't go out yet. I must answer all these letters." Helplessly
he added: "I don't know how I'm going to tackle them. I've an awful
headache."

"Why not get a stenographer?"

"A stenographer? That's not a bad idea. Where can I get one?"

"Why, downstairs. There are two attached to the hotel. They attend to
the telephone switchboard and do typewriting as well. One is a girl
with red hair and a squint; the other is dark and rather pretty--"

"Very well," smiled Stafford. "Send me up the pretty one. I couldn't
stand the red-haired girl just now. I've got an important deal on
hand. She might queer my luck. Do that for me, old chap. Tell her as
you go out, and don't forget--the pretty one."

"Right you are!" laughed Hadley. "I'll see you to-night at dinner. Ta
ta!" He was going out when he turned round at the door. "Say--don't
forget your virtuous resolution. Don't make love to the pretty
typewriter."

The door slammed and Stafford was alone.

For some time after his friend disappeared, the railroad man sat idly
turning over the mass of papers accumulating on the desk. There was a
busy day before him--a directors' meeting at 2 o'clock, people to see
at his office. But just now his thoughts were not on his work. He was
cogitating on what he had just admitted to Hadley. Yes, that was it.
The truth was out now. He had never acknowledged it before, even to
himself. He was tired of his bachelor life. He wanted a wife.

What had all his success been to him? An empty kind of satisfaction,
after all. He had made money, more money than he knew what to do with,
but it had not brought him real happiness. How could he be happy, when
there was no one to share his happiness, his success? His parents were
dead; he had no brothers or sisters. He was all alone in the world,
and the older he got the more he was beginning to realize how isolated
his life was. He had hosts of so-called friends--jolly good fellows of
both sexes, who were ready enough to help him spend his money; but
what was such friendship as that worth?

Yet Fred might be right, after all. He had himself known men,
confirmed bachelors like himself, who had got married and regretted it
ever since. Their lives had become a burden to them. They were
outrageously henpecked, made to dance attendance until all hours of
the morning upon silly, bridge-loving wives. True, but they were poor,
weak-minded simpletons, just the kind of men to be dominated, bullied
by a woman. He would like to see the girl who could coerce him into
doing anything he did not wish to do. If he ever married, he would
rule his own household; no woman would venture to dictate to him. He
would insist on his absolute independence, do as he chose, go where he
liked. He would be the master. If the husband had not the right to
command, who had? When a pair of horses was sold, did they not belong
to the purchaser? A wife was, in a sense, a purchase. The average
society girl who gets married nowadays practically sells herself. She
wants a man with money--a man who will give her jewels and clothes and
an establishment that will make every other girl of her acquaintance
green with envy. She gets him--for a consideration. That, no doubt,
was the kind of girl he would one day get. She would offer herself,
and if he liked the look of her he would buy her, and, having bought
her, she would learn soon enough that there was only one master in the
Stafford household. It was not necessary that they love each other.
They would be good friends, chums, and all that, but he would never
let go of the check-rein. Certainly he would always be the master.

He was thus engrossed in his reflections, when there came a gentle rap
at the door. Instantly galvanized into action, he called out in
stentorian tones:

"Come in!"

The door was pushed open, and Virginia Blaine entered, notebook in
hand. Her face was slightly flushed, and she stood hesitatingly on the
threshold, as if fearing to enter. She was attired in deep mourning,
and the simple black dress, relieved only by a little white lace
collar round the neck, enhanced the natural rich coloring of her face.
Starting hastily from his seat, Stafford advanced towards her. Timidly
she said:

"You asked for a stenographer?"

Impressed, as well as surprised by her beauty, at a loss for a moment
what to say, the railroad promoter stammered confusedly:

"No--that is--yes--by all means--won't you sit down?"

She took a seat near the desk, and opening her notebook, got ready to
take dictation. Stafford looked fixedly at her. He remembered now
having seen her at the telephone switchboard downstairs in the hotel
lobby. Smilingly he said:

"What is your name?"

"Miss Blaine," she replied coldly.

"We've met before, haven't we?" he went on.

She colored under his close scrutiny. Why did he stare so? It made her
very uncomfortable. If he did not cease looking at her, she would
close her book and walk out. It was much against her will that she had
come up, alone, to a man's apartment. But she could not afford to lose
an opportunity of earning a little extra money. Answering his
question, she said rather curtly:

"I believe I got a long distance for you the other day. I'm on the
telephone desk, you know. Stenography is only a side issue."

He still gazed at her admiringly, quick to note her well-bred manner,
her quiet aloofness, unusual in girls of her occupation.

"I remember," he nodded. "We had quite some difficulty in getting in
touch with Washington."

"Yes--there was trouble on the wires."

"But we got it at last, didn't we?" he smiled, making an effort to
break the ice and be friendly.

But Virginia intended to stick strictly to business. She must make it
plain that hers was not a social call. Quickly changing the topic, she
asked:

"Is the dictation ready?"

Stafford would have liked to continue the personal conversation. After
all, there was no immediate necessity of getting to work; the
correspondence could wait. But there was an icy haughtiness in the
girl's demeanor that discouraged any further attempt at getting
acquainted. Proceeding therefore to business, he picked up a paper
from the desk and commenced to dictate a letter.




CHAPTER V


The loss of her mother, following so soon after the death of her
father, had come as a terrible shock to Virginia. She felt it more
keenly even than Fanny, not only because her nature was more sensitive
and impressionable, but also because she realized that she had been
suddenly robbed of a constant and devoted companion. Fanny, who was
now officially engaged to Mr. Gillie, was nearly always in his
company, with the result that Virginia, more particular and more
exacting in the choice of acquaintances than her sister, found the
world emptier and more lonely than ever.

Graduation day had come and gone and the dress which her poor mother
had not lived to finish, had to be completed by other hands. At the
end of her school days and now practically alone, with no one to look
to for support, Virginia began to think seriously of the future. She
must get something to do, that was very certain. Fanny would soon have
Jimmie to look after her, but she herself must depend on her own
exertion. She was a long time making up her mind what she would do.
Her education fitted her for a teacher, but she shrank from the idea.
Never would she have the patience. Then she thought of trying to write
for the papers or magazines. That, also, was rejected. It was too
precarious; she had had no experience. There was the stage. No--that
would not do. She did not like the environments. There remained only
the alternative of being a saleswoman in a department store or a
stenographer. Having taken a course in shorthand, and being fairly
proficient, she chose the latter, and, thanks to the influence and
good offices of Dr. Everett, at last succeeded in securing a fairly
remunerative position.

The first few days of business employment proved a novel and trying
experience. To a young girl accustomed to the quiet and exclusiveness
of private life, the noise and promiscuousness of a public hotel
corridor were singularly distasteful. The men ogled her; the women
guests tried her patience. A pretty girl, it was only natural that she
should attract attention from the men, but the persistent manner in
which they stared, and tried to make acquaintance, annoyed her beyond
measure. When they spoke to her in the ordinary course of business
they were courteous enough, but their eyes were bold, and sometimes
they said things in an undertone which made her face flush scarlet.
She complained to her associates, but she got no sympathy. The other
girls--sorry they were not attractive themselves--only laughed at her
for being so particular. They said that the men meant no harm, and
that she should consider it a compliment to her good looks if they
took the trouble to address her at all.

Otherwise the work was congenial enough and the hours were not long.
She still lived with her sister in the same house where their mother
died. The millinery business had grown sufficiently large to take all
Fanny's time, and it brought in enough to keep the little household
going. When her sister married Jimmie, she would, of course, be
compelled to give the shop up, but meantime it helped defray expenses
and gave Fanny an occupation.

After that first morning of dictation in Robert Stafford's rooms,
Virginia saw a good deal of the handsome railroad man. The first
business interview had been followed by others, and when there was no
regular correspondence to be answered he would stop at the desk
downstairs on all sorts of pretexts. Usually it was to telephone;
sometimes to write a note, and for some reason or other both of these
operations took up considerably more time than was absolutely
necessary. On one occasion he was sitting near her desk nearly all
afternoon. He had asked her to get Chicago on the long distance. There
was trouble on the wires, as had happened once before with Washington,
and it was two hours before he got his number. Strangely enough, the
delay did not seem to annoy him. He sat leisurely near her desk and
chatted with her about theatres, music, books and art, finding her
well read and conversant with every topic, especially with art, which
was his hobby. He seemed sorry when at last he had no longer an excuse
to stay. All that time he had watched her, quietly noting and admiring
the calm, skilful way she went about her work.

The girl interested him. Not so much because she was good looking as
that she was quite different from other women. Her cold, distant air,
her spirit of self-reliance and independence pleased him. Most women
he had known had offered themselves shamelessly; this girl had kept
him at a distance. This in itself would be enough to attract most men.
The very novelty of it appealed to him. She was exceedingly pretty,
too, yet hers was not the banal, conventional beauty of every day, but
something fresher, more fascinating, more lovable, an indefinable,
elusive charm that kept him guessing, yet always accompanied by a
quiet dignity that compelled respect. Instead of flirting with him or
giving him any encouragement, as girls of her class often did, she
studiously avoided his gaze, seeming not to know he was there,
serenely indifferent as to whether he came or went. Accustomed as
he--the wealthy bachelor--was to see girls literally throw themselves
at him, it was a new experience to find himself apparently of so
little account, and this, perhaps as much as anything else, made him
all the more determined to force himself upon her attention.

Apart from this, Virginia aroused the man's sensuality, excited his
imagination. It seemed to him that a girl of her impressionable
nature, artistic temperament, intellectual aloofness, once her ardor
was awakened would love more passionately than a woman of commoner
clay; her caresses, it seemed to him, would have greater zest than
those of a woman more obviously carnal. Never, in the years during
which he had sown his wild oats, having learned how to control his
appetites, nor in his career as a rich man about town, learned to
respect woman or see in her anything else but an instrument of
pleasure, it was not surprising that he looked at Virginia with eyes
of lust. Apart from her spirituality which interested him, she also
appealed to him physically and with the craving of an epicure, ever
seeking some gastronomic novelty wherewith to gratify his jaded
palate, he determined to awaken her virginal emotions and find out in
what way they differed from those of other women.

He set to work to win her, taking the same keen pleasure in the
pastime as does a sportsman at the hunt. He realized that it would not
be easy, and vaguely he foresaw failure, but the difficulties of the
task only served to spur him on to make the attempt. He began the
campaign of fascination tactfully, diplomatically, careful not to
offend, avoiding anything likely to excite her resentment or arouse
her fears. He lent her books, gave her tickets for concerts and
picture exhibitions, tried in every way to break down the barrier of
haughty reserve with which she had surrounded herself and gain her
confidence.

Virginia appreciated these attentions, and the well-bred ease with
which she accepted them only made the would-be lover's campaign the
more difficult. In fact, her very frankness and candor made it
impossible, and finally disarmed him altogether, leaving him feeling
very much ashamed of himself. Stafford was not a scoundrel at heart.
He had gone into the game just for the sport, as many men of his class
and opportunities had done before him, carelessly, thoughtlessly, and
without fully realizing that he was committing a crime. And now that
she had gone through the fire unscathed, he was more in love with her
than ever. What a fool, what an unspeakable cad he had been to even
think of her in that way!

Then another thought occurred to him. The girl whom he could never
have won for a mistress might well be worth making his wife. Why not
marry her? The idea had never entered his head, but it was not so
preposterous as it at first seemed. He had jested with Hadley about
looking for a wife, and at times had even thought seriously about
getting married. Yet it was not a thing to be undertaken lightly. As
head of a big railroad system, he had a certain position to keep up.
This girl was poor--an obscure stenographer. There was no telling what
objectionable relatives she might have. When a man marries, he marries
his wife's family! How society would laugh! Well, what if it did? He
had boasted to Hadley that he defied the conventions. What did he care
for society? There was many a woman in society who, if the walls of
alcoves could talk and it came to a show-down on conduct, would not
dare hold up her head in presence of Virginia Blaine. He certainly
liked the girl well enough to marry her. He could hardly say that he
loved her. One does not love at first sight, no matter what the dime
novelists say--and what, perhaps, was more important, he respected
her. Could every man say as much of the woman he married? Love would
come later, he had no doubt of that, and after all, he thought to
himself, it was not so much a question of "should he marry her?" as of
"would she marry him?"

Once he made up his mind, Robert Stafford was not the kind of man to
let the grass grow under his feet. He started on a new campaign--an
honorable campaign, this time, on which he was willing to stake his
happiness. He was puzzled, at first, how to go about it. A clever way,
he thought, would be to get her more interested in himself, in his
home. He would ask her to visit his Riverside house and see his art
treasures, his pictures. Of course, it was not likely that she would
consent to go alone. He would tell her to bring her sister. If he
invited the sister she could hardly refuse.

One afternoon Virginia was at work on some typewriting in his rooms at
the hotel. A number of letters had accumulated and they had put in the
whole afternoon at dictation. Stafford had paid little attention to
her, being wholly absorbed in business detail, but about four o'clock
he declared he was tired, even if she were not, and, despite her
protests, insisted on telephoning downstairs and ordering tea to be
sent up. When it was brought in, daintily served with cake on a silver
salver, and the waiter had withdrawn, he courteously drew up a chair
and asked her to serve. She must be hostess, he said laughingly.

Now the business on hand was over, his manner underwent a complete
change; in place of the employer, she saw a polished man of the world
entertaining a social equal. Virginia accepted his hospitality and
politeness graciously, without awkwardness or false modesty, and
before long found herself laughing and chatting with him on terms of
delightful intimacy.

"Had any trouble with long distance lately?" he inquired, as he passed
her a biscuit.

"Not more than usual," she smiled.

"Not even with Chicago?"

"No--not even Chicago. It seems to me that I have trouble only when
you want the wire."

He laughed, a loud, boyish laugh, that shook the room.

"We had a hard struggle the first time we tried it, didn't we?"

"Rather," she replied.

