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The Desired Woman

W >> Will N. Harben >> The Desired Woman




Mostyn stood still, looking at her steadily. "Am I to understand,
Dolly, that your father might not--not quite like for us to be
together even like this, and is that why you are leaving me now?"

Dolly's long lashes flickered. She seemed to reflect as she kept her
glance on the doorway. "I think I may as well tell you something, so
that if anything comes up you may be somewhat prepared for it. Last
night when Tobe Barnett called me to the window and I went out, as you
know, to meet him, Ann, whose room is next to mine, was awake. She
heard Tobe whistle and saw me leave. She couldn't see who it was, but
later, when you and I were at the gate, she saw us quite clearly."

"Oh, I see," Mostyn said, anxiously, "and she thought that I called
you out."

"I could not explain it any other way," Dolly answered. "I don't want
her to know, you see, about father and the moonshiners. She began
teasing me about you this morning, and I was afraid father would hear
it, so I simply had to admit that I was with you. I even confessed--
confessed"--Dolly's color rose--"that I care a great deal for you,
for, you see, she actually saw--saw--"

"I understand." Mostyn tried to smile lightly. "You mean that she saw
me kiss you?"

Dolly's flushed silence was her answer. "Ann is so young and romantic
that it has made a great impression on her," Dolly added, lamely, as
she moved toward the door, her eyes downcast. "You see how I am
placed, and I hope you won't blame me. There was no other way out of
it. I think I can keep her from mentioning it. I shall try, anyway.
After all," she sighed, deeply, "it is only _one_ of our troubles--
yours and mine."

"Only _one_ of them," he repeated, with a sudden guilty start--"what
do you mean?"

She swept his face with a flash of her eyes, seemed to hesitate, then
she said, resignedly: "I am quite sure that your Atlanta set,
especially your relatives, would not approve of me--that is, if I were
thrown with them as an equal."

"How absurd!" he began, awkwardly; but she fixed him with a firmness
that checked him.

"Your sister, Mrs. Moore, would scarcely wipe her feet on me. You see,
I met her once."

"When? how?" he asked, wonderingly.

"She was at the house-party Mr. Saunders gave last summer, and he
introduced us on the road one day," Dolly explained, with an indignant
toss of the head. "Oh, I could never--never like her. She treated me
exactly as if I had been a hireling. She is your sister, but Lord
deliver me from such a woman. Well, what's the use denying it--she is
part of my premonition. You may settle your business troubles
satisfactorily, but if--if you should tell her about me, she will move
heaven and earth to convince you that I am unworthy of your notice."

"Nonsense!" he began; but with a sad little shake of the head she
hurried away.

Left alone, Mostyn's heart sank into the lowest ebb of despair. Back
and forth he strode, trying to shake off his despondency, but it lay
on him like the weight of a mountain. What would the morrow bring
forth? To him his sister's objections would be the very least. The
real disaster lay in the matter Dolly's pure mind could not have
grasped. He took out the letter Saunders had brought and read it
again.

"She is simply desperate--the little cat!" he cried. "I might have
known she would turn on me. For the last three months she has been 'a
woman scorned,' and she is not going to be easily put aside. Fool,
fool that I was, and always have been, I deserve it! It may ruin me--
men have been ruined by smaller things than this. Can this be the
beginning of my end?" He sank into the chair Dolly had vacated and
rocked back and forth. Suddenly he had a sort of inspiration.

"I might take the midnight train," he reflected. "Why, yes, I could do
that, and have my trunk sent on to-morrow. In that case I'd avoid
riding back with Saunders and be there early in the morning. Surely
she will be quiet that long."





CHAPTER XIV



Mostyn reached the city at five o'clock in the morning. The sun was
just rising over the chimneys and dun roofs of the buildings. He lived
in the house of his widowed sister, Mrs. John Perkins Moore, in a
quiet but fashionable street, and thither he went in one of the
numbered cabs which, in charge of slouching negro drivers, meet all
trains at the big station.

At his sister's house no one was stirring; even the servants were
still abed. He was vaguely glad of this, for he was in no mood for
conversation of any sort. Having a latchkey to the front door, he
admitted himself and went up to his room at the top of the stairs.
Should he lie down and try to snatch a little sleep? he reflected, for
his journey and mental state had quite deprived him of rest. Throwing
off his coat and vest and removing his collar, necktie, and shoes, he
sank on his bed and closed his eyes. But to no effect. His brain was
throbbing; his every nerve was as taut as the strings of a violin;
cold streams of despair coursed through his veins. For the thousandth
time he saw before him the revengeful face of a woman--a face now full
of fury--a face which he had once thought rarely pretty, rarely coy,
gentle, and submissive. What could be done? Oh! what could be done?

