A WOMAN'S OFFER.
She returned to town in the highest spirits, and the first thing she
did was to write to Ralph Webster.
"Come and dine with me to-morrow night," she wrote. "I have some
wonderful news to tell you. I shall be alone, and we will dine at eight.
K. W."
Ralph Webster received this tiny note the next morning, and after
a little consideration he determined to accept her invitation. He
naturally felt a strange interest in Kathleen Weir's proceedings, and
wondered what her news could be; wondered if in any way it could affect
the one woman of whom he ever thought.
He had seen May Churchill the day before, and had noticed on her fair
face a certain new serenity; a new peace, as if her bitter pain had
passed away. And he had heard also from his friend, Doctor Brentwood,
that the young probationer was learning to be a most excellent nurse;
that she took interest in and studied her duties, and that some of the
patients had said that her face was like an angel's as she stood by
their bedsides.
May, in truth, was learning something besides nursing. She was learning
the stern, sad lessons of life. The sick and sorrowing taught her
these; taught her to look beyond the passing joys and hopes of earth.
She knew now that her sorrow had not been greater than that of others,
nor her cross heavier to bear. So patiently and bravely did she do the
work that lay nearest to her hand.
To Ralph Webster she naturally felt very grateful, and she had said
something of this the last time he had seen her. But he still had never
spoken of his strong, deep feelings toward her. He had not, in fact,
the same opportunities of doing this at the hospital as he had at
Hastings. But he was only biding his time. "Some day I will try to win
her," he told himself each time he saw her; "some day she will forget,
and cease to grieve."
He was thinking of her as he drove to the flat occupied by Miss
Kathleen Weir; thinking of her, as he always did, with tender and
protecting love. But the handsome woman who rose to welcome him amid
her flowers and the ornate decorations of her room, naturally knew
nothing of this secret of his heart. Kathleen Weir received him with
smiles and real pleasure. She looked in his dark, earnest face and
compared him mentally with the man she had seen the day before.
"He is worth winning," she thought; "worth everything--at least to me."
"And what is your wonderful news?" asked Webster, smiling, after they
had shaken hands and Kathleen Weir had once more sank down on the satin
couch from which she had risen at his entrance.
"Wait until we have dined," she answered, gaily. "It is so wonderful it
would take away your appetite if we did not."
"Very well, I am content to wait," said Webster, and a few minutes
after dinner was served. It was a luxurious little meal. Kathleen had
spared nothing to make it attractive and agreeable, and during it she
was bright and charming, and Webster thought he had never seen her look
so well.
Then, when it was over, she rose in her lithe way and returned to the
drawing-room, followed by Webster.
"Now, I am going to give you a great surprise," she said; "where will
you sit?"
He drew a chair and placed it near her.
"Well, I am prepared to be surprised," he answered, with a smile.
"Yet you will never guess where I was yesterday. You will never guess
who I saw. I went down to Woodlea Hall; I had a long interview with
John Temple, its new owner."
A dark flush rose to Webster's face as he listened to these words.
"I went, in fact, to try to do a stroke of business, and I did it. You
did not seem inclined to do it for me, and there was no one else in
whom I had absolute trust but myself. I went to Woodlea for the purpose
of seeing John Temple, and making him a polite offer to get rid of me.
It is a splendid place, and I told him that I had no idea I had made
such a good match."
"And you saw him?" said Webster, with a great effort.
"Of course I saw him. I told him I was quite as tired of being married
to him as he could be of being married to me. And I told him also it
was no use his trying to get a divorce from me, as he had nothing to go
upon. 'But,' I added, 'I can get one from you. I have only to invent
that you tore the hair out of my head, and beat me black and blue, to
win my case' and my gentleman did not deny it."
"But surely you will not--"
"But surely I will," went on Kathleen Weir, as Webster paused and
hesitated. "However, I have not told you all. 'And as you are a rich
man,' I continued, 'you must pay for your freedom. I am ready to
swear falsely; to rid you of a wife to whom you are indifferent, and
who is perfectly indifferent to you, but I must be paid for it.' He
made no objections, and I named the sum I would accept--ten thousand
pounds--and to this also he made no objections. Now, don't you think it
was very clever of me?"