He looked at her for a few moments without speaking, admiring her
large black eyes, the finely arched eyebrows, the delicately chiselled
mouth. Then he said:

"You were very patient about it."

"I couldn't do the work if I wasn't patient," she replied quietly.

"But you were exceptionally nice about it," he insisted. "It wasn't
the usual external, duty-patience, but the real patience that comes
from within. You know what I mean."

She nodded.

"Yes. My mother was the best example of that kind of patience I have
ever known. She radiated it."

He knew that she had lost her mother, but from feelings of delicacy
had never asked for particulars. But now circumstances seemed to
invite confidences. Sympathetically he asked:

"How long has she been--gone?"

"Six years," she replied slowly, looking away past him out of the
window, through which she could see the roofs of the big, careless
city. Her eyes filled with tears, as she went on: "My father was a
lawyer, but he didn't have a large practice, and when he died he left
nothing but his insurance. It was very little--not enough to live on,
and mother, with us two girls to look after, had to do something
practical, so she opened a small millinery store."

"The right spirit," he said approvingly.

"It was a grim, hard struggle, particularly at first," she went on.
"My sister Fanny had left school, and was able to help her, and then
it wasn't quite so trying. You see, Fanny didn't care for school."

"But you did?"

"Yes," she said with enthusiasm, "I always loved it. Mother knew it,
and insisted that I should go through High School. I was delighted,
for I didn't realize then what struggles and sacrifices it meant for
her, and here is the irony--the tragedy--of it all. I was selected as
the class orator at our graduating exercises, and mother was very
happy over it. She looked forward to it as one of the days of her
life, and started to make my graduating dress--but never finished it!"
Very softly she murmured: "Poor mother!"

Never had she looked so pretty as at this moment when, her face pale
and thoughtful, her eyes dimmed with tears, she called up memories of
the past. Stafford, his gaze intent on her, said gently:

"You have her memory."

"Yes," she murmured, "it is more to me than anything in the
world--except Fanny."

"You love your sister, I know," he said.

"Of course I do," she replied quickly. "She took mother's place--as
much as any one could--and, except on our vacations, we have never
been separated."

"You soon will be though, won't you?"

She looked up at him in surprise, not understanding.

"How?" she demanded.

"Didn't you tell me that your sister was going to be married?"

Virginia laughed, a low, musical laugh, which charmed him.

"Yes," she said, "that's true. They are to be married next month."
Sadly she added: "I shall miss her very much. Yet I shan't mind that
kind of separation--if she's happy."

Stafford smiled. Quietly he said:

"That's the trouble with matrimony--that great, big little word--if."

"Oh," she interrupted quickly. "I feel sure they'll be happy. Theirs
is a marriage for love."

Looking closely at her, he asked: "Do you believe in love?"

"Of course," she answered, raising her cup to her face to hide her
embarrassment.

"What kind of love?" he persisted.

"Real love."

"What do you call real love?"

She opened her eyes wide, as if greatly astonished.

"Why--why," she stammered, "don't you think there is such a thing as
real love?"

"Certainly I do," he laughed, amused at her ingenuousness. "But I
don't think it's what the sentimental schoolgirl feels for the college
football player. As for love at first sight, I consider that simply
absurd. To my way of thinking, love isn't a spontaneous combustion.
It's a slow, steady growth and the soil in which it grows best
is--respect."

"Perhaps you are right," she said hesitatingly.

"I know that I am," he replied positively.

There was a short silence, when suddenly Stafford said:

"Who is this man that your sister is marrying?"

Virginia laid down her cup of tea and burst out laughing.

"Oh, he's so funny! I'm sure he would amuse you. Such an original! His
name is James Gillie."

He liked to encourage her to speak of herself and her family. It
seemed to bring them closer together. Pleasantly he asked:

"What does he do, this Mr. Gillie--doctor--lawyer--business man?"

Amused at his curiosity, Virginia shook her head. Laughingly she said:

"Nothing so substantial, I assure you. He's only a shipping
clerk--getting about $14 a week--"

Stafford stared in amazement. With an incredulous smile, he exclaimed:

"Only earning $14 a week and he has the impudence to ask your sister
to marry him?"

Virginia nodded.

"Oh, but you don't know Mr. Gillie," she went on. "He's sure he's
worth far more than that, and he has won sister over to the same
opinion. I have some doubts myself, but they are both quite convinced
that before long he will be a multi-millionaire. You see, he has
ideas. He invents things. He told us about one of his inventions the
other day. It was something that would help the railroads, and make
them and him fabulously rich--"

"An inventor, eh?" exclaimed Stafford, his business instinct quickly
aroused at the mention of railroads.

An idea suddenly occurred to him. Here, perhaps, was the opportunity
he had been seeking, the excuse he had been looking for. Under
pretence of wishing to meet the inventor, he might be able to induce
her to bring her prospective brother-in-law to the house, and since
Mr. Gillie could hardly accept the invitation alone, she would, of
course, be compelled to accompany him. He said nothing for a moment,
and then, turning and looking at his companion intently, said with
great earnestness:

"Miss Blaine, I wonder if you would do me a great favor."

Surprised at the request, and rather startled, Virginia looked up,
wondering what favor she, poor little stenographer, could possibly
render the millionaire. Quickly she replied:

"Certainly--anything in my power."

He bowed and went on:

"As you know, I am in the railroad business. As head of an important
transcontinental system, it is part of my work to investigate and look
into anything that may prove of value in improving our equipment. If
this Mr. Gillie has invented something really valuable, I'd like to
know what it is. If there is anything in it, I might be able to render
him a good service in bringing his invention promptly to the attention
of the right people. You can see yourself how important it is that I
should meet Mr. Gillie--"

Virginia flushed with mingled pleasure and embarrassment. She was
delighted at the thought that she might be able to advance Fanny's
interests, but Jimmie was such an impossible person! How could she
introduce him to a man of Mr. Stafford's polish and distinction? Yet
for Fanny's sake she ought not to let any opportunity slip by. Seeing
her hesitate, Stafford went on:

"Why couldn't you and your sister come and dine with me at Riverside
Drive next Saturday evening at seven o'clock? And bring Mr. Gillie
with you. I shall be delighted to meet your sister and her fiancé. It
will also be a good opportunity for you to look over some of my art
treasures--quite an interesting collection, I assure you, picked up
here and there, all over the world. Do come. Don't say no. I'll have
Oku, my Japanese butler, prepare a little dinner. We'll be merry as
crickets. Besides I think I can do your future brother-in-law a good
turn. You will come, won't you?"

He leaned forward, his eyes ardently fixed on hers. There was
something in his look, in his manner, which brought the color to her
cheeks, yet it was nothing at which she could take offence. On the
contrary, she had every reason to feel flattered and pleased. In her
heart she knew that this sudden anxiety to meet Jimmie was but a
pretext, and that it was she alone whom he really wanted to go and
admire the works of art in his beautiful Riverside home. Something
told her that this man loved her, and the very thought of it, with all
the possibilities it conjured up, sent through her a thrill of mingled
pleasure and alarm.

"Won't you?" he said again, in earnest, pleading tones.

There was a brief silence. Then, looking up, she said with a frank
smile:

"It is very good of you. Yes--we shall be very pleased. Saturday
evening, at seven."




CHAPTER VI


No.--Riverside Drive, an imposing apartment house of Spanish style of
architecture, situated in the most select and attractive section of
that aristocratic thoroughfare, was justly renowned in the
neighborhood for the size and magnificence of its suites and the ultra
_chic_ quality of its exclusive, wealthy patrons. No one ever
heard of rooms being vacant; people had been on the waiting list for
years and they were still waiting. Tenants never dreamed of leaving,
once they had been fortunate enough to secure a lease. It would be
surprising if they did, for in all New York there were no apartments
more desirable and comfortable.

Mr. Robert Stafford lived on the eighth floor, his rooms facing the
Hudson and commanding a superb view of the stately river below, which,
broad and turbulent, rushed by on its way to the sea, its surface
dotted with all kinds of steam and sailing craft. To the north, away
past Grant's Tomb, were the highlands of New Jersey and the
precipitous cliffs of the historic Palisades, which, as far as the eye
could reach, stretched away in a mist of purplish haze.

The decorations and appointments of the apartment would have brought
joy into the gloomy heart of the most blasé connoisseur. Entering a
spacious foyer with a lofty, elaborately decorated ceiling and walls
of white marble hung all round with tapestries, trophies and oil
paintings, the visitor passed through a number of wide halls, treading
on thick Oriental rugs until he reached the salon, a magnificent room
decorated in blue and gold with heavy gilt furniture to match, which,
in turn, opened on to the dining room, both looking on the Avenue and
commanding a fine view of the river. At the far end of the salon was a
large fireplace with a splendid mantel of beautifully carved marble, a
rare piece of decorative art from the north of Italy. The dining room,
panelled with rare woods, and hung with red, with panelled ceiling,
was separated from the salon by a folding door. The walls of both
rooms were covered with paintings, water colors and engravings, while
all about was a picturesque confusion of _objets d'art_ of every
description--Japanese ivories, rare porcelains, old English china,
Indian bronzes, antique watches, snuff boxes and bonbonnières,
curiously wrought brass and iron work, Peach Blow vases, Mexican
pottery, Satsuma ware, richly mounted weapons of the middle ages,
Japanese armor, long daggers from Toledo, delicate lattice work from
Venice, Florentine carvings, valuable Gobelins tapestries from Paris,
etc., etc.--a collection such as an Oriental potentate might envy.
The fame of the Stafford collection had gone far and wide, and the
railroad promoter had been criticized more than once because he did
not open his house more frequently for society's enjoyment. Ambitious
mothers saw in the wealthy bachelor a great catch for their daughters,
but it was in vain that they baited their matrimonial nets. Stafford
declined all invitations and lived himself the life of a hermit. He
was very seldom at home, the blinds were nearly always drawn, and the
place looked deserted. The only sign of life was an occasional glimpse
of faithful Oku, the Japanese butler, who, with downcast eyes and
stealthy tread, sometimes made a _sortie_ in search of food or
other household necessity.

A pure-blooded subject of the Mikado, Oku had come to America years
ago to make his fortunes; but, falling into the hands of the
Philistines directly he landed, found himself stranded in San
Francisco. Stafford had run across him there, took a fancy to him and
attached him to his person as a body servant. He had never regretted
it. Oku was one of those ideal retainers who, once they have found an
attachment, would rather die than betray their trust. His command of
the vernacular was only limited, but he was the very soul of courtesy
and politeness, and when not otherwise able to make himself
understood, would content himself by a number of low salaams,
accompanied by most apologetic exclamations of: "Excuse,
please--excuse, please," which original form of salutation, together
with his Far-Eastern air, was well in harmony with the oriental,
exotic surroundings of the place.

But this evening things were astir in the Stafford abode. Lights were
burning recklessly in every room and Oku had been running excitedly
about since early dawn. Had not his lord and master told him that
visitors were coming and to prepare dinner for five? Ah, now Oku was
indeed in his element! Instantly spurred to action, he had run here
and there, in and out of the shops, in search of the most toothsome
dainties. He had bought the choicest meats, the finest birds, big
mushrooms just picked, asparagus such as might make a king's mouth
water. Then there was the wine. The champagne must go on ice early.
His master liked it very cold--almost frozen. Then there were the
cocktails to get ready, and the cigars and the floral decorations,
with bouquets for the ladies and _boutonnières_ for the men.
Altogether, Oku had a busy day.

But he was repaid when at half past six that evening he stood in the
salon and cast a last glance over the banquet table to make sure that
nothing had been forgotten. Viewed through the folding doors and
literally groaning under the load of handsome silver, fine crystal,
snowy linen, and cut flowers, the table presented a picture calculated
to fill the heart of any host with pride.

Oku glanced anxiously at the clock. He devoutly prayed that his dear
master would soon come. It was a terrible responsibility for him to
bear alone. Another half hour and the company would arrive, and his
master had still to dress! The minutes sped by and no sign of Mr.
Stafford. Where could he be? The butler was beginning to worry in
earnest when the telephone bell suddenly rang. The butler feverishly
picked up the receiver just in time to hear his master say:

"Is that you, Oku?"

"Yes--Sir--Excuse--please--Sir!"

"Oku," came Stafford's voice, "I've been held downtown at my club. I'm
just starting for home. If Miss Blaine and her friends come, make them
comfortable until I arrive. Understand?"

"Yes--Sir--Excuse--please--Sir!"

The speaker rang off and Oku, more nervous and excited than ever now
that he was called upon to act as host as well as caterer, danced
about the apartment like a man possessed. Seven o'clock struck and
the echoes of the last stroke had barely died away when there came a
discreet ring at the front door bell. Quickly Oku pulled himself
together and summoning up his most dignified manner, threw the door
wide open. On the threshold stood Mr. James Gillie, accompanied by
Virginia and Fanny.

"Is this Mr. Stafford's apartment?" inquired Jimmie in his grandest
manner.

"Yes, sir," said Oku with a deep salaam. "Excuse, please, and come in!
Excuse, please!"

None of the visitors were in evening dress. The girls wore shirt
waists and Jimmie's chief claims to distinction were a clean shave and
freshly-pressed pants. At the last moment Virginia had wished not to
come at all for this reason. She had no evening frock and could not
afford to get one for a single occasion, and Fanny was in the same
straits. There had been a long argument over the matter and not a few
tears, until finally Fanny made it impossible for Virginia to hold out
any longer by declaring flatly that her whole future--hers and
Jimmies--was at stake. So Virginia surrendered with as good grace as
she could pretend--hoping inwardly that Mr. Stafford looked upon it
only as an informal affair and would be neither dressed himself nor
expect them to be.

Jimmie handed his coat and hat to the butler with as important an air
as he was able to assume, and, speaking for the ladies, who until now
had stood motionless in the background, said loftily:

"Tell Mr. Stafford the people he was expecting have come."

