Felix O'Day Part 30

he answered, his insolence increasing as he noticed how mild and inoffensive she appeared to be; "but if it makes any difference to you, I will tell you that I am waiting for my wife."

"Where is she?" Martha's voice was clear and incisive, with a ring of determination through it that, for the moment, disconcerted him.

Dalton pointed to the bedroom door.

Martha stepped across the room and tried the k.n.o.b. "Open the door, Lady Barbara. It's Martha. Who is this man?"

The bolt shot back and Barbara's frightened face peered out. "Oh, thank G.o.d you have come!" she moaned, her teeth chattering. "It is Mr. Dalton.

I ordered him from the room, and he would not go, and--"

"Oh, it's Mr. Guy Dalton, is it?" Martha cried, facing him. "The man who's been a curse to you ever since you met him. I know every crook and turn of you--you ought to be ashamed of yourself to treat a woman as you have treated Lady Barbara O'Day. Now, sir, this is my room and you can't stay in it a minute longer. There's the door!"

Dalton laughed a dry, crackling laugh. "You are a regular virago, are you not, my dear woman?" he said. "Quite refreshing to hear your defense of a woman on whom I have spent every shilling I had. Now, do not get excited--cool down a bit, and we will talk it over--and while we are at it, please make me a cup of tea. It is about my hour. When my wife comes to her senses, as she will in a minute, she will get over her tantrums and think better of it."

Martha strode straight toward him until her capacious body was within a few inches of his shirt-front, her hands tightly clinched. "Don't make any mistake, Mr. Dalton. Your airs won't go here. My brother Stephen looks after me and after Lady O'Day, and he and another man you wouldn't care to meet are looking after you."

She called to her mistress: "Lock and bolt that door on you, and don't open it until I tell you."

Again she confronted Dalton, her contempt for him increasing as she caught the wave of anxiety that swept his face at her reference to the men who would help her. "Now, you can have just one minute to leave this room, Mr. Dalton," she cried, throwing back the door. "If you're over that time, the policeman on the block will help you down-stairs."

Dalton hesitated. The allusion to Stephen, whoever he might be, and to the other man, disturbed him. That the woman knew more of his history than she was willing at that time to tell was evident. That she was entirely in earnest, and meant what she said, and that it would be more than dangerous for him to defy her, should she appeal to the police for help, were equally evident.

"Of course, my dear woman," he said, with a.s.sumed humility, his eyes glistening with anger, "if you do not want me to stay, I suppose I shall have to go. I did not come to make any fuss; I only came to take my wife home where I can take care of her. She seems to think she can get along without me. All right--I am willing she should try it for a while. She has my address, which is more than I had when she left me without a word of any kind."

He slid his hand under his cape to a.s.sure himself that the mantilla was safe and out of sight, picked up his hat, and stepped jauntily out, saying as he went down the staircase: "Next time, she will come to me.

Do you hear? Tell her so, will you?"

Chapter XVIII

Sometimes on life's highway we meet a man who reminds us of one of those high-priced pears seen in fruiterers' windows: wholesome, good to look at, without a speck or stain on their smooth, round, rosy skins--until we bite into them. Then, close to their hearts, we uncover a greedy, conscienceless worm, gnawing away in the dark--and consign the whole to the waste-barrel.

Dalton, despite his alluring exterior, had been rotten at heart from the time he was sixteen years of age, when he had lied to his father about his school remittances, which the old man had duplicated at once.

That none of his a.s.sociates had discovered this was owing to the fact that no one had probed deeper than the skin of his attractiveness--and with good reason: it was clean, good to look at, bright in color, a most welcome addition to any dinner-table. But when the drop came--and very few fruits can stand being b.u.mped on the sidewalk--the revelation followed all the quicker, simply because bruised fruit rots in a day, as even the least qualified among us can tell.

And the bruises showed clearer as time went on. The lines in his once well-rounded, almost boyish face grew deeper and more strongly marked, the eyes shrank far back beneath the brows, the lips became thinner and less mobile, the hair was streaked with gray, and the feet lacked their old-time spring.

With these there had come other changes. The smile which had won many a woman was replaced by a self-conscious smirk; the debonair manner which had charmed all who met him was now a mere bravado. His dress, too, showed the strain. While his collar and neckwear were properly looked after, and his face was clean-shaven, other parts of his make-up, especially his shoes and hat, were much the worse for wear.

This, then, was the man who, with thoughts intent on his last and most degrading makeshift, was forging his way up Second Avenue, the mantilla--the veriest film of old Salamanca lace--pressed into a small wad and stuffed in his inside pocket.

And now, while we follow him on his way up-town, it may be just as well for us to note that up to this precise moment our devil-may-care, still rather handsome Mr. Dalton, with the drooping eyelids and cold, hard lips, had entirely failed to grasp the idea that, in so far as public and private morals were concerned, he had in the last thirty minutes fallen to the level of a common sneak-thief.