"But--have you any case against him?"
"Of course I have a case, and we can arrange the particulars between
us. He won't deny the hair-pulling and the beatings, and the judge will
believe me to be an injured woman, and give me the release I am dying
for. I will be free--free and rich--and perhaps then--"
Her voice faltered as she said the last few words, for the first time
during this interview, and her eyes fell. Webster's eyes also fell, and
he moved uneasily, and then he rose and went toward the fireplace and
stood leaning against the mantel-piece.
Kathleen Weir glanced after him; then also rose and followed him to
where he was standing.
"Do not think me hard, or cold, or mercenary," she said, "in making
this bargain. I--I was not thinking of myself when I did so. I make
a large income by my profession; more than I need. But I wanted this
sum--Ralph Webster, shall I tell you why?"
She put out her white hand as she spoke, and laid it on his arm. It
was trembling, and Webster saw it tremble, and an embarrassed silence
followed for a few moments between them.
"Shall I tell you why?" she presently repeated, in a soft, low voice,
and she looked up in his face. "I wanted it for you--for you, for whose
sake I wish also to be free."
"Hush, hush, do not speak thus," said Webster, in great agitation. "I
thank you very much for your kindness, your friendship--but--"
"But what?" asked Kathleen, quickly, and her face grew pale.
"There--there is a girl, a woman," faltered Webster, "whom I may never
marry--who--who does not love me, yet--"
"You love her?" said Kathleen, with a sort of gasp.
"Yes, and I shall love no other--forgive me, Miss Weir--but this is
true."
Again there was a few moments' painful silence, and then with a strong
effort the actress recovered herself.
"Well, there is no harm done," she said, and she turned away. "And for
the matter of that," she added, with a harsh little laugh, "I am not
divorced yet; I may never be!"
* * * * *
Ten minutes later--after Webster was gone--Kathleen Weir was pacing
up and down her drawing-room in a state of intense and concentrated
excitement.
"Am I so mad," she said, speaking aloud to herself, "to let this folly
utterly upset me? I have wasted my affections then for the second
time, but it won't kill me! Webster shall not think he has broken my
heart any more than the other one did. Yet I like him," and her face
softened; "he has a great heart--and the girl, the woman, whoever she
is, may be proud of her conquest. But I am not going to pine; life
isn't long enough to waste on a vain regret."
After this she went back into the room where they had dined and took up
one of the half-emptied champagne bottles and poured some of it into
a glass and drank it. Then she rang the bell and ordered her brougham
to come around for her in half an hour, and having done that she sat
down to her desk and wrote and dispatched telegrams to Linda Falconer,
to Lord Dereham, and to two other men that she knew, inviting them to
supper that evening at half-past eleven o'clock. Presently she sent out
and ordered an elaborate supper to be sent in from a confectioner's;
ordered everything she could think of; the most expensive luxuries she
could buy.
When she had completed her arrangements she drove to one of the
theaters to pass the time until her expected guests would arrive. A
man she knew joined her there, and she invited him also to return with
her to supper. She seemed in the wildest spirits; she laughed and
jested, and showed her white teeth; all the while a cold sharp pang lay
pressing on her heart.
The supper was a great success, and never had Kathleen Weir been so
witty or so gay. She sang, she coquetted, and played her part so well
that Linda Falconer looked at her with her shadowed, dreamy eyes, and
asked her if she had come into a fortune.
"I have the prospect of one, at all events," answered Kathleen; "and
there is nothing like money, you know, Linda--nothing, nothing!"
"I think there is something better than money," said Dereham, with his
honest brown eyes fixed on Linda Falconer's lovely face.
"You mean love!" And Kathleen Weir shrugged her white shoulders.
"My friend, that is because you are young and innocent. Love is a
delusion, a pitfall into which we stumble only to find it full of
disappointments. We love a man or a woman whom at the time we think
perfection, but it is not the true man or woman, but an idealized
creature of our own imaginations. We find this out when it is too late,
and we blame the unfortunate recipient of our deluded affections, not
our own folly in being deluded."
"Well, I believe in love," answered Dereham, sturdily.
"Long may you believe in it, then," said Kathleen, with a light laugh.