Oku salaamed profoundly, but did not budge.

"Excuse! But Mr. Stafford--he is not here," he said.

Jimmie looked blankly at the girls. With a grin at Virginia he
snickered:

"I told you being late was the proper thing."

Virginia turned to the butler. Anxiously she said:

"Isn't there some mistake?"

Oku shook his head, and throwing open the door of the salon, motioned
to them to enter.

"Excuse, please, but there is no mistake," he grinned. "Mr. Stafford
he say to me over telephone he is very sorry, but there is big meeting
and he not get away. He be here in half an hour."

The girls looked at each other in dismay. Jimmie made a grimace.

"Half an hour! Jumping Jupiter!" he exclaimed.

"He say he is very sorry," went on Oku apologetically, "but will hurry
quick as can. He say for you to wait till he come and he tell me to
say many time, 'Excuse, please! Excuse!'"

Virginia smiled. With quiet dignity she said:

"Very well--we understand--we will wait."

Oku put out his hand for their hats and coats.

"Give me hats, please--excuse, please."

While the girls divested themselves of their outer garments the little
butler chatted on in his quaint pigeon English:

"Mr. Stafford--he say to ask if you will have cocktail."

Jimmie had carelessly strolled over to a table and picked up a book.
On hearing the invitation to liquid refreshments he closed the volume
with a bang and turned round like a flash:

"I will," he exclaimed quickly.

A ludicrous expression of renewed interest suddenly replaced the
shipping clerk's rather disgusted expression. Anything was welcome
which promised to relieve the monotony of this society stunt, as he
had termed Mr. Stafford's invitation. It was against his will that he
had come at all. Why should he do this millionaire the honor of dining
with him? What was he to him? Because he was rich? Well, he guessed
not. If he had consented at Fanny's urgent pleadings, it was because
his fiancée had told him it would help Virginia. Mr. Stafford, Fanny
said, was simply crazy about her and might propose to her any day.
After all, it could do no harm to have a millionaire in the family.
Besides, he was a big railroad man. He might help him to do something
with his "no stop" idea. But he must be on his guard and not allow
sentiment to interfere with business. This Stafford must not think
that because he invited him to dinner and might one day become his
brother-in-law that he was going to get the "no-stop" invention cheap.
No, siree--no one should get the best of him!

Oku had approached Virginia, who, having crossed the room, was gazing
through the casement windows at the splendid view. Salaaming low, he
said:

"Miss--will take cocktail?"

"No--thank you," she answered with a smile.

The butler turned to Fanny, who looked significantly at Jimmie as if
desirous of consulting his wishes in so important a matter.

"Sure!" he said in an aside not intended to reach the butler's ears.

But Oku was nothing if not discreet. He never allowed himself to hear
anything. When Fanny nodded he merely inquired politely:

"What kind--please?"

Jimmie grinned and licked his lips. Turning to his future wife he
asked:

"What do you like?"

"What kind do you?" she laughed, anxious to keep him in good humor.

"Martini suits me all right."

Oku bowed to the ground.

"Yes, miss. Two Martini cocktails. Excuse, please! Excuse!"

With another profound salaam and retreating backwards towards the door
as if in the presence of royalty, the Japanese butler made an
impressive exit.

Jimmie had watched Oku's every movement with the greatest amusement.
When he was out of earshot he remarked with a chuckle:

"Great little chink, that!"

Fanny laughed. Teasingly she said:

"He's not a Chinaman, Jim. Don't you know a Japanese when you see
one?"

"They all look alike to me," he grinned.

Profiting by the butler's absence, the shipping clerk started on a
tour of critical inspection of the salon. Looking around, he exclaimed
with enthusiasm:

"Say--this is some room, eh?"

Virginia had left the window and was admiring some water-colors on the
walls. Overhearing the exclamation, she looked up, her glance taking
in the whole room.

"Yes--it is beautiful," she said ecstatically.

Fanny, who had been diligently rubbing the back of her magnificent
gilt chair to see if it was real gold leaf, broke in:

"While this place was being built I read in the paper that Mr.
Stafford was to pay $15,000 a year for his rooms."

Jimmie opened wide his eyes in amazement.

"Fifteen thousand a year--just for his rooms!" he exclaimed
incredulously.

He looked at Virginia as if expecting her to confirm the statement.

"Yes," insisted Fanny, "$15,000 a year."

The shipping clerk gave a low whistle.

"Why, that's nearly $300 a week!" he cried.

Fanny gave an affirmative nod, and her fiancé, putting on an injured
air as if Mr. Stafford's expenses had to come out of his own pocket,
went on:

"Three hundred dollars--just for his rooms, while I slave a whole
week, from eight in the morning till six at night for a measly
fourteen." With a disgusted shrug of his shoulders he added: "I tell
you there's something rotten in this country."

Virginia looked around apprehensively. She was afraid the butler might
have heard the ejaculation, which, considering he was Mr. Stafford's
guest, was certainly inexecrable taste. Not that she was surprised. By
this time she had learned not to look to her prospective
brother-in-law for Chesterfieldian manners. Quickly she said:

"Mr. Stafford didn't get more than fourteen when he was your age. He
was poor, too."

"Yes," chimed in Fanny with a toss of her head, "and when they raised
you from twelve at Christmas you thought you were doing great. I
remember how chesty you were about it."

Jimmie grinned. In tones meant to be tender he replied:

"Only because I figured that I might be gettin' eighteen pretty soon
and then we could get married." Eying her sheepishly, he went on: "Do
we still have to wait till I get eighteen, Fanny?"

"We certainly do," she retorted promptly. "A couple simply can't live
on less than eighteen."

The shipping clerk thrust his hands in his pockets and began to stride
up and down the room. Peevishly he exclaimed:

"I know it. That's what makes me so sore when I read about
millionaires like Stafford having luxurious private yachts, giving
fifty thousand for a picture and things like that. They have so much
money they don't know what to do with it, and yet all that stands
between me and happiness is four dollars a week _and I can't get
it_."

Virginia, who was sitting on the sofa, having become interested in a
cabinet full of curios close by, looked up with a smile. Encouragingly
she said:

"Don't worry, Jimmie, your chance will come just as Mr. Stafford's
did."

"Fine chance I've got," he growled; "third assistant shipping clerk in
a wholesale grocery. Why, the manager of the department only gets
thirty and he's been with the house twenty-six years."

"That's a sweet outlook for me, I must say," cried Fanny in dismay.
"If it takes a man twenty-six years to work up to thirty, I suppose
you'll be getting eighteen eleven years from the third of next
January."

Jimmie looked closely at both girls. He was not quite sure if they
were making fun of him. Apparently satisfied that, on the contrary,
they were in full sympathy with his troubles, he said:

"I'm doing my best and no fellow can do more! That's what makes me so
sore, I tell you. Here I am slaving away for fourteen a week and he
spends three hundred just for his rooms. I wonder how many rooms he
gets for that?"

"I think it's twelve and four baths," said Fanny.

"Four baths!" he gasped. "What in God's name can a bachelor do with
four baths?"

"Is there any reason he shouldn't have them if he can pay for them?"
demanded Fanny quietly.

"But what good are they to him," insisted her fiancé. "No matter how
much money he has, he can't be in more than one tub at a time. I
suppose he uses 'em Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
Saturday--and keeps the favorite for the special splash on Sunday."

Virginia looked at him scornfully.

"Do you realize," she exclaimed, "that Mr. Stafford has servants and
that he has friends come to stay with him occasionally?"

Abashed, the young man put his hands in his pockets and began to
whistle. He stood in considerable awe of Virginia.

"Oh, I hadn't thought o' that," he said mildly.

Flushing with vexation at his making such remarks, Fanny said to him
in a quick undertone:

"Take my advice and do think--once in a while. And get rid of that
temper, too. For the first time in our lives we're invited to dine
with a rich man and I, for one, want to enjoy it."

Jimmie opened his mouth as if to make some retort, when suddenly Oku
re-appeared carrying a tray in which was a tempting spread of
cocktails, cigarettes and cigars.




CHAPTER VII


While the butler was serving the cocktails, Virginia roamed through
the splendid suite of rooms, taking keen delight in examining at
closer range one and all of the art treasures they contained. She went
into silent ecstasies before a Da Vinci, a Rembrandt and other fine
examples of the old masters, and was held spellbound by the beautiful
modelling of a piece of modern French sculpture. She was not enough of
a connoisseur to be able to estimate each picture, each curio at its
true value, but she knew enough to realize that it was a very valuable
collection and one which very few persons were privileged to view. The
books with their fine bindings were likewise a source of particular
delight.

How happy, she mused, the possessor of such a paradise ought to be!
She wondered if he spent much time at home or if he preferred to
answer the call of the gay metropolis. He looked like a man who
enjoyed life. Why had he taken all this trouble for such obscure
persons as themselves? Why had he looked at her in that persistent,
admiring way? Could it be possible that he was really attracted to her
and had begun to think of her as a man does of the woman he wants to
marry? Was it conceivable that she could ever be the mistress of such
a beautiful home as this? What folly to even dream of such a
possibility! Possibly, he was attracted to her and liked her company,
but there was a vast difference between a fleeting whim and wishing to
make her his wife. And when her glance fell on Jimmie and Fanny
squabbling in the distance it was with some bitterness that she
realized the difference in their station, the width of the social
chasm between her and the set to which their host belonged.

"Excuse--please--excuse," spluttered the polite little Jap as he
gracefully presented the salver to each guest.

Fanny took a glass, followed in turn by Jimmie, who, extending his
clumsy hand, snatched one of the dainty glasses and put it to his
lips. The butler, all smiles and civility, placed the tray on a table
and again bowed low. Pointing to the tray, he said:

"Cigarettes and cigars! Is there anything else?"

"Not for me," replied Jimmie, making himself comfortable in a chair on
the other side of the table.

"Nor for me," smiled Fanny, graciously.

"No, thank you," added Virginia quickly. "We need nothing else."

"Then excuse, please. Excuse--"

The butler salaamed and withdrew, leaving Jimmie and Fanny sipping
their cocktails, while Virginia, still interested in the hundred and
one curios scattered about the rooms, strolled around alone.

"Some cocktail, eh?" grinned Jimmie, smacking his lips.

"Fine!" exclaimed his fiancée, emptying her glass and putting it down
on the table.

Suddenly the clerk's eyes, wandering idly around the room, alighted on
the tray filled with cigar and cigarette boxes which the butler had
left behind. Rising and going to the table, he stood staring greedily
at some expensive perfectos. Finally, unable any longer to withhold
his itching palm, he put out his hand and selected one. He lit it and
for a few moments puffed away with evident satisfaction. The more he
puffed and inhaled the weed's fragrant aroma, the more sorry he was
that he had none of the same brand at home. Acting on a sudden
impulse, he went back to the table and took half a dozen cigars out of
the box. He was about to stuff them into his pocket when Virginia,
stepping quickly forward, interfered:

"Jimmie!" she exclaimed indignantly.

He stayed his hand and rather shamefacedly placed the cigars back in
the box. Looking up, he demanded:

"Why not? He wouldn't mind."

"Just the same, it isn't a gentlemanly thing to do," she said
severely.

"If it comes to that," he retorted sharply, "I ain't a gentleman--I'm
a shipping clerk."

"Then, of course, there's nothing more to say," she answered, turning
her back. Picking up a book, she dropped into a chair and, ignoring
him, relapsed into a dignified silence.

But Jimmie was not to be suppressed by a mere rebuff. After a long,
sulky silence, during which he puffed viciously at his cigar, he
followed his prospective sister-in-law across the room. After staring
at her for some time, he inquired:

"How did you first come to know Mr. Stafford?"

At first the girl made no answer, pretending to be absorbed in what
she was reading. He repeated the question so pointedly that she would
not ignore it any longer. Looking up, she said rather impatiently:

"How many more times must I tell you? I was at my desk in the hotel
about three months ago and he came and wanted long distance--I think
it was Washington. There was some trouble getting his party and, as
people will, we got into conversation about it. I had no idea who he
was--"

Fanny, who had come up, listened intently to the conversation, and, to
encourage her little sister to become confidential, arranged some
pillows behind her back in motherly fashion. Long before this the
elder sister had come to conclusions of her own concerning Virginia's
acquaintance with the millionaire. When a man of his wealth and
position took the trouble to pay a girl of Virginia's station such
marked attention, capping the climax with this present invitation to
dine at his house, either his intentions were not avowable or else he
was very much in love and wanted to marry her, which last hypothesis
sent a thrill down the good sister's back. Virgie the wife of a
millionaire! It seemed incredible--too good to be true. It would be
the making of all of them. She was glad Jimmie had brought up the
subject.

"Did you know then who he was?" she asked.

Virginia laughed as if the question amused her.

"No," she replied, "to tell you the truth, I didn't much care. A girl
who handles a telephone desk at our hotel hasn't got much time to
bother about anything else."

"When _did_ you find out?" inquired Jimmie, suddenly taking a
lively interest in the conversation.

"About a month later--that day he sent downstairs for a stenographer.
I told you all about it at the time. I asked at the desk if it was all
right to go to his rooms. They told me who he was and explained that
he often transacted a lot of business there. That's how we got
acquainted. Since then, as you know, I have seen a great deal of him,
telephoning and doing copying for him. He has been very kind, indeed.
One day he asked me to go to dinner with him--"

"Did you?" demanded Jimmie.

"Certainly not," replied the girl emphatically. "Then he used to come
nearly every day. One time I--I think he had been--drinking."

"He was--drunk?" exclaimed Fanny in surprise.

"Oh, no! Not that," said Virginia quickly, "but I could see he had
been drinking."

"Just lit up a bit to show that he's human, eh?" said Jimmie with a
grin.

Paying no attention to the interruption, Virginia went on:

"I didn't like him quite so much after that. He asked me again--"

"And you wouldn't?" interrupted Fanny.

"Of course not!"

