Bought and Paid For; From the Play of George Broadhurst Part 6

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 Was.h.i.+ngton, 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 ba.n.a.l, 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 cla.s.s 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 pa.s.sionately 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 appet.i.tes, 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 l.u.s.t. 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 cla.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 acc.u.mulated 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances 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 f.a.n.n.y had left school, and was able to help her, and then it wasn't quite so trying. You see, f.a.n.n.y 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 cla.s.s 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 f.a.n.n.y."

"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 embarra.s.sment.

"What kind of love?" he persisted.

"Real love."