Bought and Paid For; From the Play of George Broadhurst Part 43

Once more he softened. He could not forget in a moment's anger what they had been to each other. Appealingly he said:

"Listen to me for just a minute, dear. You don't realize what you are undertaking. You don't know what you propose to do. Please, please don't do anything that is going to bring you so much misery and unhappiness. Think it over a little while and then perhaps--"

"My mind is made up," she said firmly.

Going to her dressing table, she picked up her hat and placed it on her head. Again he tried to dissuade her.

"Dearie!"

"I am quite decided, I tell you," she said firmly, putting on her hat.

"Don't do it, Virginia, don't do it!" he cried. "Remember, if you leave me like this you will have to come to me or it will be--forever."

"Then it will be forever!" she said decisively. "I won't be degraded and humiliated! I won't be told that I was bought and paid for! You've been able to say it up to now, but you'll never be able to say it again!" Pointing to the jewels she added: "There they are! I give them all back to you."

She stopped and suddenly noticed the rings she was wearing. They, also, were a present from him. With a subdued exclamation she muttered:

"I had almost forgotten these!"

Taking the gems off her fingers one by one, she laid them on the table before him. Her wedding ring still remained on her finger. That she hesitated to remove. She looked from the ring to her husband and made a movement as if about to remove it. Stafford, in his distress, made a supplicating gesture.

"Don't do that!" he cried

"Why not?" she replied coldly. "Since it's to be forever, why not?"

Taking off the wedding ring she placed it on the table with the others and left the room, closing the door behind her.

After she had gone Stafford went to the table, picked up the ring and softly read the inscription to himself:

"'_From Robert to Virginia, with eternal love!'_ Eternal love!"

he echoed bitterly to himself. "What irony!"

Slipping the ring into his pocket he stood for a time as if in deep thought. Then going to the telephone, he quickly unhooked the receiver.

"h.e.l.lo! Give me Madison, 74. Hurry! Hurry! Is this Burley's Detective Agency? Is Mr. Burley there? Oh, is that you, Burley? This is Robert Stafford. I want the best man you have to meet me at my office in half an hour. Yes--your very best. What? No, no! I don't want him to watch anyone; I want him to protect someone. In half an hour, remember."

Replacing the telephone on the desk, he remained seated, and drawing from his pocket the wedding ring he gazed at it murmuring to himself:

"With eternal love!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: TAKING OFF THE WEDDING RING, SHE PLACED IT ON THE TABLE. PAGE 270]

Chapter XVIII

For the next few days there was an atmosphere of gloom and depression at No.-- Riverside Drive. Below stairs consternation reigned. No one knew exactly what had occurred, but that the relations between master and mistress were badly strained was plainly evident. Mrs. Stafford had driven hurriedly away in a taxicab without saying where she was going or when she would return, and Mr. Stafford, having locked himself in his room and denied himself to all callers, was in such an ugly mood that he was absolutely unapproachable. Never before had Oku seen his master in such a vicious temper. He had practically kicked him out when he had politely inquired how many would be home for dinner, and all that evening he heard him striding restlessly up and down like a caged lion, raging and fuming, and once it had sounded suspiciously to Oku as if his master might be weeping.

The little j.a.panese butler not only felt hurt at such treatment after fifteen years of faithful service, but he was really concerned at the protracted and mysterious absence of his dear mistress. In the two years that Virginia had been at the head of the household she had endeared herself to all her dependents. Always courteous and considerate, never unreasonable or exacting, the servants literally wors.h.i.+pped her and as the days went by without the least sign of her coming back the general gloom deepened. In the evening, after the day's work was done, and all hands could sit in the kitchen and take things easy, the mistress' strange disappearance was the one topic of conversation. The cook, a stout, apoplectic-looking Irishwoman, spoke straight up: Her mistress, as nice a lady as she ever worked for, was smart enough to know her own mind and if she had left her husband there was a mighty good reason for it. The waitress, indignantly repudiating the insinuation that she made a practice of listening to table conversation as she pa.s.sed the dishes, admitted that, having been provided by nature with ears, she could not help overhearing certain things. On the morning of Mrs. Stafford's departure, she had noticed a decided coolness at the breakfast table, and later when on going down stairs she had heard loud voices she had stopped to listen she had distinctly heard her mistress say: "Then I shall leave you!"

This pointed clearly enough to a serious rupture, especially when Josephine, the French maid, told how, at her mistress' orders, she had taken from the safe all the boxes of jewelry and piled them up on the table where they still remained. Her candid opinion was that the master had been drinking again and that madame, disgusted at his behavior, had eloped with a tall, handsome stranger who had been seen loitering around the house. Oku scoffed at all this gossip. It was clear as daylight, he said. His master was tired of being married so long to the same woman, and as to madame, she also was weary of being married to the same man, so each had decided to try a little change, whereupon Lizzie, the second waitress--a buxom Irish girl who despised "furriners" in general and j.a.panese in particular--bid Oku hold his tongue and not jabber such heathenish nonsense.