Jimmie chuckled. Crossing his legs and striking the ashes from his
cigar, he said:

"Say, but that was foxy!"

"What was?" demanded Virginia quickly.

"Making him think that he having money made no difference."

"It didn't."

"Sure it didn't," he laughed. "That was the way to play it."

"What do you mean?" cried the girl indignantly. "I wasn't 'playing'
anything or anybody."

Paying no heed to the frantic signs which Fanny was making for him to
keep silent, the shipping clerk went on:

"Why not? It's all in the game."

Ignoring him, Virginia continued:

"He finally asked me to dine with him here and to bring you and Jim. I
had told him about your being engaged."

The young man nodded approvingly. With a patronizing air he said:

"I'm beginning to think this fellow Stafford's on the level. He might
even want to marry you."

Virginia flushed scarlet. Confusedly she exclaimed:

"Don't be absurd!"

"But if he did," insisted Fanny, "_would_ you marry him?"

Jimmie laughed loudly:

"_Would_ she!" he chuckled. "Say, Fanny, are you crazy?"

Virginia shook her head. Slowly she said:

"I don't know that I would."

"What!" exclaimed the clerk, half starting from his chair. "Do you
mean to say that if any man as rich as Stafford was to ask you on the
level to be his wife that you wouldn't jump at the chance?"

Quite unmoved by his indignant outburst, the girl replied calmly:

"I've seen men who are twice as rich as Mr. Stafford that I wouldn't
marry if they gave me half their money as a wedding present."

The shipping clerk made a grimace, but reluctantly nodded approval.
Carelessly he said:

"In a way I can't say that I blame you. I've seen pictures of a lot of
these financiers and, believe me, they are the rummiest looking bunch
I ever set eyes on! But I didn't think Stafford was that kind."

"I thought he was rather distinguished looking," interrupted Fanny.

"He is," said Virginia quickly. "What's more--he's a gentleman."

Jimmie rose and walking over to where Virginia was sitting, stood
looking at her, his hands in his pockets. Almost sarcastically he
asked:

"Then see here, if--this--Mr. Stafford is distinguished looking and a
gentleman, as well as rich, will you please tell me what kind of a man
you want?"

The girl made no reply, but with a thoughtful expression on her face,
gazed through the window. It was now quite dark outside and the river
below was dotted here and there with the lights of steamboats and
sailing boats as they made their way up and down the broad stream.
Jim's chance remark had set her thinking. Others beside herself were
speculating as to the purport of Mr. Stafford's attentions? That they
were honorable she had not the slightest doubt, although at one time
she had been a little afraid of him. Those invitations to dinner and
his manner on one or two occasions she had rather resented, but for
some time past now he had quite changed. He was more respectful, more
sincere. Supposing the impossible were to happen--supposing he were to
ask her to be his wife? For all she knew, the proposal might come that
very evening. It might be part of the plan of this sudden impromptu
dinner. What would she say to him? Did she love him? Frankly she did
not--yet. Could she ever love him? The answer to that was in the
future. Ought a girl to marry a man whom she knew in her heart she did
not love? He was rich, the marriage was in every way desirable. She
would have every comfort, but could real happiness come of a marriage
which on both sides would be, after all, only a mockery, a hollow
sham?

Jimmie, impatient, repeated his question.

"Will you kindly tell us what kind of a man you want?"

Virginia looked up. Calmly she answered:

"I--I want a man I can love."

The clerk gave a low whistle. Sarcastically he said:

"If you can't love a man as rich as Mr. Stafford, take my advice and
go see a heart specialist."

"A girl can't love a man just because she wants to," replied Virginia
with dignity. "Love doesn't go where it's sent; it goes where it
pleases."

"That's right," interrupted Fanny. Turning to her fiancé she said:
"You don't suppose I loved a fourteen-dollar-a-week shipping clerk
because I wanted to, do you?"

Jimmie squirmed in his chair.

"What?" he exclaimed.

Quickly Fanny mended matters. With a conciliatory smile she added:

"I loved him just because I had to."

Immediately placated, the young man rose and, approaching his fiancée
in a manner intended to suggest the tenderest sentiment, he stuttered:

"Same here. The first time I ever set eyes on you, Fanny, something
inside o' me said: 'Me for her!'"

The girl laughed. Placing her hand over her heart, she said mockingly:

"And something here said, 'Him for me!'"

He stooped and kissed her and, taking her hand, they sat side by side
on the sofa together in the manner of all conventional lovers.
Virginia, who had watched them with amusement, shook her head. Sadly
she said:

"My heart never said anything like _that_ to _me_."

"Then perhaps it won't be that way with you," said Jimmie. "Perhaps
you'll learn to care for him by degrees like you would--say, for Mr.
Stafford."

"Don't talk nonsense," cried Virginia.

"He's interested in you, and if you play your cards right--"

"I'm not _going_ to play any cards."

"Let me tell you one thing," he said, rising and going to the table,
"a chance like this don't come to one girl in a million."

"Please!--" exclaimed Virginia, putting up her hand to stop his
talk.

But Jimmie was not so easily suppressed. Earnestly he went on:

"It's a chance of a life time. It means a lot to me and Fanny too."

"Yes, that's true," chimed in his fiancée.

Virginia turned and looked at her sister.

"How?" she demanded.

Jimmie, as usual, replied for his slower-witted partner:

"Do you think," he said, "I want to be a shipping clerk all my life?
Well, I don't. I've got ambitions. Yes, and I've got the ability. All
I need is a chance and I'd be one of 'em, too."

"One of what?"

"A captain of industry, a magnate, a financier."

"You!"

"Me."

"He could do it," exclaimed Fanny admiringly.

"You bet I could," he said positively. Turning to Virginia, he went
on: "And if you married Mr. Stafford and he gave me a chance, which as
his brother-in-law he certainly would--well, if I ever got a flying
start I'd show 'em a few things. I've got ability, I have."

"Why don't you prove it by getting eighteen dollars a week?" retorted
Virginia sarcastically.

Turning her back on him, she walked away and took a seat near the
window, where she could look out on the street. But he followed her:

"I thought you'd say something like that," he said. "It just shows how
much you know."

"Explain it to her, Jimmy," exclaimed Fanny.

"What's the good?" he replied scornfully. "She wouldn't understand.
But I will say this: If I had an opportunity to show some rich man
just what I could do, I'd be worth perhaps a million dollars in ten or
twelve years, and that would mean a swell house for you and me, and
servants, and automobiles and everything like that. I'd show 'em!"

Overcome by the vivid picture he had drawn, Fanny took his hands.
Enthusiastically she cried:

"Oh, Jimmy, wouldn't it be lovely? And perhaps we could get into real
society, too--perhaps we might meet the social leaders from Harlem and
Brooklyn whose pictures are in the papers every Sunday!"

"There'd be nobody we couldn't meet," he cried proudly.

"And fancy!" exclaimed Fanny--"fancy going to the dressmaker's,
picking out half a dozen dresses, having them sent home without even
asking the price, and letting them charge just as much as they like!
Wouldn't that be heavenly?"

"You can have all that and more," he cried exultingly.

Virginia shrugged her shoulders. The topic was becoming distasteful to
her. Impatiently she exclaimed:

"It's perfectly ridiculous!"

Going over to her sister, Fanny put her arm around her neck:

"All I want is for you to be happy, sis."

"I know it, dear," replied Virginia. "That's the way you've been
always."

"You're different to me," went on the elder sister.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You'd do any man credit."

"Oh, Fanny!"

"But I'd hate to see you try to keep house on eighteen per. That means
doing your own work, including the cooking--yes, and the washing--and
you weren't made for that."

"Don't worry about me--I'll be all right."

"I hope so," sighed Fanny.

"I will, don't fear," smiled Virginia.

Not yet discouraged the shipping clerk returned to the attack. Folding
his arms in authoritative fashion and addressing his future
sister-in-law he said severely:

"Will you give me a straight answer to a plain question? If Mr.
Stafford does ask you to marry him, will you? Come on, now, will you?"

"I won't talk about such things," retorted the girl.

Her face flushed up. It was easy to see that she was getting angry.
Shrugging his shoulders, the young man walked away, but sarcastically
he said:

"Well, if he does and you don't accept him, you'll be the biggest fool
that ever lived!"

"That's just what I say," laughed Fanny. "Ha! I wish he'd ask me!"

Quickly Virginia turned to her sister.

"Would you accept him?" she asked.

"Would I?" laughed Fanny. "Oh, would I?"

"And throw Jimmie over?"

"I'd throw Jimmie so far and so hard he'd think he was struck by a
cyclone."

"And I wouldn't blame her," said the young man, scratching his head.

Virginia looked in amazement from one to the other.

"I can't understand either of you," she exclaimed.

Never at a loss for an answer the clerk proceeded to explain:

"Why should I expect any girl to stick to me and fourteen per when she
can have a place like this? Look at this swell furniture, these rugs,
and them ornaments--" Going, over to the mantelpiece, he picked up one
of the costly Peach Blow vases, examined it critically for a moment
and turned to the girls: "I suppose this is one of them
peach--peach--something or other--vases I've read about."

"Peach Blow," corrected Virginia.

"That's it," he grinned. "I suppose it's worth six or seven thousand
dollars--"

"Be careful!" exclaimed Virginia warningly, "or you'll drop it."

The words were hardly uttered when Jimmie's foot caught in the rug and
he stumbled, dropping the vase, which broke into two pieces.
Bewildered, horrified, he stood still, surveying with dismay the
fragments at his feet.

"Now you've done it!" he exclaimed hoarsely.

"I have?" exclaimed Virginia indignantly.

"Yes--I shouldn't have dropped it if you hadn't shouted at me."

Picking up the pieces, he tried to fit them together.

Fanny, frightened out of her wits, was speechless.

"I think we'd better go home!" she gasped.

Virginia alone remained cool.

"Don't be foolish," she said.

"Wait a bit! Wait a bit!" cried Jimmie; picking up the pieces and
putting them together. "Look here. How's that for luck? They fit
perfectly. No one will know the difference." Replacing the mended vase
where he had found it, he added: "We'll leave it just like that and
he'll think the Jap did it."

"Fine!" cried Fanny thoughtlessly, grasping at any excuse which
promised to exonerate them.

But Virginia would not permit it.

"We'll do nothing of the kind," she exclaimed indignantly.

"If we don't, he'll think we've done it," said Jimmie apprehensively.

The girl gave him a look that made him quail.

"He's not only got to think it," she said severely--"he has got to
know it."

"But if he does--"

As he spoke the front door bell rang in the outer hall. Quickly he
added: "I'll bet that's him! Shall you tell him?"

"I certainly shall if you don't," replied Virginia firmly.

Oku passed hurriedly through the room on his way to open the front
door.

"Excuse, please, excuse--"

Nervous at meeting her host, Fanny began to mop her face desperately.

"I'm so nervous!" she said. "Do I shake hands with him when I'm
introduced or just say 'pleased to meet you?'"

Virginia laughed heartily.

"Behave as you would with anyone else," she said.

"How do you feel, Jimmie?" inquired Fanny.

There was an expression of comical consternation on the shipping
clerk's face as he pointed to the broken vase.

"I'm not worrying about meeting him," he said ruefully. "I'm worrying
about that--"

The next instant the door leading to the hall opened and Robert
Stafford entered.




CHAPTER VIII


Their host advanced, hand extended, his frank, boyish face lit up with
a cordial smile.

It was hard to realize that this youthful looking man with black hair
not yet tinged by a suspicion of gray, and whose erect, athletic
figure suggested the football field rather than the counting room, was
one of the most influential railroad men in the country, the master of
a large fortune amassed by his own painstaking efforts, his own
energy, initiative and ability.

Attired himself in a plain business suit, a quick glance at his
visitors' dress had already told him that he could dispense with the
formality of changing for dinner. Shaking hands with Virginia, he said
in his usual hearty fashion:

"Well, how are you? I'm so sorry I am late. Oku explained, didn't he?"

"Perfectly," smiled Virginia. "He took good care of us."

Turning to Fanny, he said:

"This, I presume, is your sister--"

Virginia hastened to make introductions:

"Fanny," she said, "let me introduce Mr. Stafford."

The host bowed and smiled pleasantly, while Fanny, embarrassed, not
knowing whether to offer her hand, felt awkward and ill at ease, as do
most people who, going seldom into society, are not in constant
practice with its civilities.

"I'm very pleased, indeed, to meet you, Miss Blaine," said Stafford,
bowing.

"And this," went on Virginia, turning to her brother-in-law elect, who
stood gaping in the background, "is Mr. Gillie--just 'Jimmie' we call
him, don't we, Fanny?"

"Yes--Jimmie--of course," stammered Fanny, blushing furiously.

Stafford held out his hand and gave the shipping clerk a grip that
made him wince.

"How do you do, Mr. Gillie?"

"How are you?" returned Jimmie with an indifferent nod as he nursed
his crushed fingers behind his back.

Stafford beamed good-naturedly on all three. He looked genuinely glad
to see them, and this immediately set his guests at their ease. He may
not have really felt the cordial welcome he gave them, but he looked
as if they were just the people whose society he enjoyed most, a happy
knack which some men possess of adapting themselves to their
environments, and which had always been the secret of his popularity
with men and women both. His manner was so natural, so free from
restraint and pose, that even Fanny, timid and nervous as she was,
felt reassured.

But while he was affable with all, he had eyes only for Virginia. The
others he would willingly have dispensed with, especially the shipping
clerk, whom he had sized up with one quick glance. He winced as he
took note of the man's cheap, ready-made clothes and boorish manners.
Decidedly he was quite impossible, but for the pleasure of a few
moment's _tête-à-tête_ with Virginia, he was ready to make any
sacrifice--even to meet on equal social terms a Mr. Gillie.

"Are you quite sure," he went on apologetically, "that I am forgiven
for keeping you waiting? Believe me, it was absolutely unavoidable or
it wouldn't have happened."

