Half a Rogue by Harold MacGrath (bts book recommendations TXT) 📕

I am very sorry that this has happened, and I can promise you that it shall end here. Will you accept my apology?"

After some hesitance, Patty nodded. She could not very well refuse. She had always liked Mr. Haldene. As hitherto remarked, Patty's was an impulsive heart. Suddenly she stretched out her hands toward the wife.

"What have I or mine ever done to you that you should seek to injure us so cruelly? Have we wronged you in thought or deed? What is it that has made you my enemy?"

"I am not your enemy, Patty," said the elder woman, melting ever so slightly. "I have told you that I did not wish to see your life made wretched by marrying a man of Warrington's loose habits, and that I could not tolerate the woman who is your brother's wife."

Patty held out her hand for the letter. She had no desire to remain any longer. She wanted nothing but the privilege of being alone, that she might weep the bitter, galling tears that were brimming her eyes. ... She had no recollection of gaining the street. It was true, it was true! She did not even remember how she reached her room; but as her blurred eyes saw the bed, she fell upon it in a stupor that for a long while did not give any outlet to her tears.

In the meantime Haldene faced his wife.

"I am going down town presently," he said. "I shall send you up by messenger several cabin-plans."

"Cabin-plans?" amazed at this odd turn in affairs.

"Yes. You will spend the winter either in Egypt or Italy, as it pleases you."

"Europe? But my social obligations demand my presence here!" she expostulated.

"You will cancel them. You will go to Europe. Anonymous letters!" He struck the desk violently. It was the first touch of this kind he had ever exhibited in her presence, and it terrified her. "When I married you, people said I married your money. As God is above us, I loved you. Yes, I loved you. But how long was it permitted that this love should live? Six slender months! You, you of all women, you write anonymous letters?" He laughed, but it was laughter that had nothing human in it. "Madam, when I die my deposit box at the bank will be turned over to you. In it you will find six anonymous letters. They have lain there sixteen years. I took the advice of one and followed you. So I let them believe that I had married you for your money. I meant to have my revenge after I was dead. Madam, you will go to Europe. I shall not be home to lunch, but you may expect me at dinner. I am curious to learn whether it will be in Egypt and the Holy Land, or Italy, the land of the fig-tree and the vine. Good morning."

When he was gone, Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene realized, for the first time in sixteen years, that she had married a man. Suddenly her knees gave from under her, and she sank into her chair, staring at the floor with unseeing eyes. For sixteen years!


That afternoon Warrington had a visit. His visitors were Jordan, the reporter, and Osborne. They appeared to be in high spirits.

"We've got him, Dick!" exclaimed Jordan, swinging his hat.

"Got whom?"

"Morrissy-Morrissy and McQuade," said Osborne, in his whisky-roughened voice. "We've got 'em all right, Dick. Look at this," tossing a wrinkled sheet of carbon-paper on Warrington's desk.

Warrington spread it out. It took him but a minute to find out the richness of his possession.

"Where did you come across this?" he asked eagerly.

"My niece found it in her waste-basket. I've sent her into the country to visit relatives," said Osborne. "But if you use it, Dick, you'll have to find the girl another job in some other town."

"You leave that to me. This is worth a thousand to me and a thousand more to John Bennington. Now, both of you go down to any restaurant in town and order what you like, and as long as you like, and you have them call me up if there's any question."

The reporter and the semi-outcast smiled at each other. They saw their appetites appeased to satiety.

"Does a bottle go with the order, Dick?" asked Jordan.

"Half a dozen!" laughed Warrington.

"I've put you in the City Hall, Dick," said Osborne. "And don't forget me when you're there."

"Will there be a story for me?" Jordan asked.

"You'll have a page, Ben."

"That's enough. Well, come on, Bill; we'll show the new mayor that we can order like gentlemen."

"I remember-" But Osborne never completed his reminiscence. Jordan was already propelling him toward the door.

Once the door had closed upon them, Warrington capered around the room like a school-boy. The publication of this confederacy between Morrissy and McQuade would swing the doubting element over to his side and split the ranks of the labor party.

Patty, