Books: The Purple Parasol
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George Barr McCutcheon >> The Purple Parasol
"To-night?" she asked in very low tones.
"In half an hour."
"And were you going without saying good-by to--to us?" she went on rapidly.
He looked steadily down into her solemn eyes for a moment and an
expression of pain, of longing, came into his own.
"It couldn't make any difference whether I said good-by to you, and it
would have been hard," he replied unsteadily.
"Hard? I don't understand you," she said.
"I didn't want to see you. Yes, I hoped to get away before you knew
anything about it. Maybe it was cowardly, but it was the best way," he
cried bitterly.
"What do you mean?" she cried, and he detected alarm, confusion, guilt in
her manner.
"You know what I mean. I know everything--I knew it before I came here,
before I saw you. It's why I am here, I'm ashamed to say. But, have no
fear--have no fear! I've given up the job--the nasty job--and you can do
as you please. The only trouble is that I have been caught in the web;
I've been trapped myself. You've made me care for you. That's why I'm
giving it all up. Don't look so frightened--I'll promise to keep your
secret."
Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, but no words came; she seemed to
shrink from him as if he were the headsman and she his victim.
"I'll do it, right or wrong!" he gasped suddenly. And in an instant his
satchel clattered to the floor and his arms were straining the slight
figure to his breast. Burning lips met hers and sealed them tight. She
shivered violently, struggled for an instant in his mad embrace, but made
no outcry. Gradually her free arm stole upward and around his neck and her
lips responded to the passion in his. His kiss of ecstasy was returned.
The thrill of joy that shot through him was almost overpowering. A dozen
times he kissed her. Unbelieving, he held her from him and looked hungrily
into her eyes. They were wet with tears.
"Why do you go? I love you!" she whispered faintly.
Then came the revulsion. With an oath he threw her from him. Her hands
went to her temples and a moan escaped her lips.
"Bah!" he snarled. "Get away from me! Heaven forgive me for being as weak
as I've been to-night!"
"Sam!" she wailed piteously.
"Don't tell me anything! Don't try to explain! Be honest with one man, at
least!"
"You must be insane!" she cried tremulously.
"Don't play innocent, madam. I _know_." In abject terror she shrank
away from him. "But I have kissed you! If I live a thousand years I shall
not forget its sweetness."
He waved his hands frantically above her, grabbed up his suit-case and
traps, and, with one last look at the petrified woman shrinking against
the wall under the blasts of his vituperation, he dashed for the stairway.
And so he left her, a forlorn, crushed figure.
Blindly he tore downstairs and to the counter. He hardly knew what he was
doing as he drew forth his pocket-book to pay his account.
"Going away, Mr. Rollins?" inquired the clerk, glancing at the clock. It
was eleven-twenty and the last stage-coach left for Fossingford at
eleven-thirty, in time to catch the seven o'clock down train.
"Certainly," was the excited answer.
"A telegram came a few moments ago for you, sir, but I thought you were
in bed," and the other tossed a little envelope out to him. Mechanically
Rossiter tore it open. He was thinking of the cowering woman in the
hallway and he was cursing himself for his brutality.
He read the despatch with dizzy eyes and drooping jaw, once, twice,
thrice. Then he leaned heavily against the counter and a coldness assailed
his heart, so bitter that he felt his blood freezing. It read:
What have you been doing? The people you were sent to watch sailed for
Europe ten days ago.
GROVER & DICKHUT.
The paper fell from his trembling fingers, but he regained it, natural
instinct inspiring a fear that the clerk would read it.
"Good Lord!" he gasped.
"Bad news, Mr. Rollins?" asked the clerk sympathetically, but the
stricken, bewildered man did not answer.
What did it mean? A vast faintness attacked him as the truth began to
penetrate. Out of the whirling mystery came the astounding, ponderous
realization that he had blundered, that he had wronged her, that he had
accused her of--Oh, that dear, stricken figure in the hallway above!
He leaped to the staircase. Three steps at a time he flew back to the
scene of the miserable tragedy. What he thought, what he felt as he rushed
into the hallway can only be imagined. She was gone--heartbroken, killed!
And she had kissed him and said she loved him!
A light shone through the transoms over the doors that led into her
apartments. Quaking with fear, he ran down the hall and beat a violent
tattoo upon her parlor door. Again he rapped, crazed by remorse, fear,
love, pity, shame, and a hundred other emotions.