"Oh, yes," rejoined Virginia quickly, "we're quite sure of that."

The host turned to the Japanese butler, who was busy at the table,
placing the empty cocktail glasses on the tray.

"Did you explain thoroughly, Oku?" he asked.

The man looked up.

"Yes, sir. I tell you have big meeting and say 'very much excuse,
please.'"

"That was right," rejoined his master, with a laugh. "Now get me the
menu."

Oku picked up the tray and made for the door.

"Yes--excuse, please. Excuse."

When his butler had disappeared, Stafford turned to his guests with a
smile:

"Queer little chap, isn't he? He is very devoted, and I find him very
useful. You see, being a bachelor, I don't keep house, but if I have a
little party like this, I generally leave the selection of the dinner
to Oku and have it served in there--" He pointed to the dining-room,
the folding doors of which the butler had closed. With a good-natured
laugh, he added: "He has shut the doors so we can't see the spread. I
hope the little beggar has something good."

Jim, who, until now, had remained in the background, trying to summon
up enough courage to take an aggressive part in the conversation,
spoke up boldly:

"Nice little place you have here, Mr. Stafford."

There was an amused expression, which did not escape Virginia's
notice, hovering around the corners of the millionaire's mouth, as he
replied:

"Glad you like it. Have you seen the other rooms?"

"No," replied the clerk carelessly, as he flecked the ashes from his
cigar on to the fine Turkish rug. "I'm judging by this one--"

At that moment Oku re-entered the room, bearing in his hand a menu,
which he handed to his master. Stafford glanced over it and nodded
approvingly, then, taking out a pencil, he made one correction. This
done, he handed it back.

"I think that will do nicely. Have dinner served when ready."

"Yes--sir--excuse, please."

The butler was about to leave the room, when his master called him
back.

"Oku--just a moment." Turning apologetically to the others, he said:

"Will you excuse me?" In an undertone to the butler, he said: "I
shan't dress to-night--"

Oku salaamed.

"Anything else, sir?"

"No--you can go."

"Then excuse--please. Excuse--"

The butler disappeared and the host rejoined his guests. Addressing
the shipping clerk amiably, he said:

"I'm glad you like this room, Mr. Gillie."

There was no sarcasm in his voice, nor did he intend any. The railroad
promoter was in good humor that evening, and he wanted his guests to
feel perfectly at home, but Jimmie, in his ignorant egotism thought
that his host was really flattered by his praise. Patronizingly, he
said:

"I do, for a fact. I think it's all right."

Pointing to the library beyond, the millionaire said carelessly:

"My best things are in that room. But there are some here that are
rather good, I think. Did you notice this?" He picked up from a table
a piece of carved ivory and held it so that all might see. "It was
carved by a Japanese master nearly eight hundred years ago."

"Did he get much for it?" asked Jimmie, opening wide his eyes.

"Who," smiled Stafford, "the carver?"

"Yes."

"Probably a few cents a day."

"A few cents a day?" gaped the clerk.

"Yes."

Jimmie whistled and walked away. Contemptuously he said:

"He ought to have joined the Carvers' Union."

Stafford laughed.

"There was none in those days," he said. "Even if there had been he
wouldn't have joined. He was an artist; he worked for the joy of
working."

Jimmie snickered. Sneeringly he said:

"He knew his own business best, I suppose, but I've never seen a man
who could raise a family on that."

Replacing the ivory back in the cabinet where it belonged, Stafford
turned to the mantel and pointed to the Peach Blow vase, which only a
few moments before had met with disaster. But the damage was not
visible from a distance, and with the natural pride of a collector
showing one of his most valued possessions, the railroad man said:

"I have one or two Peach Blows that I think are rather good. There is
one up there which I am particularly fond of."

Jimmie more and more nervous gave his fiancée a nudge. In a frightened
undertone he whispered to her:

"It's coming! It's coming!"

To hide her confusion, Fanny pretended to be very busy with her
handkerchief. Stafford, meantime, had gone up to the bookcase.
Reaching up his hand so he could take hold of the vase by its neck,
the millionaire went on:

"This vase is said to be--"

His hand touched the vase, but, instead of lifting it, he simply
lifted up the piece which had been broken off. For a moment he stared
at the fragment in amazement, while the others looked on in silent
consternation. There was an ominous pause. Jimmie, turning pale, could
feel his heart thumping violently against his ribs.

"Why, it's broken!" exclaimed their host.

"Yes--" said Jimmie quickly.

"Why--so it is!" gasped Fanny, on the theory that an expression of
bewilderment on her part would exonerate her from suspicion.

Stafford stood still, trying to fix the two pieces together. He was
quite cool and to all appearances the least concerned of the four.
There was not even a note of impatience in his voice as he said:

"Oku must be more careful. I never knew him to do a thing like this
before."

Virginia approached her future brother-in-law. In a quick undertone
she said:

"Tell him."

"Not on your life," he answered in the same tragic whisper. "He
doesn't suspect us. We can get away with it."

Utterly disgusted, Virginia moved toward her host.

"Mr. Stafford!" she said loudly and firmly.

He looked up, surprised at her manner and tone.

"Yes?" he smiled.

"Oku didn't break it."

Stafford stared at her in amazement.

"Didn't he?"

"No."

"Really?"

"No--it wasn't Oku." She hesitated a moment; as if still unwilling to
disclose the real culprit, Finally she said: "We--we did--it."

An expression of amused surprise came over his face, as he echoed:

"Did we?"

He looked from one to the other, his glance finally failing on Fanny.
Alarmed at his scrutiny, she hurriedly pointed to her sister and her
fiancé:

"Not me! Them!" she exclaimed.

Stafford smiled. Although it meant a serious loss, to say nothing of
the blow to his pride as a collector he was too much the man of the
world to betray annoyance or to permit a little accident of that kind
to spoil the evening's enjoyment. Courteously he said:

"It doesn't matter in the least."

Ashamed to hide behind a woman's skirts any longer, Jimmie now came
forward. In a halfhearted fashion, he said:

"I was looking at it when Virginia suddenly addressed me and I dropped
it." With airy self-assurance, he added: "Of course I'll pay for it."

Stafford shrugged his shoulders. Carelessly he said:

"Please don't give it another thought, any of you."

Leaving her companions, Virginia approached her host. Looking up at
him earnestly, she said in an undertone:

"I can't tell you how sorry I am."

He was so tall that, standing close by she had to look up at him. As
he stood there, so big and strong, smiling down at her, taking
good-naturedly what might well have irritated any man, she thought to
herself how handsome and nice he was. Looking into her eyes with the
same ardent expression she had so often noticed in his glance, he said
softly:

"The only thing that I could possibly regret is the fact that the
incident might throw a little cloud over what I hope will be a very
pleasant evening. If you want to be really good to me, you will
promise me you won't even think of it again. Is it a promise?"

"I'll do my best," she murmured.

"Thank you." Turning to Fanny, he said: "And you?"

"Of course," she replied confusedly; "it wasn't any of my
affair--but--"

"Then it can't bother you," he laughed.

"No," she smiled.

The host turned to the shipping clerk.

"Mr. Gillie?"

Jimmie assumed a ludicrous expression. Hesitatingly he said:

"I feel as though I ought to pay for it."

"Oh, no, no!" laughed Stafford.

"Yes," exclaimed the clerk, as if fully prepared to pay out $3,000 at
a moment's notice, "that's the way I feel, but if you insist--"

"And I certainly do," said his host decidedly.

"Then," rejoined the clerk reluctantly, "I suppose I shall have to let
the matter drop."

Stafford smiled.

"Then it is settled. Good!" Turning to Virginia, he said: "I think you
told me that your sister and Mr. Gillie are engaged."

"Yes."

Going up to Fanny and her betrothed, he extended a hand to both:

"Congratulations! I hope you'll both be very, very happy."

"Thank you," said Fanny, with a little courtesy.

"Oh, I guess we'll be all right," said Jimmie airily.

Dropping into the easy chair near the table, the clerk helped himself
uninvited to another cigar. Stafford took another seat near him, while
Virginia and her sister continued to find pleasure in examining some
of the art treasures scattered all about them.

"May I ask when the wedding takes place?" inquired the host after a
pause.

Withdrawing the perfecto from his lips. Jimmie threw back his head and
blew a ring of smoke up to the ceiling.

"That depends," he replied carelessly, "on how--a--a--business venture
of mine turns out."

Now at close range, Stafford scrutinized his guest more narrowly.
Quickly he took note of his ill-fitting clothes, cheap tie, frayed
linen and shabby shoes. He hardly looked the kind of man likely to be
burdened with heavy business responsibilities. Nodding
sympathetically,
so as to encourage confidence, he said:

"I see. What business are you in, Mr. Gillie?"

"I'm a shipping clerk."

"Then you are not in business for yourself?"

"No--that is, not now--though I hope to be some day. You see, I have
ambitions."

The millionaire nodded approvingly.

"That's right. Every young man should be ambitious."

"I want to do something big," went on his _vis-à-vis_
confidently. "I have the ability. All I need is the chance to prove
it."

"H'm," said Stafford, with a slight tinge of scepticism in his voice.
"In what direction do you think your talents lie, Mr. Gillie?"

"Finance! Organization!" exclaimed the clerk enthusiastically. "I've
got ideas, too! For instance, Mr. Stafford, did you ever stop to think
of the money there would be in a Chewing Gum Trust?"

"No, I must confess I never did," laughed his host.

"Well--there's big money in it," said Jimmie confidently. "I've
figured it all out. I'd like to tell you about another scheme of mine,
which is going to revolutionize railroading in this country--cut down
train time one-half. I told the girls about it; they think it's
great!"

Stafford nodded.

"Yes--Miss Virginia mentioned it to me. You must tell me what it is
some day."

Inflating his chest, Jimmie sat back in his chair and puffed more
vigorously at his cigar. Decidedly he was getting on. Here he was
discussing business opportunities with one of the biggest men in New
York. Carelessly he added: "I've got lots of other good ideas, too,
but I suppose I'll never be able to work 'em out. What chance has a
shipping clerk got?"

Stafford looked at his interlocutor for a moment without speaking.
Then suddenly and emphatically, he said:

"Mr. Gillie, the business world is actually hunting to-day for men big
enough to hold big positions. I don't mean mere fifty-thousand-dollar
men. I mean hundred-thousand-dollar men. There is a better chance now
for the really big man than there ever was."

"But how is a fellow going to prove he is a big man?" inquired the
clerk, removing the cigar from his mouth.

"By doing whatever work in which he is engaged in a big way. The man
who says to himself 'I'm too good for this job,' but only says it,
will probably have it for the rest of his life. But the man who says
'I'll show my boss that I'm too good for it,' and does his work in a
way that proves it--the feet of such a man are on the road that leads
to the City of Big Things!"

Virginia, who had come near enough to overhear the last few words,
stood listening, fascinated.

"The City of Big Things!" she echoed.

Stafford laughed. Rising and turning to Virginia, He said courteously:

"But we didn't come here to talk business and such subjects as that."
Changing the topic, he asked: "Have you read any of the new books,
Miss Blaine?"

"I'm afraid not," she smiled.

"Virgie hasn't had much time to read lately," interrupted Fanny.

"Busy?" demanded their host.

"Well, it's this way," explained the elder sister, "we've had a lot of
sewing to do, and three times in the last two weeks she's taken me to
the art galleries to look at the pictures."

"Really!" exclaimed Stafford.

"Yes," broke in Jimmie, with a grin, "one time they took me. Some of
the pictures were great, but I couldn't stand for those milk chocolate
Dutch women with the Mellen's Food babies. I like pictures with
something doing in them for mine--such as battles and sea pictures."

The millionaire pointed towards the room beyond the salon. He said:

"If you are fond of paintings of battle scenes, I have two
Meissoniers, which I think rather good. They are in the library
there--"

"Can I see them?" demanded the clerk, anxious to pass for a
connoisseur.

"Certainly," replied his host. Turning to Fanny, he added: "There's
also a collection of fans. I think it would interest you, too."

"I am sure they will," she smiled. "Will you excuse us?"

"Certainly--"

She went towards the library and at the threshold turned and called to
her fiancé, who was lingering behind.

"Coming, Jimmie?"

"Surest thing you know," he grinned, rising to go and join her.
Stafford accompanied them as far as the library door. Pointing all
around, he said:

"The books and the engravings will interest you. You needn't hurry.
Oku will let you know when dinner is served."

"Very well," smiled Fanny. "You and Virginia please excuse us. Jimmie
and I will just browse in here for a while."




CHAPTER IX


Glad of the opportunity which allowed him a few minutes alone with
the girl whose personality had taken so strong a hold upon him,
Stafford gently closed the door, and, returning quickly, took a seat
near Virginia.

"Well--Miss Blaine?" he smiled.

"Well--Mr. Stafford?"

"Here we are all alone," he said, looking at her admiringly.

There was a strange look in his eyes, a longing, appealing look, as if
he had something on his mind to which he did not dare give expression.
For a moment the girl regretted that she had not followed her sister.
It was embarrassing under the peculiar circumstances to be alone there
with him. There was a long pause, during which neither spoke. At last
Virginia said:

"Why didn't you let me see the pictures too? You know that I'm
interested in books and pictures."

She made a movement, as if about to follow the others, but instantly
he put out his hand to detain her.

"Not yet, please. I have so many things I want to talk to you about."

In spite of herself, Virginia smiled at his boyish earnestness of
manner.

"What, for instance?"

"Among them is--myself."

"I know a great deal about you already," she said. "The newspapers and
magazines have been full of the history of the man who, starting with
nothing, has become a power in the railroad and financial world. It
only needed one thing to make it fit for the model young man's
story-book--it neglected to say--'our hero neither drinks nor
smokes.'"

"It couldn't," he laughed. "I do both."

"Another public idol shattered!" she exclaimed merrily.