"But, Dereham, you won't. You too will wake up and find your idol
shattered."
"How spiteful you are, Kathleen!" remarked Linda Falconer, calmly.
"Have you had a disappointment in love lately?"
"No, my dear, for I have not been in love. I love myself too well to
waste my affections on an ungrateful man."
"But you might find a grateful one?" said one of her friends, smiling.
"I doubt it, greatly. However, I do not mean to try. I mean to amuse
myself, and if you are always thinking of one person it is impossible
to do so."
She talked in this strain a little longer and then rose and went to
the piano, and presently her wonderfully clear and ringing voice filled
the room. The men present stood around her, except Lord Dereham, who
remained in the supper-room with Linda Falconer.
"How excited Kathleen Weir is to-night! Do you think she has taken too
much champagne?" remarked Linda of her friend.
Dereham laughed.
"Can't tell," he said; "but that was all rot she talked."
"Do you mean about love?" asked Linda, softly, and for a moment she
looked in Dereham's face, and then cast down her beautiful eyes with a
sigh.
"Yes," he answered, ardently, and he bent forward and took her white
hand. "I believe in it--and--and Linda, don't you?"
"I--try not to think of it," she half-whispered.
"But why?"
"Because--ah, Dereham, you must not ask;" and again she sighed.
"But I do ask, and I want you to answer me. Why do you try not to think
of love?"
"Because--the--the person I could love is not as I am."
"How do you mean?"
"His rank is different to mine," answered Linda, in a low, sad tone.
"His rank! What has rank to do with it? If a man really loves he never
thinks of these things. Linda, who is the person you could love? Will
you tell me?"
Again Linda looked in his face, and their eyes met; Linda's said very
plainly--at least she intended them to say--"You are the person I could
love"; and thus Dereham understood their meaning.
"Then--then do love me, dearest," he said, bending closer, and
half-whispering in her ear. "Let my rank be yours; your life be
mine--be my wife?"
Linda Falconer smiled gently as she listened to the words. She had
wished to listen to them for some little while, but she had not been in
a hurry. She was too wise, too cold, to allow the young man to think
she was in any haste to receive his proposal. But as he had proposed,
she was also too wise to allow the opportunity to pass.
"But are you sure, quite sure, of your own heart?" she asked,
pensively. "You heard what Kathleen Weir said--and--and unless you
really love me--"
"I do most deeply, most truly; I have thought of this almost ever since
I met you, but I was never sure of you; you do not make a rush at a
fellow like some women do, and--and though I was afraid I liked you all
the better for it."
He made this ingenious confession to a woman who knew very well he was
speaking the truth. She had intended to win this young lord, and she
had won him, and no doubt had done it cleverly.
"I was afraid too," she said, softly, "afraid to love you--at least to
show my love--but not now."
And before the party broke up she had time to whisper her news to
Kathleen Weir.
"It is all settled," she said; "we are engaged," and her eyes were
bright with triumph.
Kathleen Weir listened, and somehow another woman's success and
happiness gave her a fresh pang.
"So this cold, selfish woman has won, and I have lost," she thought,
bitterly, after her guests had left her. All her high spirits had
now died away; she sat wearily down, but after a while returned to
the supper-room and drank several glasses of champagne to benumb the
aching pain at her heart. As a rule, she was a very sober woman, and
the unusual quantity of wine that she had taken quickly affected her.
She walked, but not very steadily, back into the drawing-room, and as
she did so her foot tripped on a cushion that someone had accidentally
thrown and left on the floor. She stumbled, and to save herself from
falling caught hold of a brass floor-lamp, and in doing so overturned
it. And in an instant--before her first agonized cry could escape her
lips--the burning oil streamed over her bare neck, throat, and arms,
and the light dress that she wore was in flames.
She uttered shriek after shriek, and ran--a burning mass--to the door
of the room. A gentleman who lived in the flat above her heard her
cries and quickly came to her assistance. He promptly wrapped her in
a coverlet that he caught up, and succeeded, after a few minutes, in
crushing out the cruel flames; but she was terribly burned, and the
decorated room where the accident occurred, which she had made so
bright with flowers when she had awaited Webster's coming, was one
blackened ruin ere the fire died out.