"Who is it?" came in stifled tones from within.
"It is I--Rossiter--I mean Rollins! I must see you--now! For pity's sake,
let me in!"
"How dare you--" she began shrilly; but he was not to be denied.
"If you don't open this door I'll kick it in!" he shouted. "I must see
you!"
After a moment the door flew open and he stood facing her. She was like a
queen. Her figure was as straight as an arrow, her eyes blazing. But there
had been tears in them a moment before.
"Another insult!" she exclaimed, and the scorn in her voice was
withering. He paused abashed, for the first time realizing that he had
hurt her beyond reparation. His voice faltered and the tears flew to his
eyes.
"I don't know what to say to you. It has been a mistake--a frightful
mistake--and I don't know whether you'll let me explain. When I got
downstairs I found this telegram and--for heaven's sake, let me tell you
the wretched story. Don't turn away from me! You shall listen to me if I
have to hold you!" His manner changed suddenly to the violent, imperious
forcefulness of a man driven to the last resort.
"Must I call for help?" she cried, thoroughly alarmed, once more the weak
woman, face to face, as she thought, with an insane man.
"I love you better than my own life, and I've hurt you terribly. I'm not
crazy, Helen! But I've been a fool, and I'll go crazy if you don't give me
a chance to explain."
Whether she gave the chance or no he took it, and from his eager,
pleading lips raced the whole story of his connection with the Wharton
affair from first to last.
He humbled himself, accused himself, ridiculed himself, and wound up by
throwing himself upon her mercy, uttering protestations of the love which
had really been his undoing.
She heard him through without a word. The light in her eyes changed; the
fear left them and the scorn fled. Instead there grew, by stages, wonder,
incredulity, wavering doubt and--joy. She understood him and she loved
him! The awful horror of that meeting in the hallway was swept away like
unto the transformation scene in the fairy spectacle.
When he fell upon his knee and sought to clasp her fingers in his cold
hand she smiled, and, stooping over, placed both hands on his cheeks and
kissed him.
What followed her kiss of forgiveness may be more easily imagined than
told.
"You see it was perfectly natural for me to mistake you for Mrs.
Wharton," he said after awhile. "You had the gray jacket, the sailor hat,
the purple parasol, and you are beautiful. And, besides all that, you were
found red-handed in that ridiculous town of Fossingford. Why shouldn't I
have suspected you with such a preponderance of evidence against you?
Anybody who would get off of a night train in Fossingford certainly ought
to be ashamed of something."
"But Fossingford is on the map, isn't it? One has a perfect right to get
off where she likes, hasn't she, provided it is on the map?"
"Not at all! That's what maps are for: to let you see where you don't get
off."
"But I was obliged to get off there. My ticket said 'Fossingford,' and,
besides, I was to be met at the station in a most legitimate manner. You
had no right to jump at conclusions."
"Well, if you had not descended to earth at Fossingford I wouldn't be in
heaven at Eagle Nest. Come to think of it, I believe you did quite the
proper thing in getting off at Fossingford--no matter what the hour."
"You must remember always that I have not taken you to task for a most
flagrant piece of--shall I say indiscretion?"
"Good Heavens!"
"You stopped off at Fossingford for the sole purpose of seeing another
woman."
"That's all very fine, dear, but you'll admit that Dudley was an
excellent substitute for Havens. Can't you see how easy it was to be
mistaken?"
"I won't fall into easy submission. Still, I believe I could recommend
you as a detective. They usually do the most unheard of things--just as
you have. Poor Jim Dudley an actor! Mistaken for such a man as you say
Havens is! It is even more ridiculous than that I should be mistaken for
Mrs. Wharton."
"Say, I'd like to know something about Dudley. It was his confounded
devotion to you that helped matters along in my mind. What is he to you?"
"He came here to-night to repeat a question that had been answered
unalterably once before. Jim Dudley? Have you never heard of James Dudley,
the man who owns all of those big mines in South America, the man who--"
"Who owns the yachts and automobiles and--and the railroad trains? Is he
the one? The man with the millions? Good Lord! And you could have had him
instead of me? Helen, I--I don't understand it. Why didn't you take him?"
She hesitated a moment before answering brightly:
"Perhaps it is because I have a fancy for the ridiculous."
THE END