Keeping an appointment, Kathleen Boyce dropped in next day. Her tall
indolent figure, prematurely wrapped in loosely hanging furs, stood in
the doorway surprisedly.
“Not dressed yet, Rose? Have you forgotten that we’re going to that
showing at Boyle’s?”
In the afternoon light Mrs. Hubbell’s face looked sallow and mean little
lines dragged down the corners of her mouth.
“Boyle’s? I don’t want to go to Boyle’s.”
“Sick or bored?”
“Both--and done with this place. I’m off for New York next week. Look in
there. I’m packing. I’ll do better in New York than I could at Boyle’s,
I guess. Look here, Kathleen, why don’t you come with me?”
“Can’t afford a winter in New York. My modest alimony isn’t able to hold
a candle to your fortune. Sometimes a living husband isn’t as generous
as a dead one.”
Rose smiled viciously.
“Jack wasn’t as rich as lots of people think. I’d my own income.”
Kathleen let the statement pass. Delving into Rose’s affairs was
fatiguing. But she shrugged just enough to show her friend that the talk
about an independent income didn’t deceive her at all.
“What’s driving you away?”
“What’s there to keep me?”
“Well--the gilded Mr. Martin--and me--and always Jim.”
Mrs. Hubbell sneered.
“I wonder,” said Kathleen negligently, “I’ve always wondered what you
got out of that Jim proposition. He obviously wasn’t able to take care
of you or marry you and you knew some flapper would grab him sooner or
later. Rather a nice flapper too. And you didn’t want to marry him!”
“Marry him! I hate him! I never wanted him! He’s crooked anyhow.”
“Oh, come now, Rose.” Kathleen was adroitly probing and thoroughly
enjoying herself. It was cheering to know that something was driving
Rose away from her last decent quarry. Kathleen had few scruples but she
had some and Horatia had waked one of them.
“Drop Jim, then.” Rose was brief. “And better come to New York.”
“Where are you going?”
“Apartment--somewhere.”
“Alone--any attachments?”
“Not yet,” said Rose brazenly.
“Well--I guess I won’t come. I’m not ready. I’ll be along later, maybe.”
Kathleen was not tight-laced but she did not care to spend a winter with
Rose. And Rose must have known it and included her in the general hate
she was lavishing today. She had had a disagreeable morning with her
check-book. What she told Kathleen had been in part true. Her husband
had not been as rich as people thought--but the fact that he had died
intestate, having somehow forgotten to make a will or perhaps not having
cared enough to make one, had left her generously taken care of. She had
spent overlavishly however and well as she knew how to supplement her
income she was just now more pressed than she cared to admit.
Languidly Kathleen said good-bye and made her exit into the street to be
stared at and admired and to wend her way to Boyle’s to study fashions
and look at clothes she could not afford to buy. Thence to dinner and
the theatre with some man. So futile, so lazy, so stupid a life! But
without great malice was Kathleen. She was glad her friend was going,
though it would mean that a good organizer of parties was lost to their
vague circle.
Rose packed her trunk, and made her plans. A few days before she left
she received, by appointment, a heavy, youngish, florid man of perhaps
thirty-two or three. She was lovely and soft that night--tinted with
rose by the light of her candles. The man sat beside her and caressed
her with some enthusiasm.
“About ready to go?” he asked.
“And lonely--I wish you’d come with me.”
“Maybe I will if you ask me nicely. Do you really want me or are you
just broke?”
“Both.”
He took that as a rare joke.
“Well, by George, you’re honest anyhow. How much?”
“Later,” she answered negligently. “Time enough for that. Will you
come?”
“I will, if you’ll devote yourself to entertaining me. Just me--mind.
You will too. We’ve had some great times. I’ve never forgotten what a
peach you were that winter after your trouble. And you were pretty
clever. No one ever suspected I was implicated. It would have been
rotten if they had. Not a cent for little Willie if he doesn’t go
straight, says the old man. That means not a cent for Rosie. So I’ve got
to be pretty careful here. But in New York----”
“When you get it yourself, will you marry me?”
“The money?” A shrewd, hard little look passed between them. He stroked
her arm. “Well, he’s a long liver and there’s a jolly income for me--and
you--now. What’s the use of bothering?”
“None.” She knew that he wouldn’t marry her.
“When do we leave?”
“I’ll leave Sunday, and wait over in Chicago. You can meet me by
accident on the flyer Tuesday.”
“And you’ll get the accommodations?”
She nodded a little wearily.
Her packing was very complete. Her furniture was put into storage, and
the agent of her apartment agreed, after a struggle, to sublet it. When
it came to business the languorous eyes of Mrs. Hubbell could become
immensely practical and definite and she could out-Herod most of her
tradespeople. She got what she wanted out of men whether she had to try
wits or emotions on them.
On Sunday, unattended, after a few curiously casual telephone calls of
farewell, she left on the Chicago train. Through the early evening,
which darkened so early now, the train sped along and in her compartment
Rose sat close to the window, still as a sphinx. The shadows crept over
her lovely face and softened it. And her thoughts softened it too,
making her so alluring that men on their way to the dining-car turned
back to repass her open door. But she did not seem to notice them. Who
could tell of what she was thinking? Of a misspent selfish life which
had ridden cruelly roughshod over the lives of the people around her? Of
Jack Hubbell, the gentle, loving, passionate man, who had given her
everything a man could give and whom she had cheated in return? Of how
she might have been still a revered and loved wife if it had not been
for the strange devil in her which hungered after looseness and hated
control? No--more likely it was of the man she was to meet day after
tomorrow “by accident,” of the way to manage him and bring him to the
point of arranging for her future; of his possibilities and financial
solidity. There were so many things of which she might have been
thinking if she looked into her past and future as the train sped along
faster and faster, carrying her away from the lives which she had
scarred. But the scars were healing and she would never harm those lives
again.
Her passing was only casually noted. At the restaurants and hotels they
asked after her once or twice. That was all--they soon forgot to ask.