He heard the iceman stop at the door, curiously noted his slow,
contented tread as he trudged round to the kitchen to leave the block
of ice. He saw the first reddish-yellow shafts of sunlight as they
shot through the slats of the window-blinds, fell on his bureau,
lighting up the silver toilet articles and the leaning gilt frame
holding a large photograph of Irene Mitchell. He sat on the edge of
the bed, thrust his feet into his slippers, and stared at the picture.
Was it possible that he had really thought seriously of marrying her?
It seemed like a vague dream, his entire association with her. For
months he had been her chief escort; he had called on her at least
twice a week. He had made no denial when his and her friends spoke of
the alliance as a coming certainty, and yet a simple little mountain
girl had come into his life, and all the rest was over. But why think
of that when the other thing hung like a sinister pall above him?

There was a step in the corridor close to the door, then a rap.

"Come!" he cried, thinking it was a servant. The door opened
partially, and the reddish face of his sister, under a mass of
yellowish crinkly hair, peeped in, smiling.

"I heard you on the stairs," she said. "I'm not dressed, and so I'll
not kiss you. I've told the cook to get your breakfast at once, for I
know you are hungry."

"Thanks, I am," he answered. "I have been up all night."

She was ten years older than he, short, and firmly built. Her blue,
calculating eyes had a sleepy look.

"You must have been up late last night, yourself," he said, nothing
more vital occurring to his troubled mind.

"Oh yes, Alan Delbridge gave a big reception and dance in his rooms.
Supper was served at the club at one o'clock. Champagne and all the
rest. I was the blindest chaperon you ever saw. Good-by--if I don't
get down to breakfast it will be because I'm sound asleep. I knew you
would cut your outing short."

"You say you did?" he cried, his heart sinking. "What made you think
so?"

"The Mitchells are back." She laughed significantly, and was gone.

He had his breakfast alone in the pretty dining-room below, and at
once started to town. His first thought was that he would go to the
bank, but he decided otherwise. He shrank from the formality of
greeting the employees in his present frame of mind. No, he would
simply see Marie at once and face the inevitable. The earliness of the
hour--it was only nine o'clock--would make no difference with her. In
fact, by seeking her at once he might prevent her from looking for
him. It would be dangerous, he was well aware of that, but the danger
would not be any the greater under the roof of her cottage than at the
bank, or even in the streets. He decided not to call a cab. The
distance was less than a mile, and the walk would perhaps calm him and
might furnish some inspiration as to his dealings with her.

Marie Winship lived in a quiet part of the city, near Decatur Street,
and after a brisk walk he found himself at her door ringing the bell.
He was kept waiting several minutes, and this was awkward, for he was
afraid that some one in passing might recognize him and remark upon
his presence there so early in the day. However, no one passed, and he
was admitted by a yellow-skinned maid.

"Miss Marie just now got up," she said, as she left him to go into the
little parlor off the hall.

"Tell her, Mary, that I want to see her, but not to hurry, for I have
plenty of time," Mostyn said, "I have just got back."

"Yes, sir; I heard her say she was 'spectin' you to-day."

He had an impulse to make inquiries of the girl regarding her
mistress's disposition, but a certain evasive, almost satirical
expression in her eyes prevented it. He was sure the maid was trying
to avoid any sort of conference with him.

He sat down at one of the two windows of the room and looked at the
cheap, gaudy furniture--the green-plush-covered chairs of imitation
mahogany; the flaming rugs; the little upright piano; the square
center-table, on which were scattered a deck of playing-cards; some
thin whisky glasses; a brass tray of cigarettes. Four straight-backed
chairs at the table told a story, as did the burnt matches and cigar-
stubs on the hearth. Marie was not without associates, both male and
female.

He heard voices in the rear of the cottage. He recognized Marie's
raised angrily. Then it died away, to be succeeded by the low mumbling
of the maid's. Suddenly Mostyn noticed a thing which fixed his gaze as
perhaps no other inanimate object could have done. Partly hidden
beneath the blue satin scarf on the piano was a good-sized revolver.
Rising quickly, he took it up and examined it. It was completely
loaded.

"She really is desperate!" He suddenly chilled through and through.
"She got this for me."