He joined in the fun with her, in his frank, boyish way.

"Behave, now!" he laughed.

Virginia grew more serious. Thoughtfully she continued:

"In the last interview which the newspapers had with you--"

"Probably faked--" he interrupted.

"You neglected to say, 'making my first thousand dollars was the
hardest task of all.' All successful men do that; why not you?"

He looked at her for a moment in an amused kind of way. Then
carelessly he answered:

"Making the first thousand was about the easiest for me. I got hold of
some information about a certain stock, borrowed a hundred from a
friend, put it up as margin in a bucket shop, and by pressing my luck,
made and got my first thousand without any trouble whatever."

Virginia looked straight at him, admiration as much for his
personality as for his achievements showing plainly in the expression
of her large, black eyes. Slowly she said:

"And it was that, I suppose, which started you on the way to the City
of Big Things. I like that phrase--The City of Big Things.'"

He nodded as he answered: "It's a great city--the only one worth
living in."

"And you are one of the most prominent inhabitants."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that," he laughed in an embarrassed
sort of way. "Still, every one in the city knows I'm living there."

The girl made no reply, but absent-mindedly looked away in the
direction of the library, where Fanny and her intended were heard
chattering. For a few moments she sat still, as if engrossed in
thought. Then suddenly she turned toward him. Impulsively she said:

"I wonder how it must feel to be a man--and successful!"

He laughed lightly, as he answered:

"It feels great! To know that you've done something; to know that
you've made a name and a place for yourself; to realize that no one
dare try to walk over you; to feel that your bitterest enemy respects
you and your rights because if he doesn't it means a fight to the
finish--that makes a man feel good--"

"I should think it would!" she exclaimed.

"And then," he went on, "success means money, and money means power,
and luxury and every comfort that the world can give. If a successful
man wishes to travel by land, he has his private car, if he wishes to
travel by sea, he has his own yacht, and so it goes."

"It must be wonderful to be like you, and have everything that you
could wish for."

He smiled at her enthusiasm, and then his manner suddenly became more
serious. In a tone which had peculiar emphasis, he said:

"I didn't say that I had everything I could wish for."

"Well, haven't you?" she demanded, as if surprised that a man so
wealthy, so successful, could possibly lack anything he really
desired.

"No," he replied slowly, "I haven't a home."

Still she appeared not to understand. Looking around at the
magnificence all about her, she exclaimed:

"Why, all this is so beautiful--"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"This?" he echoed. "This isn't a home. It's merely the place in which
I live--sometimes."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, light beginning to dawn upon her.

He went on:

"Furniture, pictures, tapestries, books--they don't make a home. Only
a woman can do that--"

He stopped short and looked fixedly at her, a deep, searching look, as
if he would read her very soul. Their eyes met, and instinctively she
divined what his words implied and at whom they were directed. The
moment she had dreaded had come at last. This man was about to ask her
to marry him. Instead of exulting at this triumph, this conquest which
would make her the envied wife of a millionaire, she was suddenly
seized by a nervous dread. With pale face and trembling lips, she
waited for him to speak, her heart throbbing so furiously that she
could almost hear the beats. The time had come when she must make up
her mind. She liked him, but she did not love him. She must either
refuse this millionaire and voluntarily forego the life of
independence and luxury such a marriage would mean, or she must be
false to her most sacred convictions and marry a man she did not love.
Most girls would not hesitate. It was an opportunity such as rarely
presented itself. They would marry him first and find out if they
cared for him afterwards. But she was not that kind of a girl. She
believed in being true to her principles. She did not love him. She
admired his strength, his masterful energy; she respected his success
and achievements in life, but between such regard and real affection
for the man himself there was a wide gulf. If she was to be true to
the opinions she had always held concerning the marital relationship,
she must be candid and honest with herself and with him, no matter
what material advantages were to be gained by such a union. No
happiness could come of a marriage that was not based on material
regard or affection. They had known each other too short a time. He
might think now that he cared for her very much, yet it might not be
love which he felt for her at all, but only a horrible counterfeit,
which goes by the same name and which, like a fierce flame, flares up
suddenly and then dies down again. She was sufficiently sophisticated
and world-wise to gauge at its true worth the violent attraction for
the opposite sex which passion engenders in some men--an irresistible,
uncontrollable desire, which must be satisfied at any cost, even at
the price of their own happiness. Afterwards, when the novelty had
worn off, he might be sorry and she would be very, very unhappy. Was
it worth the sacrifice?

Stafford, bending over the arm of the chair on which she was seated,
came so near that he almost touched her. She could feel his warm
breath on her cheek. His eyes ardently fixed on hers, he whispered:

"Virginia--will you make a home for me? Will you be my wife?"

[Illustration: "VIRGINIA--WILL YOU MAKE A HOME FOR ME?" PAGE 137]

Startled, the girl drew back as if she had been stung. She had
expected the proposal, yet when it came she was taken completely by
surprise.

"Your wife!" she faltered.

"Yes--my wife."

She turned and looked straight at him. Agitated as she was within, her
manner did not betray it. Calmly she said:

"You take me by surprise. I am greatly flattered, but--is it not
rather sudden? We know so little of each other--"

Impulsively he seized her hand, and held it tight in his. She did not
attempt to withdraw it. He was so moved that he could scarcely control
his voice:

"I do not have to know you long to be convinced that you are the only
woman with whom I could be happy."

"But are you convinced?" she persisted. "Do you really love me?"

Abruptly he released her hand and sat up. In his eyes flashed the same
ardor as before, but somehow the expression of his face had changed.
He was no longer the eager unsophisticated lover, ready to do
anything, say anything, in order to gain his end, but the resourceful,
masterly man, accustomed to direct and control his own affairs, the
man who will brook no interference with his will, even from the woman
who may bear his name. Slowly, almost coldly, he replied:

"You wish for the truth?"

"Yes."

He drew himself up and looked her squarely in the face. There was
nothing of the lover in his manner now. An observer would have thought
he was discussing with her some matter of business. And to him it was
a matter of business--a matter to be discussed from every point of
view and, above all, honestly. There must be no misunderstanding from
the start. In this, he thought as she did. Their opinions on this one
point were in curious harmony. He would not lie to her. He would make
her his wife, give her all the money, all the furbelows, all the
luxuries her heart desired, but he would not pretend something that
was not. He would play cards upon the table. Guardedly he said:

"I feel always that I want to be near you, to be tender to you, to
look after and guard you, shield you from all trouble and harm--if
that is love, then I love you."

"And if I don't consider that--love?" she demanded, with a little
nervous laugh.

The millionaire shook his head.

"Then I am afraid that I shall never love any one," he said. "You see,
life with me has been one long fight. As a boy, I fought for bread; as
a youth, I fought for an education, as a man, I fought for success.
Everything I possess to-day I have wrested from the world, and while
getting it I have been too busy for romance and love-making. But I
think this will prove what regard I have for you. I have been
attracted to many women, but you are the only woman I have ever asked
to marry me. I await your answer. Will you be my wife?"

The girl looked up at him, gazing earnestly Into his eyes, as if
trying to read there if he was the kind of a man to whom a girl might
entrust her happiness. Slowly she said:

"You don't even trouble to ask if I love you?"

"I don't expect you to--yet," he answered, with a smile.

"And you would have me marry you, knowing that I do not love you?"

"But I think you like me--a little. Don't you?"

"Do you wish for the truth?"

"Yes."

"I do like you--more than like you--but I don't love you--yet."

"Do you love any other man?"

"No."

"Do you like any other man more than you like me?"

"No."

Once more he bent forward. Eagerly he said:

"Then give me a chance--marry me, and I'll make you love me."

"You'll--make me--" she echoed.

"Yes," he murmured ardently. "I'll make you! And when once I have your
love, I'll hold it against the world! Be my wife! I'll be a loyal and
faithful husband. You shan't have a single care. You shall have every
luxury that money can buy. Virginia--will you marry me?"

His words, vibrating as they were with passion, sounded to her ears
like music. Was this, then, the love call which nearly every woman
heard some time in her life? And even if it was not love, would she
not be a fool to let slip an opportunity such as came only to a few?
At least he was as honest as herself. He admitted it was not love he
felt for her, but in time love would come to bless their union, there
was no doubt of that. Did any newly married couple really love each
other at first? It was impossible, yet no one had the courage to admit
it. She must decide and quickly. Her future was at stake--Fanny's
future, too--for her own prosperity would naturally help her sister.
Then, besides, he was such a nice, kind man. There was no reason she
should not be happy. As she looked at him sideways, and noted his
strong profile, his big, muscular frame, his air of energy and power,
and thought of his success, his prominent position, his good
reputation, she wondered to herself what more any girl could ask in a
husband.

Suddenly she felt his hand close upon hers. Gently but firmly he drew
her to him. She did not resist, but closed her eyes, feeling a
delicious thrill at the sensation of this big, strong man taking
possession of her in spite of her will. Her head fell back, and he
leaned forward until his lips nearly touched hers. But they went no
further. He held himself in control, as if holding back until his lips
had the right to seal their troth. Softly he murmured:

"Tell me--tell me, Virginia--will you marry me?"

Like a little frightened bird, helplessly fluttering its wings in the
captor's strong hands, she trembled under his caress.

"I don't know what to say," she murmured. "Give me time."

"Say yes," he murmured amorously.

Suddenly some one behind them coughed discreetly. Virginia, startled,
sat up in confusion. She and Stafford had been so completely engrossed
that they had not heard the entrance of Oku, who had come in to
announce that dinner was ready.

"Excuse, please! Dinner, it is served!"

His master motioned him to go into the next room.

"Go and tell Miss Blaine and Mr. Gillie," he said in a slightly
annoyed tone.

The servant disappeared, and Stafford, inwardly cursing Oku for the
interruption, returned to the attack.

"Won't you say yes?" he pleaded.

But the spell was broken--for the time at least. Virginia had risen,
and was busy rearranging her rumpled dress.

Glad of the interruption, she shook her head. It was too serious a
matter to be settled so quickly. She must have time to think.

"Not now," she murmured.

"Yes," he persisted, again approaching her.

Her very resistance spurred him on. Like most men, he valued most what
he could not have. Had she yielded readily, he would have thought less
of her. She drew back, as if avoiding his embrace.

"You must give me time to consider," she whispered.

Stafford was about to insist, when suddenly the folding doors behind
them were thrown open, disclosing the elaborately laid dining table.
At the same instant Fanny and her fiancé reappeared from the library.
Giving Virginia a quick glance, as if anxious to know what had
occurred during their absence, the elder sister said:

"Those pictures are lovely, aren't they, Jim?"

"Fine," he exclaimed.

Stafford bowed in acknowledgment.

"I'm glad you liked them," he smiled. Turning to the younger sister,
he added: "Shall we go in to dinner?"

Virginia, who had been standing with her back to the dining room, her
face clouded in deep thought, turned round. An exclamation of surprise
and delight escaped her lips when she caught sight of the elaborate
spread made in her honor.

"Oh, isn't it beautiful!" she exclaimed rapturously.

The table, with its corbeils of fruit, beautiful silver, floral
pieces, snowy linen, fine crystal, the whole dominated by a superb
electrolier, which cast color over all, was indeed a spectacle to
delight and fascinate the eye. Jimmie was so overcome by the sight,
that he nearly fell over the chair which the accommodating Oku held
out for him. At last all were seated, Virginia at the right hand of
the host, Fanny at the left, the shipping clerk at the other end of
the table.

"Wine, Oku, the wine!" cried Stafford, while his guests began to
nibble the dainty appetizers which preceded the more substantial
dishes.

The little butler, quick as lightning, filled the glasses with
foaming, hissing champagne. The host, his eyes fixed on Virginia, rose
to his feet, glass in hand, while Jimmie, unaccustomed to such fine
surroundings, and feeling rather out of place, looked up and stared.
Slowly Stafford raised his glass. Impressively he said:

"Before we begin dinner, I have a toast to propose--"

Fanny and Jimmie looked up.

"A toast!" they cried in surprise.

Stafford, his eyes still on Virginia, went on:

"I have the honor of proposing the happiness of Virginia--my future
bride!"

Virginia started and turned pale and red in turn.

[Illustration: RAISING HIS GLASS HE SAID: "TO VIRGINIA--MY FUTURE
BRIDE!" PAGE 144]

Jimmie, with an audible exclamation of satisfaction, nearly choked
over his champagne. Fanny, overjoyed, took her sister's hand,
exclaiming:

"Really, Virgie! This is a surprise, and you didn't tell me?"

"It--isn't--definite," stammered Virginia helplessly. "I--haven't--
promised."

Stafford laughed--the low, triumphant laugh of a man who knew he held
the winning card. Again raising his glass, he said significantly:

"No, dear, but you will. To the future Mrs. Stafford!"




CHAPTER X


For some time after the merry dinner in Robert Stafford's beautiful
apartment Virginia saw but little of her wealthy suitor. In fact, she
rather avoided him, preferring not to give the appearance of
encouraging him, firstly because she had not yet made up her mind
regarding the honor he had done her, secondly because it was not
always easy to invent excuses for further delay in arriving at a
decision. Yet, situated as she was, it was not possible to hide from
him altogether. There were daily duties to be performed; the business
routine of every day must go on. When in the hotel or its neighborhood
Stafford never neglected an opportunity to see her, or when he was not
able to come himself he sent her flowers, books and candy, paying her
every delicate attention in the nicest and most considerate way
possible.

As soon as was practicable, she resigned her position at the hotel,
taking this step not so much to avoid the railroad promoter, but
because she did not wish to furnish anyone with the slightest pretext
for criticism. The world is quick to censure. People could not help
noticing that the millionaire spent a great deal more time at Miss
Blaine's desk than was necessary to transact legitimate business, and
it would not be long before the gossips got busy to her disparagement.
For that reason she preferred to resign. Besides, it would be fairer
to him. He had not even hinted at her taking such a course, but if she
was to consider his proposal of marriage seriously--and each day the
conviction grew stronger that it was her destiny--it was only proper
that she should retire at once into private life and give people time
to forget what she was before she became Robert Stafford's wife.