But if the situation was productive of much unconscious humor in servants' hall, it was different upstairs. To Robert Stafford it was all serious enough, a tragedy which had suddenly blasted his life, and night after night as he sat alone in the library, making a hollow pretence at work, forcing his mind on a book or newspaper when really his thoughts were miles away, he wondered how he could have been such a fool as to allow his happiness slip through his fingers.

Now that Virginia was really gone, he realized what she had been to him and what he had lost. At the outset, he had taken it lightly, resentfully. He schooled himself to appear indifferent, afraid that he would be surrendering some of his pride if he displayed the slightest weakness. To himself he argued that if she chose to quarrel with him and disturb the harmony of their home on such a trivial pretext, he would be a poor weak fool to permit a woman to bully him and question rights which were of the very essence of his manhood. If she preferred to make a fuss and go her own way he could not prevent her. But when the door had closed behind her, when he saw that she was really in earnest, that she had been willing to give up all this comfort, all this luxury, to return to a precarious existence, a life of humiliation and self-denial, and all this for a mere matter of principle, he was startled.

The railroad promoter had never troubled to think deeply on matters outside his material interests. Of religion, he had none, and he seldom stopped to consider the ethical side of a question. But all at once, as by a miracle, the scales fell from his eyes. In a sudden flash of illuminating reason he saw himself as he was--selfish, cynical, inconsiderate, brutal. He was astounded at finding himself compelled to admit the truth of these self-made charges. He did not mean to be all these things. At heart he was a good fellow. It was simply the fault of his training. He saw now the truth of what in his egotism and cynicism he had always scoffed at before, that some women are strong enough morally, brave enough physically to do anything, make any sacrifice for the sake of right. How unworthy he had proved himself of such a woman! What respect could she have left for him, what respect had he left for himself?

And as the days went by without word from her and the full realization of what he had lost slowly came to him, he thought he would go mad from anxiety and remorse. He did not know where she had gone and his pride prevented him from communicating with her sister. James Gillie had handed in a haughty resignation the day following Virginia's departure, so there was no way of learning anything from that source, and the detective he had employed had thus far discovered nothing. She might be in difficulties, in actual want and would not ask a.s.sistance from sheer pride. The thought was maddening and for days Stafford, distraught, unable to attend to his affairs, remained in the house, hoping, half expecting, she would return until the uncertainty and continual disappointment nearly drove him insane. He could not eat; he could not sleep. His ears still rang with her reproaches, her stinging words of bitter denunciation. At night he would wake up suddenly in a cold sweat imagining he saw her standing at the bed, looking at him with her large, sorrowful eyes, full of tears and reproach.

If he had never been sure of it before, he knew now that he loved her.

Everything in the house, now she was gone, told him so. As he wandered aimlessly through the deserted rooms, and his glance fell on the corners and objects with which she was a.s.sociated--the deep easy chair in the library in which she would bury herself for hours with an interesting book; her baby grand piano, still open with the sheets of music scattered about; her private chamber with the bed undisturbed, closets empty, furniture arranged in precise order, and already beginning to acc.u.mulate dust--he realized for the first time all that she had been to him. He had not married young like most men. She had come into his life when his habits and opinions were already formed.

For that reason he had treated his wife like a child, to be petted and indulged, but who at no time must be permitted to a.s.sert her independence or interfere in any way with her husband's mode of living. But little by little, even without his being conscious of it, she had taken a larger place in his life. Gradually, she had made herself necessary to him, to his peace of mind, to his comfort. Not only did she fill the house with her youthful enthusiasm and girlish laughter, but when business cares weighed heavy on his shoulders and he came home tired, glad of someone to whom he could confide his troubles, he found in her the most sympathetic of listeners. In the evening she would sit at the piano and play for him his favorite music. Ah, how divinely she played the Schubert _Serenade_; its sad, mournful melody was even now ringing in his ears, perfectly attuned to his present mood. Insensate fool that he had been! He had enjoyed all this and yet had deemed it of such little value that he had spurned it and driven it away. This woman, his wife, who had brought suns.h.i.+ne into his life and home--this loyal, faithful comrade--he had insulted beyond all forgiveness. When it all came clear to him, he thought he would go mad.