He heard a step in the rear, and, quickly dropping the revolver into
his coat pocket, he stood expectantly waiting. She was coming. Her
tread alone betrayed excitement. The next instant she stood before
him. She was a girl under twenty-two, a pretty brunette, with Italian
cast of features, and a pair of bright, dark eyes, now ablaze with
fury.

"So you are here at last?" she panted, pushing the door to and leaning
against it.

"Yes, Saunders gave me your letter yesterday," he answered.

"I thought it would bring you." Her pretty lips were parted, the lower
hung quivering. "If you hadn't come right away you would have
regretted it to the last day of your life--huh! and that might not
have been very far off, either."

"I did not like the--the tone of your letter, Marie." He was trying to
be firm. "You see, you--"

"Didn't like it? Pooh!" she broke in. "Do you think I care a snap what
you like or don't like? You've got to settle with me, and quick, too,
for something you did--"

"I _did?_" he gasped, in slow surprise. "Why, what have I--"

"I'll tell you what you did," the woman blazed out, standing so close
to him now that he felt her fierce breath on his face. "Shortly before
you left you were taken sick at the bank, or fainted, or something
like it, and didn't even tell me about it. I read it in the paper. I
was beneath your high-and-mighty notice--dirt under your feet. But the
next day you went driving with Irene Mitchell. You passed within ten
feet of me at the crossing of Whitehall Street and Marietta. You saw
me as plainly as you see me now, and yet you turned your head away.
You thought"--here an actual oath escaped the girl's lips--"you were
afraid of what that stuck-up fool of a woman would think. She knows
about us--she's heard; she recognized me. I saw it in her eyes. She
deliberately sneered at me, and you--_you contemptible puppy!_--you
didn't even raise your hat to me after all your sickening, gushing
protestations. I want to tell you right now, Dick Mostyn, that you
can't walk over me. I'm ready for you, and I'm tired of this whole
business."

He was wisely silent. She was pale and quivering all over. He wondered
how he could ever have thought her attractive or pretty. Her face was
as repulsive as death could have made it. Aimlessly she picked up a
cigarette only to crush it in her fingers as she went on.

"Answer me, Dick Mostyn, why did you treat me that way?"

"My fainting at the bank was nothing," he faltered. "I didn't think it
was of enough importance to mention, and as for my not speaking to you
on the street, you know that you and I have positively agreed that our
relations were to be unknown. People have talked about us so much,
anyway, that I did not want to make it worse than it already is.
Besides--now, you must be reasonable. The last time I paid you a
thousand dollars in a lump you agreed that you would not bother me any
more. You were to do as you wished, and I was free to do the same, and
yet, already--"

_"Bother you! bother you!_ Is that the way to talk to me? Am I the
scum of creation all at once? Didn't you make me what I am? Haven't
you sworn that you care more for me than any one else? I was pretty,
according to you. I was lovely. I was bright--brighter and better-read
than any of your dirty, stuck-up set. You said you'd rather be with me
than with any one else, but since then you've begun to think of
marrying that creature for her money. Oh, I know that's it--you
couldn't love a cold, haughty stick like she is. You are not made that
way, but you _do_ love money; you want what she's got, and if you are
let alone you will marry her."

"I have no such idea, Marie," he said, falteringly.

"You are a liar, a deliberate, sneaking liar. Money is your god, and
always will be."

He made no further denial. They faced each other in perturbed silence
for a moment. Presently, to his relief, he saw her face softening, and
he took advantage of it. "Marie," he said, "you are not treating me
right. My conscience is clear in regard to you. I made you no
promises. I paid your expenses, and you were satisfied. You are the
one who has broken faith. Above all it was understood between us that
I was not to be bound to you in any way. I have been indulging you,
and you are growing more and more exacting. You are not fair--not
fair. You went openly to my place of business. You made threatening
remarks about me to my partner. You are trying to ruin me."

"Ruin you?" she smiled. "There are things worse than ruin. If I could
have gotten your address I'd have followed you and shot you like a
dog!"

"I am not surprised," he said, calmly. "By accident I found the thing
you intended to do it with."

Her startled eyes crawled from his face to the piano. She strode to
it, threw back the scarf, and stood facing him.

"You have it?" she said.