His own reasoning, in disproof of this theory, was entirely characteristic of the man. While the p.a.w.ning of one's things was of course unfortunate and might occasion many misunderstandings and much obloquy, such an act was not necessarily dishonest, because many gentlemen, some of high social position, had been compelled to do the same thing. He himself, yielding to force of circ.u.mstances, had already p.a.w.ned a good many things--his wife's first, and then his own--and would do it again under similar conditions. That the article carefully hidden in his pocket belonged to neither one of them, did not strike him as altering the situation in the slightest. The mantilla was of no value to him, nor, for that matter, to Lady Barbara. He would p.a.w.n it not alone for the sake of the money it would bring him, to tide him over his troubles until he could recover his losses--only a question of days, perhaps hours--but because, by means of the transaction, he would be enabled to restore harmony to a home which, through the obstinacy of a woman on whom he had squandered every penny he possessed in the world, had been temporarily broken up.

Should she rebel and refuse to join him--and she unquestionably had that right--he would carry out a plan which had come to him in a flash when he first picked it up. He would p.a.w.n it for what it would bring and, watching his chance some day when Lady Barbara was out at work, force his way into the apartment, slip the p.a.w.n-ticket where it could easily be found--behind the china or in among her sewing materials--and with that as proof, charge her with having stolen the lace, threatening her with exposure unless she yielded. If she relented, he would destroy the ticket and let the matter drop; if she continued obstinate, he would charge her companion with being an accessory. The woman was evidently befriending Lady Barbara for what she could get out of her. Neither of them was seeking trouble. Between the two he could accomplish his purpose.

What would happen in the meanwhile, when she tried to account for its loss to Rosenthal, never caused him the slightest concern. She, of course, could concoct some story which they would finally believe. If not, they could deduct the value of the lace from her earnings.

He had the best of motives for his action. Their board bill was overdue.

He was hara.s.sed by the want of even the small sums of money needed for car-fare, and of late it had become very evident that if they were to keep their present quarters--and he was afraid to try for any others--he must yield at once to the proprietor's pressing suggestion to "patch up his differences with his wife," and have her come home and once more take charge of the suite of rooms; the owner arguing that as Mr. and Mrs. Stanton were known to be "family people," a profitable little game free from police interruption might be carried on, the surplus to be divided between the "house and Mrs. Stanton's husband."

That she should decline again to be party to any such plan seemed to him altogether improbable, since all she had to do to insure them both comfort was to return home like a sensible woman, put on the best clothes she possessed--the more attractive the better, and she certainly was fetching in that wrapper--and be reasonably polite to such of his friends as chose to drop in evenings for a quiet game of cards.

Moreover, she owed him something. He had made every sacrifice for her, shared with her his every shilling, making himself an exile, if not a fugitive, for her sake, and it was time she recognized it.

With the recall of these incidents in his checkered career a new thought blazed up in his mind--rather a blinding thought. As its rays brightened he halted in his course, and stood gazing across the street as if uncertain as to his next move. Perhaps, after all, it would be best NOT to p.a.w.n the mantilla. An outright sale would be much better. If this were impossible, it would be just as well to destroy the ticket and postpone his scheme for regaining possession of her person. While something certainly was due him--and she of all women in the world should supply it--forcing her to carry out the landlord's plan, now that he thought it over, might result in a certain kind of publicity, which, if his own antecedents were looked into, would be particularly embarra.s.sing. She might--and here a slight shiver pa.s.sed through him--she might, in her obstinacy, threaten him with the forged certificates, a result hardly possible, for no letters of any kind had reached her, none so far as he knew; neither had he ever discussed the incident with her, for the simple reason that women, as a rule, never understood such things. And yet how could he, as a financier, have tided over an accounting which, if allowed to go on, would have wiped out the savings of hundreds who had trusted him and whom he could not desert in their hour of need, except by some such desperate means? Of course, if he had to do it all over again, he would never have locked up the stock-book in his own safe. That was a mistake. He ought to have left it with the treasurer. Then he could have shifted the responsibility.

Just here, oddly enough, he began to think of Felix--that cold-blooded, unimaginative man, who knew absolutely nothing about how to treat a woman, and, for that matter, knew nothing about anything else in so far as the practical side of life was concerned. The fool--here his brow knit--had not only broken up the final deal, in which everything had been fixed with Mullhallsen, the German banker, for an additional loan, but he had unearthed and compared certain certificates, in his fight to protect an obstinate old father. Worse still, he had taken himself off to Australia to starve, instead of saving what he could out of the wreck. Had he only listened to advice, the whole catastrophe might have been averted.

And this fool would have ruined his wife as well, had not he--Dalton--stepped in and saved her from burying herself in the wilderness.

As the memory of the scene with Felix when the stock-book was unearthed pa.s.sed through his mind, his hand instinctively sought the bulge in his coat-pocket. He must get rid of it and at once. Just as the certificates had proved to be dangerous, so might this lace.

With this idea of his own peril possessing his mind his whole manner changed. The air of triumph shown in his step and bearing when he left Marta's door, due to his discovery of the fugitive and the terror his presence had inspired, was gone. The old spectre always pursuing him stepped again to his side and linked arms. His slinking, furtive air returned, and a certain well-defined fear, as if he dreaded being followed, showed itself in every glance.