Ah, if she would only forgive him and come back! His first impulse was to go after her, humiliate himself, go on his knees if necessary, and beseech her to return. A dozen times he sat down and wrote her a letter, but they were never sent. His pride forbade it, and caused him to go about wearing a mask of indifference which he was far from feeling. No, he could not go after her. All through his life, he had prided himself on his strength of will. It was the keystone of his character, both in his relations with his workmen and also in his domestic life. If he were to weaken, no matter what the circ.u.mstances, after once taking a determined stand, he would forfeit not only the world's respect, but his own as well. He was as proud and self-willed as she. He had told her that he would never go to her unless she sent for him. If, therefore, she was as proud and determined as he was, they had said good-bye for ever. They would never see each other again. If she did not write, it was because she had tired of him and did not want to come back. Perhaps she had found someone for whom she cared more, and no doubt one of these days some lawyer would be serving him with papers in a separation or divorce suit. Thus, his brain conjuring up all kinds of possibilities, he began to nourish feelings of anger and resentment. Suppose he had been a little rough with her, it was far worse for her to abandon him and expose him to all kinds of slanderous rumors. Thus, steeling his heart, he tried to forget her.

For a time he went back to his old style of life, leading again that easy-going, bohemian existence of his bachelor days. He plunged into gaieties and dissipations of every kind. He gambled freely, drank heavily and gave midnight champagne suppers enlivened by "appetizing"

vaudeville, to prominent ladies of the demi-monde. Yet even these excesses could not drown the p.r.i.c.kings of conscience. Sometimes, amid one of these nocturnal debauches, and while the drunken revelry was at its height, he would suddenly see Virginia's pale, thoughtful face.

Her eyes, dimmed with tears, and full of reproach, would seem to be gazing at him questioningly, wonderingly, that he should have so degraded himself. With a cry of disgust, he would spring up from his chair and go back to his desolate home.

Gradually the strain told upon him. He grew nervous and depressed. His physician warned him against working too hard.

"It's the grave malady of our time," said the doctor, shaking his head. "All our successful men fall victims to it. It's this cursed race to get rich quick."

Stafford shook his head. With a grim smile he said:

"You are mistaken, doctor. My affairs were never in better shape. I'm ashamed to tell you what ails me. It's a schoolboy's complaint. I'm in love--for the first time in my life."

CHAPTER XIX

"Mrs. Travers! Mr. Brown! Mr. Travers! Mr. Brown!"

The hotel pages, smart-looking in their tight-fitting uniforms with gold braid and b.u.t.tons, hurried here and there, scurrying through the lobbies and drawing-rooms, calling out the names of guests who were wanted.

It was five o'clock and the bustle at the hotel was at its height.

Guests were constantly arriving from train and steamer; others were departing, tipping their way out royally. Porters, their backs bent under the weight of heavy baggage, and waiters, their trays heaped up with silver dishes, pushed unceremoniously through the crowd. Women, fas.h.i.+onably gowned, were promenading the halls, or sipping tea in the palm garden; others sat in little groups watching the animated scene.

Men of all conditions--preachers, actors, politicians, gamblers--stood in the lobbies, chatting and smoking, blocking the way so that it was almost impossible to pa.s.s. From the open doors of the brilliantly illuminated cafe came the noise and laughter of popping corks, the metallic ring of money, and the sound of men's voices in dispute. In another corner was heard the click of telegraph instruments and the industrious, perpetual rattle of typewriters. At the front entrance a doorman, resplendent in gold lace, was having a heated altercation with an obstreperous cabman. The desk was literally besieged by a pus.h.i.+ng, unmannerly mob of persons, each of whom wanted to be waited on before the other, while haughty clerks, moving about with languid grace, tried to satisfy requests of every conceivable kind. There was nothing extraordinary in this apparent commotion. It suggested pandemonium; it was really only a rather dull and uneventful day in the ordinary routine of a big metropolitan hotel.

Virginia sat back in her chair and stretched herself. Every bone in her body ached. She had worked steadily since 8 o'clock that morning, with only a brief respite for lunch, and the fatigue was beginning to tell upon her. Formerly she could have done twice as much without feeling it, but since her marriage she had gotten out of the way of it. Her muscles were stiff; her recent luxurious mode of living had unfitted her for the strenuous life she used to lead. She had regained her independence, but it had not been without a bitter struggle.

It was a great shock to f.a.n.n.y when her sister walked in on her that afternoon now some three months ago and quietly told her that she had left Robert for good. At first the elder sister laughed, not believing it, and then, when she saw by Virginia's face that it was only too true, she broke down and cried. They fell into each others' arms and wept together, just as they had done many times before when they were children.

When they were somewhat calmer she had told f.a.n.n.y everything, keeping nothing from her, and declaring her intention to go back to the hotel, if she could get the position, and earn her own livelihood again.