He touched his bulging pocket. "Yes, I may use it on myself," he
retorted, grimly. "You say you've had enough; well, so have I. I have
sown my wild oats, Marie, but they have grown to a jungle around me.
During my vacation I made up my mind to turn over a new leaf, but I
suppose I have gone too far for that sort of thing. I couldn't marry
you--"

"You'd rather die than do it, hadn't you?" The woman's voice broke.
"Well, I can't blame you. I really can't." Her breast rose and shook.
"The devil is in me, Dick. It has been in me ever since--ever since--
but it won't do any good to talk about that. I am down and out."

"What do you mean?" He sank into one of the chairs heavily, his
despondent stare fixed on her softened face. "You may as well tell me.
I am ready for anything now."

"Oh, it is a family matter." She evaded his eyes. "There is no use
going over it, but it has thoroughly undone me."

"Tell me about it," he urged. "Why not?"

Eyes downcast, she hesitated a moment. Then: "You've heard me speak of
my brother Hal, who is in business in Texas. You know he and I are the
only ones of my family left. He is still a boy to me, and I have
always loved him. He is in trouble. He has been speculating and taking
money that did not belong to him. Through him his house has lost ten
thousand dollars. I've had six appealing letters from his wife--she is
desperate."

"Oh, I see," Mostyn said. "That is bad. Is--is he in prison?"

"No--not yet." Marie choked up. "The firm has an idea that his friends
may help him restore the money, and they won't prosecute if he can
make the loss good. He has been hoping to get help out there among his
wife's people, but has failed. The time is nearly up--only two days
left, and I--My God, do you think I can live after that boy is put in
jail? It has made a fiend of me, for if I hadn't taken up with you I
would have gone to Texas with him and it might not have happened.
There is a streak of bad blood in our family. My father was none too
good. He was like you, able to dodge the law, that's all. But poor Hal
didn't cover his tracks."

"Stop, Marie!" Mostyn demanded, in rising anger. "What do you mean by
mentioning _me_ in that sort of connection?"

"Humph! What do I mean? Well, I mean that men say--oh, I've heard them
talk! I don't have to tell you who said it, but I have heard them say
if you hadn't broken old Mr. Henderson all to pieces several years ago
you'd never have been where you are to-day."

"You don't understand that, Marie," Mostyn answered, impatiently.
"Henderson took it to court, and the decision was--"

"Oh, I know!" She tossed her head. "Your lawyers pulled you through
for a rake-off, and the Henderson girls went to work. They live in a
shabby little four-room house not far from here. I often see them at
the wash-tub in the back yard. The old man hates you like a snake, and
so do the girls. I can't blame them. When you get down in the very
dregs through dealing with a person you learn how to hate. The thing
stays in the mind night and day till it festers like a boil and you
want to even up some way."

"Marie, listen to me," Mostyn began, desperately deliberate. "Why
can't we come to an agreement? You want to help your brother out of
his trouble, I am sure. Now, that is a big amount of money, as you
know, and even a banker can't always get up ready funds in such
quantities as that, but suppose I give it to you?"

"You--you give it to me?" she stammered, incredulously, her lips
falling apart, her white teeth showing. "Why, you said, not a month
ago, that you were too hard pushed for money even to--"

"This is different," he broke in. "Through your conduct you are
actually driving me to the wall and I am desperate. I am ready to make
this proposition to you. I will get up that money. I'll send you a
draft for it to-day provided--provided, Marie, that you solemnly agree
not to disturb me at all in the future."

"Do you really mean it?" She leaned forward, eagerly. "Because--
because if you _don't_ you ought not to mention it. I'd cut off my
hands and feet to save that dear boy."

"I mean it," he answered, firmly. "But this time you must keep your
promise, and, no matter what I do in the future, you must not molest
me."

"I am willing, Dick. I agree. I love you--I really do, but from now on
you may go your way and I'll go mine. I swear it. May I--may I
telegraph Hal that--"

"Yes, telegraph him that the money is on the way to him," Mostyn said.

Marie sank into a chair opposite him and rested her tousled head on
her crossed arms. A trembling sob escaped her, and she looked up. He
saw tears filling her eyes. "After all, I may not be so very, very
bad," she said, "for this will be a merciful act, and it comes through
my knowing you."

"But it must be the end, Marie," he urged, firmly. "It is costing me
more than you can know, but I must positively be free."

"I know it," she answered. "I will let you alone, Dick. You may marry
--you may do as you like from now on."

"Then it is positively settled," he said, a new light flaring in his
eyes. "For good and all, we understand each other."

"Yes, for good and all," she repeated, her glance on the floor.

