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."