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.