A moment later he was in the street. The sun had never shown more
brightly, the sky had never seemed so fathomless and blue. He inhaled
a deep breath. He felt as if he were swimming through the air.

"Free, free!" he chuckled, "free at last!"

Reaching the bank, he was about to enter when he met, coming out, a
dark, straight-haired, beardless young man who promptly grasped his
hand. It was Alan Delbridge.

"Hello!" Delbridge said, with a laugh. "Glad to see you back. You look
better. The wild woods have put new life in you. I knew you'd come as
soon as the Mitchells got home."

"It wasn't that," Mostyn said, lamely.

"Oh, of course not," Delbridge laughed. "You were not at all curious
to learn the particulars of the old chap's big deal--oh no, you are
not that sort! A hundred or two thousand to the credit of a fellow's
fiancee doesn't amount to anything with a plunger like you."

Mostyn laid a hesitating hand on the shoulder of the other.

"Say, Delbridge," he faltered, "this sort of thing has gone far
enough. I am not engaged to the young lady in question, and--"

"Oh, come off!" Delbridge's laugh was even more persistent. "Tell that
to some one else. You see, I _know_. The old man confides in me--not
in just so many words, you know, but he lets me understand. He says
you and he are going to put some whopping big deals through,
presumably after you take up your quarters under his vine and fig
tree."

Mostyn started to protest further, but with another laugh the
financier was off.

"Ten thousand dollars!" he thought, as he moved on. "He speaks of my
business head; what would he think of the investment I have just made?
He would call me a weakling. That is what I am. I have always been
one. The woman doesn't live who could worry him for a minute. But it
is ended now. I have had my lesson, and I sha'n't forget it."

At his desk in his closed office a few minutes later he took a blank
check, and, dipping his pen, he carefully filled it in. Mechanically
he waved it back and forth in the warm air. Suddenly he started; a
sort of shock went through him. How odd that he had not once, in all
his excitement, thought of Dolly Drake! Was it possible that his
imagination had tricked him into believing that he loved the girl and
could make actual sacrifices for her? Why, already she was like a
figment in some evanescent dream. What had wrought the change? Was it
the sight of Delbridge and his mention of Mostyn's financial prowess?
Was it the fellow's confident allusion to Mitchell and his daughter?
Had the buzz and hum of business, the fever of conquest, already
captured and killed the impulses which in the mountains had seemed so
real, so permanent, so redemptive?

"Dolly, dear, beautiful Dolly!" he said, but the whispered words
dropped lifeless from his lips. "I have broken promises, but I shall
keep those made to you. You are my turning-point. You are to be my
wife. I have fancied myself in love often before and been mistaken,
but the man does not live who could be untrue to a girl like you. You
have made a man of me. I will be true--I will be honest with you. I
swear it! I swear it!"





CHAPTER XV




A little later he and his sister were at luncheon in her dining-room.

"I am losing patience with you, Dick," she said, as she poured his
tea.

"Is that anything new?" he ventured to jest, while wondering what
might lay in the little woman's mind.

"You are too strenuous," she smiled, as she dropped two lumps of sugar
into his cup. "Entirely too much so. I saw from your face this morning
that you are already undoing the effects of your vacation. The old
glare is back in your eyes; your hands shake. I really must warn you.
You know our father died from softening of the brain, which was
brought on by financial worry. You are killing yourself, and for no
reason in the world. Look at Alan Delbridge. He is the ideal man of
affairs. Nothing disturbs him."

"It is always Delbridge, Delbridge!" Mostyn said, testily. "Even
_you_ can't keep from hurling him in my teeth. He is as cold-blooded
as a fish. Why should I want to be like him?"

"Well, take Jarvis Saunders, then," she returned. "What more success
could a man want than he gets? I like to talk to him. He has a helpful
philosophy of life. When he leaves his desk he is as happy and free as
a boy out of school. I saw him pitching and catching ball in a vacant
lot with one of your clerks the other day. Is it any wonder that so
many mothers of unmarried daughters consider him a safe catch for
their girls? I am not punning; he really is wonderful."

"Oh, I know it," Mostyn answered, drinking his tea, impatiently. "I
was not made like him. I am not to blame."

Mrs. Moore eyed him silently for a moment, then a serious expression
settled on her florid face. "Well," she ejaculated, "when are you
going to make a real clean breast of it?"

A shudder passed through him. She knew what had brought him home.
Marie's hysterical protest had leaked out. The girl had talked to
others besides Saunders.

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