Suddenly he caught sight of a well-patronized retreat, owned and operated by a Mrs. Blobbs, the Polish wife of an English cheap John, and with a quick sliding movement, he paused in front of the narrow door. He had already taken in, from under his hat, the single gas-jet lighting up its collection of pinchbeck jewelry, watches, revolvers, satin shoes, fans, and other belongings of the unfortunate, and after peering up and down the street, he slipped in noiselessly, his countenance wearing that peculiar, shame-faced expression common to gentlemen on similar missions. That it was not his first experience could be seen from the way he leaned far over the counter, dropped the filmy wad, and then straightened back--the gesture meaning that if any other customer should come in while his negotiations were in progress, he was not to be connected in any way with the article.

"Something rather good," he said, pointing to the black roll.

The proprietress, a square-built woman, solid as a sack of salt, her waist-line marked by a string tightened just above a black alpaca ap.r.o.n, her dried-apple face surmounted by a dingy lace cap topped with a soiled red ribbon, eyed him cautiously, and remarked, after loosening out the mantilla: "Dem teater gurls only vant such tings, and dey can pay nuddin'. No, I vouldn't even gif fife tollars. Petter dake it somevares else."

Dalton hesitated, turning the matter over in his mind. The transfer would bring him the desired p.a.w.n-ticket, but the five dollars was not sufficient to help him tide over the most pressing of his difficulties.

He had borrowed double that sum two nights before, from the barkeeper of a pool-room where he occasionally played, and he dared not repeat his visit until he could carry him the money.

The male Blobbs, the taller and more rotund of the two shopkeepers--especially about the middle--now strolled in, leaned over the counter, and picking up the lace, held it to the overhead light.

Looked at from behind, Blobbs was all shirt-sleeves and waist-coat, the back of his flat head resting like a lid on his shoulders. Looked at from the front, Blobbs developed into a person with shoe-brush whiskers bristling against two yellow cheeks, the features being the five dots a child always insists upon when drawing a face. Dalton saw at a glance that it was Mrs. Blobbs, and not Mr. Blobbs, who was in charge of the shop, and that any discussions with him as to the price would be useless.

"You're an Hinglishnan, I take it," came from the lowest dot of the five, a blurred and uncertain mouth.

Dalton colored slightly and nodded.

"Well, what I should adwise ye to do is to take this 'ere lace to some of them hold furnitoor shops. I know what this is. I 'ate to see a chap like ye put to it like this, that's why I tell ye. 'Ard on your woman, but--there's a shop hup on Fourth Avenue where they buy such things. A Dutchman by the name of Kling, right on the corner--you can't miss it.

Take it hup to 'im and tell 'im I sent ye--we often 'elps one another."

Dalton crumpled up the black wad, slid the package under his coat, and without a word of thanks left the shop.

This was not the first time Blobbs had sent Kling a customer.

Indeed, there had always been more or less of a trade between the two establishments. For, while Mrs. Blobbs had a license and could advance money at reasonable rates, her princ.i.p.al business was in old-clothes and ready-to-wear finery. Being near "The Avenue" and well known to its denizens, many of their outgrown and out-of-fashion garments had pa.s.sed across her counter. Here the young man who pounded away on Masie's piano, the night of her birthday party, borrowed, for a trifle, his evening suit. Here Codman had exchanged a three-year-old overcoat, which refused to be b.u.t.toned across his constantly increasing girth, for enough money to pay for the velvet cuffs and collar of the new one purchased on Sixth Avenue. Here Mrs. Codman bought remnants of finery with which to adorn her young daughter's skirts when she went to the ball given by the Washington chowder party. Here, too, was where the undertaker sold the clothes of the man who stepped off a ten-story building in the morning and was laid out that same night in Digwell's back room, his friends depositing a fresh suit for him to be buried in, telling the undertaker to do with the old one as he pleased. And to this old-clothes shop flocked many another denizen of side streets, who at one time or another had reached crises in their careers which nothing else could relieve.

Mrs. Blobbs's curt refusal to receive the lace only added fuel to the blazing thought that had flared up in Dalton's mind when he recalled the certificates. Holding on to them had caused one explosion. The mantilla might prove another such bomb. He dared not leave it at home and he could not carry it for an indefinite time on his person. If the man Kling would pay any decent price for it, he could have it and welcome.

With the grim spectre still linking arms with him he hurried on, making short-cuts across the streets, until he arrived at Kling's corner. At this point he paused. His terror must not betray him. Shaking himself free of the spectre, he a.s.sumed his one-time nonchalant air, entered the store and walked down the middle aisle, between the lines of sideboards, bureaus and high desks drawn up in dress parade. Over the barricade of the small office he caught the shine of Otto's bald head, the only other live occupant, except Fudge, who had crept out from behind a bureau, and bounded back with a growl. Fudge had sniffed around the legs of a good many people, and might have written their biographies, but Dalton was new to him. Few thieves had ever entered Kling's doors.