FullReads

Her manner was light and irresponsible, or rather it suggested a childlike putting of all responsibility for her actions upon others, which he remembered now too well. Perhaps it was this which kept him from observing that the corners of her smiling lips, however, twitched slightly, and that her fingers, twisting the threads of the tassel, were occasionally stiffened nervously. For he burst out: Oh yes; he had drifted into it when it was a toss up if it wasn’t his body instead that would be found drifting out to sea from the first wharf of San Francisco. Yes, he had been a common laborer,–a farm hand, in those fields she had passed,–a waiter in the farm kitchen, and but for luck he might be taking her orders now in this very hotel. It was not her fault if he was not in the gutter.

She raised her thin hand with a tired gesture as if to ward off the onset of his words. “The same old Jim,” she repeated; “and yet I thought you had forgotten all that now, and become calmer and more sensible since you had taken flesh and grown so matter of fact. You ought to have known then, as you know now, that I never could have been anything to you as long as I was tied to Dick. And you know you forced your presents on me, Jim. I took them from YOU because I would take nothing from Dick, for I hated him. And I never knew positively that you were in straits then; you know you always talked big, Jim, and were always going to make your fortune with the next thing you had in hand!”

It was true, and he remembered it. He had not intended this kind of recrimination, but he was exasperated with her wearied acceptance of his reproaches and by a sudden conviction that his long-cherished grievance against her now that he had voiced it was inadequate, mean, and trifling. Yet he could not help saying:–

“Then you had presents from Sylvester, too. I presume you did not hate him, either?”

“He would have married me the day after I got my divorce.”

“And so would I,” burst out Reddy.

She looked at him fixedly. “You would?” she said with a peculiar emphasis. “And now”–

He colored. It had been part of his revengeful purpose on seeing her to tell her of his engagement to Kelly. He now found himself tongue-tied, irresolute, and ashamed. Yet he felt she was reading his innermost thoughts.

She, however, only lowered her eyes, and with the same tired expression said: “No matter now. Let us talk of something nearer. That was two months ago. And so you have charge of this hotel! I like it so much. I mean the place itself. I fancy I could live here forever. It is so far away and restful. I am so sick of towns and cities, and people. And this little grove is so secluded. If one had merely a little cottage here, one might be so happy.”

What did she mean?–what did she expect?–what did she think of doing? She must be got rid of before Kelly’s arrival, and yet he found himself wavering under her potent and yet scarcely exerted influence. The desperation of weakness is apt to be more brutal than the determination of strength. He remembered why he had come upstairs, and blurted out: “But you can’t stay here. The rules are very stringent in regard to–to strangers like yourself. It will be known who you really are and what people say of you. Even your divorce will tell against you. It’s all wrong, I know–but what can I do? I didn’t make the rules. I am only a servant of the landlord, and must carry them out.”

She leaned back against the sofa and laughed silently. But she presently recovered herself, although with the same expression of fatigue. “Don’t be alarmed, my poor Jim! If you mean your friend, Mr. Woodridge, I know him. It was he, himself, who suggested my coming here. And don’t misunderstand him–nor me either. He’s only a good friend of Sylvester’s; they had some speculation together. He’s coming here to see me after Louis arrives. He’s waiting in San Francisco for his wife and daughter, who come on the same steamer. So you see you won’t get into trouble on my account. Don’t look so scared, my dear boy.”