But while this judicious step naturally resulted in a serious
curtailment of her income, she was not idle. She helped Fanny in the
millinery store, and, in order to keep herself in pocket money, gave
private lessons to beginners. These tasks kept her fully occupied, and
what with her studies and household duties the days went by cheerfully
enough.

Stafford was a regular and welcome caller at the Blaine home. He often
came to take the sisters out for a spin in his splendid new touring
car, a forty-horse-power Mercedes, and sometimes he would telephone
from downtown and arrange for a little theatre party with supper
afterwards at one of the fashionable night restaurants of the Great
White Way.

Fanny and Jimmie looked upon the couple as if they were engaged and
treated Stafford accordingly, addressing him with the easy familiarity
of a future brother-in-law, an attitude which he himself tactfully
encouraged. He went out of his way to be amiable to Fanny, flattering
her and making her presents, and encouraging Jimmie to talk of his
wonderful ideas. Moreover, he gave him plainly to understand that,
once Virginia and he were married, the shipping clerk's impecunious
days would be over and a comfortable berth would be awaiting him in
his office at a salary commensurate with his exceptional ability.

This semi-promise was enough for Jimmie. From that moment on he was a
changed man and Virginia knew no peace. He insisted that she was
treating Stafford unfairly. If she did not want to marry him she
should say so, and if she did intend to marry him she should be
willing to name the day. As it was, she was standing in the way of her
sister's prosperity and happiness. At the same time Fanny also added
her powers of persuasion. Between the two Virginia felt that she had
not much will of her own left.

Thus the weeks passed, Stafford respectful and devoted, but daily
growing more restive and impatient, urging his suit, refusing to be
discouraged, waiting eagerly for the day when she would respond to his
passionate pleading and throw herself without restraint into his arms.

Meantime Fanny and Jimmie, having arrived at the conclusion that the
prospects were bright and that they had been engaged long enough,
suddenly decided to get married. Fourteen dollars a week--the weekly
income of the bridegroom--did not allow of the setting up of a very
elaborate establishment, but, as the clerk explained privately to his
bride, it was only a question of time when Virginia would become Mrs.
Stafford and then it would be smooth sailing for them all. Stafford
had promised him a fat job at a salary worth while, and that could not
possibly mean less than fifty dollars a week.

"He wouldn't have the cheek to offer me less than fifty per," said
Jimmie confidently.

All of which sounded very hopeful to Fanny, who, however, was shrewd
enough to make no mention to her sensitive sister of her intended's
sanguine expectations.

They were married at the little Roman Catholic church in 125th Street,
Virginia being the solitary bridesmaid, while Stafford--willing enough
to enter into the spirit of the occasion and taking a chance that in
such a remote neighborhood no one would recognize him--acted as best
man. The bride looked pretty and self-composed, while Jimmie was a
picture of masculine magnificence in a new frock coat, patent-leather
shoes, white tie, silk hat and a collar so high that he could not turn
his head round. After the ceremony, they all dined gaily at Claremont
at Stafford's expense and then the newly married couple left for
Atlantic City, where the brief honeymoon was to be spent--on slender
savings which Fanny had carefully hoarded for some time.

Virginia cried bitterly as her sister drove away. It was the first
time that they had been separated; she felt as if she was losing the
last friend she had in the world. Stafford, full of kindly sympathy,
tried to console her. Gently he whispered:

"Don't cry, dear. Don't you see how happy she is? You wouldn't rob her
of that happiness, would you?"

"No, indeed," she sobbed.

He bent down closer and whispered:

"One day--she will be kissing her hand to you as you drive away in
your bridal robes."

She made no answer and he pressed for some response.

"Won't she?" he pleaded.

Her eyes still fixed on the cab, now fast disappearing in the
distance, she murmured:

"Perhaps."

"When will that be?" he went on eagerly.

She shook her head, irritated at his persistence at such a moment.

"I do not know," she replied coldly.

Thus far, Stafford had succeeded in keeping from his friends any
intimation of his matrimonial plans, but it was hardly possible to
keep the secret much longer. He and Virginia had been seen together in
public places; his many visits to her house were known. Her sudden
resignation from the hotel also had excited comment. People began to
connect their names in a way unflattering to both. Such slanderous
rumors must be stopped at any cost, thought Stafford to himself, and
one evening at Delmonico's, while in a jovial, communicative mood, an
opportunity came to unbosom himself freely to his friend Hadley. It
was the latter's birthday and they were duly celebrating the occasion
as three bottles of _Veuve Clicquot_, standing empty on the
table, bore mute witness.

Stafford had been drinking freely. His face was flushed and his voice
was thick, familiar symptoms when he had imbibed more wine than was
good for him. The secret came out suddenly owing to a chance remark
dropped by Hadley, who, sober himself and speaking of women in
general, argued that girls who were compelled by necessity to earn
their own living formed a class by themselves. They could not be
classed with the domesticated girl of good family because they were
open to temptations and contaminating influences which the latter
escaped. Coming in close contact with the busy, feverish world,
associating on terms of daily intimacy with all kinds of men, the
naturally high moral sense of the virtuous woman must necessarily
become blunted in her new business surroundings.

"Once the bloom is off a woman's moral sense," he argued, "it is only
a step to the undermining of her virtue. It's inevitable," he went on
as he sat back in his chair idly enjoying his cigar. "The home is the
young girl's only protection. Take her out of it and you expose her to
the manoeuvres of the first scoundrel who comes along. If she's
temperamentally cold, she'll resist the seducer successfully; but if
she's weak and pleasure-loving, she'll succumb and the devil will have
won over another convert. Take, for instance, those stenographers in
your hotel. That Miss Blaine--she's as pretty as--"

Crash!

There was a blow of a heavy fist falling on the table. The dishes
danced, glasses fell in splinters on to the floor. Hadley, startled,
turned round. Stafford, his handsome face flushed from the champagne,
but now tense and angry, was looking at him fiercely:

"Take care, old chap, how you talk of Miss Blaine! She's going to be
my wife!"

"Your wife!" exclaimed Hadley, removing his cigar from his mouth in
sheer surprise.

"Yes, my wife," repeated Stafford grimly. "What about it?"

"Nothing--nothing at all, my dear fellow," he stammered, looking
narrowly at his companion to see if he was sober, "allow me to
congratulate you."

There was an awkward pause. Then suddenly Stafford broke into a loud
peal of laughter. His momentary ill humor had passed. Unable to
account for the sudden change of mood, Hadley came to the conclusion
that the railroad man was enjoying a joke at his expense.

"You were guying me, eh?" he laughed.

Stafford hiccoughed and shook his head. With drunken gravity he
replied:

"No, siree--sure as your life--she's going to marry me."

Calling the waiter, he motioned to him to open another bottle of wine.

"We'll drink to her health, Hadley, old top. Nicest girl in the
world!"

The champagne was uncorked and the railroad promoter poured out the
wine with an unsteady hand. Lifting his glass he cried with mock
sentimentality:

"To Virginia--my bride!"

The men touched glasses and Stafford, putting his glass to his lips,
drained it at one gulp. Hadley stared at him in growing amazement. He
saw his friend was drunk, but this was the first time he had suspected
him of losing his senses.

"And how long has this been going on?" exclaimed his companion when he
had recovered somewhat from his amazement.

Stafford laughed.

"Ever since that day you were in my rooms at the hotel," he
hiccoughed. "Didn't I tell you that I contemplated matrimony? Don't
you remember?"

"I didn't believe you. I thought you were joking. I never thought you
were the marrying sort."

"Why not?" spluttered the railroad man in an injured tone.

Hadley looked his friend straight in the face. He was not the kind of
a man to shrink from telling a friend the truth.

"Do you want the truth?" he said slowly. "Well--you're too fond of
your pleasures--too selfish! That's frank--but it's the truth.
Selfishness keeps most men single. They're afraid to lose their
liberty. When you marry you can say good-bye to your freedom."

"Who said so?" exclaimed Stafford, his face redder than ever, his lips
tightening.

Hadley carelessly flecked the ash from his cigar. Calmly he replied:

"Your wife will expect it. She'll have a right to expect it."

Stafford smiled as he poured out another glass of wine. Grimly he
said:

"You don't know me, Hadley, not after all these years, or you wouldn't
talk like that. I'm not the man to be bullied or tyrannized or even
lectured by a woman. My wife and I will understand each other
perfectly. I shall make that quite plain from the outset. It's only
right. I give my wife--my name, my fortune. I expect in return
something from my wife. I think I've found just the right kind of
girl--unspoiled by society notions, sensible on every point--"

"Even on that of letting you have your own way?" laughed Hadley.

"Precisely. She is ideal in every particular. Clever, amiable, good
looking, not too strait-laced--she's just the girl I want. Don't you
remember," he hiccoughed, "it was you yourself who recommended her--"

"As a secretary," said Hadley dryly.

Once more Stafford emptied his glass. He had already drunk too much,
but he still had his wits about him. Laughing boisterously at his
friend's sarcasm, he quickly retorted:

"As a secretary--precisely--and I've engaged her--for life."

Again filling his glass, he went rambling on:

"You and the other fellows at the club may chaff me all you choose.
I'm going to marry her and that's all there is to it. I'm my own
master, do you understand? I have no family--no inquisitive,
meddlesome relatives, thank God! If this marriage is going to cost me
what friends I have--all right--let them keep away! Such friends are
not worth having, anyway. My mind is made up and you know me. Once I
make up my mind, nothing can alter it." Determinedly he added: "I'll
marry her even if she refuses me--"

"Refuses you?" smiled Hadley cynically; "surely you don't anticipate
anything of that sort. Girls don't refuse millionaires nowadays."

Stafford's face clouded again. With an impatient gesture he cried:

"That's just the kind of rot you fellows talk! You don't know
Virginia. She's not the sort of girl to be influenced in that way. If
she were, she'd have said 'yes' at once. I understand her perfectly.
She's still uncertain if she cares enough for me. I respect her all
the more for her reserve. I'd rather that than have a girl throw
herself at me merely for my money." Carelessly he added: "Oh, I'm not
worrying. We're getting along all right. It's only a question of time
now--"

Hadley did not know what to say. Evidently any advice he could have
given on the subject was now too late. All he could think of was to
mutter:

"Well--congratulations--old sport!"

Stafford, no longer crossed, broke into a smile once more. Leaning
tipsily over towards his friend, his face flushed, his eyes sparkling,
he hiccoughed:

"Say, Hadley, she's a winner! Those big black eyes of hers are enough
to drive any man crazy; and that figure! Can you blame me, Hadley? Can
you blame me? Here, drink up!"

"No," said his companion, disgusted and pushing his glass away. "I've
had enough and so have you. It's getting late. Let's go."

Stafford made no reply, but, calling the waiter, proceeded to settle
for the dinner. While he was thus engaged, Hadley watched him in
irritated silence.

"_In vino veritas_!" he mused to himself. Truly the wine had
spoken plainly. The cloven hoof was clearly visible. It was not so
much the congenial companion, the soul-mate which Robert Stafford saw
in Virginia Blaine as it was a lovely young animal for the
gratification of his lust, his appetites. What marriage, based on that
idea, could be a happy one? He felt sorry for the girl. If he knew her
well or cared enough, he would warn her that his friend was not the
marrying kind of man. Of course, Stafford would do the honorable
thing, go through a marriage ceremony, make a handsome settlement and
all that sort of thing; but when it came to leading a quiet, regular,
domesticated life, he simply was incapable of it--that's all. He had
enjoyed liberty too long to wear the harness now. He was too much of
the _viveur_, too fond of his club, his poker parties and little
midnight suppers with fair ladies. Once the novelty of marriage had
worn off, he would return to the old life and then there would be the
devil to pay. The wife would find it out, there would be a row, with
court proceedings, alimony and all the rest of it. Or perhaps she
would suffer and say nothing, as so many do. Anyway, he was sorry for
the girl.

Stafford looked at him and laughed boisterously.

"What's the matter, old top? You're as serious to-day as some
bewhiskered old college professor. Stop your philosophizing and let's
have some more wine. I'll match you for another bottle. Come, now."

Hadley shook his head and rose.

"No more for me," he said firmly. "You don't want any, either. Let's
go."

"Which direction are you going?"

"Up Fifth Avenue. Coming my way?"

"Yesh--I'm with you--only I must stop in Forty-second Street first--at
a jeweller's--to get a ring I ordered." Grinning stupidly at Hadley,
he went on: "Great idea--diamonds! You can do anything with a woman if
you give her all the jewels she wants! See, my boy?"

A few minutes more and the two men, the taller one of whom walked
somewhat unsteadily, were on Fifth Avenue, making their way towards
Forty-second Street.

Ten days later there appeared among the society notes of the New York
_Herald_ this paragraph:

"Robert Stafford, the well-known railroad promoter, was married
yesterday at St. Patrick's Cathedral to Virginia Blaine, second
daughter of the late John Blaine, once a well-known lawyer of this
city. The ceremony was strictly private, the marriage being known only
to a few intimate friends. The young couple sailed yesterday afternoon
for Europe on their honeymoon."




CHAPTER XI


The Stafford wedding was a nine-days' sensation and then people forgot
all about it. Society mothers with marriageable daughters said that it
was scandalous for a man of wealth and position to throw himself away
on a penniless nobody, and malicious tongues freely predicted that
before long the railroad man would regret the foolish step he had
taken.

But for the present, at least, Stafford gave no indication of
regretting anything. On the contrary, he and his young wife had come
back from Europe in the highest of spirits, and immediately after
their return to New York the millionaire proceeded to convince his
critics of their error by throwing open his new house and entertaining
on a lavish scale. For some time before his marriage Stafford had
realized that his old apartment, comfortable as it was for the
bachelor, would be quite inadequate for a married couple; so, getting
rid of his lease, he had bought further down the Avenue near
Seventy-second street a fine American basement house. It was a large
modern residence, exquisitely furnished and supplied with every luxury
money could buy. Virginia's private suite was particularly beautiful,
being decorated in white and gold, in imitation of Queen Marie
Antoinette's apartments at the Little Trianon.

To Virginia this new life of luxury and pleasure was like a chapter
from the "Arabian Nights." It seemed unreal, like some fantastic dream
from which, sooner or later, there must be an abrupt awakening. For
years she had been so accustomed to the gnawing anxieties of poverty
that this sudden superfluity of wealth fairly stunned and overwhelmed
her. Stafford, apparently more infatuated every day, took the keenest
delight in pleasing her. Everything that he thought would add to her
happiness was done. He showered her with costly presents, giving her
wonderful diamond tiaras, superb pearl necklaces and other gems until
her jewels were soon the talk of New York. She had _carte
blanche_ at Fifth Avenue dressmakers and milliners; she had her
French maid, her hairdresser, her automobile and her box at the opera.
He forced open for her the doors of society and, once inside the
exclusive circle, it was not long before Virginia made friends on her
own account. People had expected to see a bold, coarse adventuress;
instead, they were charmed by a modest, refined young woman who,
intellectually at least, was their superior. Everybody received her
with open arms. The men classed her as pretty and _chic_; the
women declared she dressed divinely and gave exquisite dinners. Before
long, society arrived at the conclusion that Robert Stafford had not
made such a mess of his matrimonial venture, after all.

The months went by so gayly and so quickly that it was the greatest
surprise to Virginia when one day she realized that she would soon
celebrate the second anniversary of her wedding. She was so taken up
with one fashionable function after another that she had no time to
think. Sometimes in the midst of her social activities, she stopped to
ask herself if she was really happy, if this nerve-racking existence
of idleness and pleasure--with its bridge parties, its dinners, its
opera and theatre-going--was the kind of life she had dreamed of in
her girlhood days. Sometimes she felt a longing, a yearning for a more
useful existence, something nobler, higher.

Then, all at once, there came a change. It seemed to her that Robert's
manner toward her was not the same. For no apparent cause, he
gradually grew more cold and distant. At first she thought she herself
might be to blame and she carefully watched her own actions and
attitude to see if she was neglectful in any way of wifely duties and
devotion. But she had nothing with which to reproach herself. She
managed his household and entertained his friends. When they were
alone she played and sang for him. But, for some reason that she could
not explain, she seemed gradually to lose the power of holding him at
home. Under the pretext of urgent business, he stayed away more and
more. Usually he telephoned at the last minute, saying he had a
business dinner to go to or a directors' meeting to attend. It was
seldom that she could count on his company, and it made her life
necessarily seem very lonely. It was nice to be rich, but often she
wished that they might be poorer, that Robert were less successful so
that their life might be more domesticated, more intimate. She felt
that even after two years of marriage she did not know her husband any
better than when she first met him. There seemed to be between them an
indefinable yet very real barrier which, for some unknown reason, she
was impotent to tear down. Sometimes, too, she resented him making so
little of her. Instead of taking her into his confidence in his
business matters, he treated her as a child, whose opinion on serious
things was valueless. Instead of coming to her as a comrade to ask
advice, he preferred to play the ardent lover, as if that were all he
expected of her. Her womanhood rebelled, but she said nothing. There
were times, too, when he returned home very late, exhilarated by too
much wine, and on such occasions his boisterous, passionate kisses
nauseated her. Often she found herself longing for demonstrations of a
more sincere and honest affection, but she always excused him on the
ground that it was the fault of his temperament.

Among all her husband's friends Fred Hadley was the one whose society
she preferred. She found him sympathetic, kind and yet always
respectful. He being very fond of music and having considerable
literary taste, they soon found that they had many interests in
common. Sometimes he would join them in their box at the opera, or
when Stafford brought him home to dinner they sat and chatted on all
kinds of congenial topics while the husband, wholly absorbed in the
business details of a busy day, paid only scant attention to the
conversation.

One evening the subject of divorce happened to come up. They were
discussing the notorious case of a well-known woman in society who had
submitted to all kinds of cruelties and indignities on the part of her
husband rather than shame him by bringing the matter into court.
Stafford, for once becoming interested in the argument, declared
decisively that the woman was right, that, having entered into a
matrimonial compact, she was in honor bound to conceal from prying
outsiders any domestic differences they might have. Virginia promptly
differed with him and proceeded to give her reasons. Stafford was no
match for her when it came to sociology and he could only grunt
disapproval as she went on warmly to defend womankind from the
ignominy of a degrading marriage, while Hadley, keenly interested,
smoked his cigar and listened.

"A woman who will suffer in silence while her brutal husband stands
over her with a whip is a disgrace to her sex," she exclaimed hotly.
"She is no better than a shackled slave; her position in the man's
house is that of a concubine."

"What shall she do?" cried Stafford with a shrug of his shoulders and
a cynical laugh.

"Get a divorce," retorted Virginia.

"Divorce!" echoed the railroad man mockingly. "The world is full of
divorcées. Everyone looks down on them. They have a bad name. What
does she gain by that?"

"Her own self-respect if not that of the world. Divorce is the only
weapon a defenceless woman has."

Stafford, badly beaten, relapsed into a sulky silence, while Hadley
nodded approval.

"You are quite right, Mrs. Stafford," he said; "the fear of divorce
and its attendant publicity makes many a husband behave himself."

Following up her advantage, Virginia picked up a newspaper lying on a
table close by.

"Here," she said, "is the opinion of a woman on this very question--a
woman evidently who has herself suffered. She says:

"'How many beings live together for long years strangers in mind and
body! How many are the slaves of marriage whose relations are hideous
with mutual hate! Why, in the name of a religious principle, should
one make eternal the hell whose torments are as varied as they are
overwhelming? Why should not reason and the right of the individual
correct the mistakes of chance, false calculations, and hopes
deceived? Why should a woman who does not find in her husband the
necessary moral support suffer the tortures of a long agony in which
she is defenceless, of a perpetual struggle in which she is miserably
conquered; and, on the other hand, why should the husband who does not
find in his wife the hoped-for companion or the desired slave, find
the road to happiness forever closed to him? Before divorce was
established, men and women who lived together in misunderstanding
suffered an agony worse than that of the condemned to death, for
nothing can be compared to the torture of being tied, body and soul,
in hatred or scorn, or even indifference.'"

Hadley nodded approvingly.

"I think she puts the case pretty well," he remarked. "It's a strong
argument in favor of the legal separation."

"I beg to differ," said Stafford dryly. Rising with a yawn, he went
on: "Half the marital troubles one hears about are the fault of the
wife. She is often too exacting, too fond of meddling in her husband's
affairs. A man who respects himself bends to no one--not even to his
wife." With another yawn he added: "Will you two excuse me for a few
minutes? I have a letter to write."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and walked into
the library, closing the door behind him. Hadley puffed away at his
cigar in silence, while Virginia gazed thoughtfully into the fire.
Presently Hadley said:

"Bob's in an argumentative mood to-night."

Virginia sighed as she replied:

"Yes--he has not much patience. He always takes the stand that man is
the master, that women should have no will of their own."

Hadley shook his head as he replied:

"Old-fashioned notion that. The quicker he gets rid of it the better."

Virginia looked at him without speaking. There was an inquiring,
wistful expression in her face, as if she longed to unbosom herself to
someone, and yet had no one close enough, intimate enough in whom she
could confide. Presently she said:

"Mr. Hadley, you've known my husband a number of years. Was he always
as he is now?"

"In what way do you mean?"

"Was he always as dictatorial, as self-centred and self-willed?"

Hadley laughed.

"Yes, Bob was always inclined that way, and it seems to have grown on
him as he has grown older."

There was still another question hovering on the young wife's lips.
Dare she ask it? Why not? This friend was so loyal, so considerate,
that he would understand. If it worried her at all, it was because her
happiness, the future of her unborn children, if she had any, might be
at stake. At last, with an effort, she summoned up courage and
ventured to give expression to what was on her mind.

"Mr. Hadley, there's something else. I've intended to ask you for a
long time--" Hesitating, she said: "I've quite forgotten what it
was--"

He looked at her keenly. He had observed for some time that things
were not quite as they should be in his friend's home. Stafford seemed
to be more indifferent to his wife, he stayed out more at nights; she,
on her side, appeared to be continually on the defensive, as if there
was constant friction. But by no outward sign could she have guessed
that he gauged the situation. Carelessly he said:

"Is it something about Bob?"

Thus encouraged, she spoke up frankly, just as if she were talking to
an elder brother:

"Yes, that's it. Was--was my husband fond of wine as a young man? I
can ask you this--you've been so intimate with him." Hastily and with
a forced laugh she added: "I don't mean that he drinks to excess now,
but I wondered if as a young man he ever took more than was good for
him. I don't see how he could have done, for it would have interfered
with his career."

Hadley puffed seriously at his cigar. A kindly man by disposition, he
really felt sorry for this brave little woman who was trying to make
light of a tragedy. Slowly he replied:

"I'm sorry to say that Bob has always had a _penchant_ in that
direction. It has not interfered with his success, but when he's under
the influence of liquor he's not himself. He seems to quite lose
self-control." Looking at her closely, he added: "He hasn't been
drinking since your marriage, has he?"

Virginia colored.

"Oh, no indeed," she replied hastily. "He wouldn't drink now, I'm
sure, if only out of regard for me."

Hadley was about to say more, when suddenly the library door opened
and Stafford entered, hat in hand. Addressing his friend and without
so much as glancing at his wife, he said curtly:

"Coming over to the club, Hadley? There's a poker game on to-night. I
promised to take a hand."

The two men went away together and that night Virginia sobbed herself
to sleep.

Another month went by and imperceptibly, almost unnoticed by
themselves, the coolness between husband and wife grew. There was no
open quarrel, not even a cross word; but Stafford stayed out nearly
every night and Virginia, left alone in the great library with only
books for companions, wondered if this was the happy married life she
had prayed for.

One night the servants were awakened by a commotion at the front door.
Their master, returning from the club, had stumbled and fallen down
the stoop. Oku picked him up, and Stafford, luckily unhurt, staggered
unaided to his room. Half an hour later the stillness of the night was
again disturbed--this time by a woman's shrill scream of fright and a
man's voice raised in tones of angry command. To the servants it
seemed as if the sounds came from their mistress' room.

Thus the months passed, and to the outside world, which obtained only
an occasional glimpse into the Stafford household, the railroad man's
pretty young wife was one of the most-to-be-envied women in New York.
Still, there were some who shook their heads. They pointed to the
young Mrs. Stafford's pale face and melancholy manner. In the last few
weeks particularly she had lost her good spirits and was only a shadow
of the girl who two years before had entered Robert Stafford's home a
bride.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meantime Virginia's sister, now Mrs. Gillie, was as happy and
contented in her married life as circumstances would permit. She was
not able to live on as grand a scale as her rich sister, but Jimmie's
income, thanks to Mr. Stafford's generosity, had been increased to an
amount quite beyond their most sanguine expectations. Beginning at a
salary of $50 a week, he had been quickly raised to $100, and there
was every prospect of even better to come. This enabled them to live
very comfortably and even to save a little money. They had a pretty
flat in One Hundred and Fortieth Street, where a baby girl had come to
bless their union. Jimmie was a considerate enough husband, but
indolent, and, still impressed with his own importance, he was always
grumbling that his merit was underestimated by the world in general
and his present employer in particular. Fanny considered it most
ungrateful, and one morning at breakfast she took him to task:

"How can you speak in that way of Mr. Stafford?" she protested. "We
owe him everything."

His mouth full of toast, her husband gulped down his scalding coffee.
Disdainfully he replied:

"That's where you women understand nothing about business. Stafford
must find me useful or he wouldn't be paying me $100 a week. I'm worth
more than any other man he's got, that's the size of it. He pays me
less because I'm one of the family. That's the way it always is. I'm
no fool. I know what I ought to be getting. He's got to do better by
me or I'll quit. I'll show him that I'm no $100-a-week piker."

"You've no right to say that, Jim," interrupted his wife. "Just think
how good he is to Virginia. He's always giving her something. Only
last week he bought her a diamond necklace which must have cost $5,000
if a cent."

"Pshaw!" he retorted with a sneer, "what good does Virginia's necklace
do me? More fool he to throw so much money away on finery. I guess he
was drunk when he did it."

Her face red with indignation, Fanny rose from the table.

"How dare you say such a thing of Robert?" she cried angrily. "You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Really, I've no patience with you!
Such base ingratitude after all he has done for us! And so uncalled
for! If ever there was a model husband--"

"You don't say so!" he interrupted with a sneer.

There was something peculiar about her husband's manner that made
Fanny look at him more closely.

"What do you mean?" she demanded uneasily.

He grinned.

"Who told you that he was a model husband? Did Virginia ever say so?"

Fanny stared at him, not understanding.

"She never said he wasn't," she stammered.

He chuckled.

"Say--but you women are easy marks! Of course she didn't. A girl with
Virginia's spirit doesn't like to confess she's made a mess of it. I
guess she knows well enough by this time that her model husband is not
all that he should be, that he goes on periodical sprees and is apt to
come home any night dead drunk. All New York knows it."

Speechless with astonishment and consternation, Fanny stood still,
staring at her husband. Could this be true? Was Virginia unhappy, had
they made a mistake, after all? Now she came to think of it, she
recalled some peculiar remarks dropped by her sister from time to
time; there had been days when she was strangely depressed, as if she
lived in fear of something or someone. Was it possible that Robert was
not the man he seemed? Virginia had never even hinted at such a thing
directly, but one day, she remembered, her sister had brought up the
subject whether it was a woman's duty to go on living with a husband
after she had ceased to res

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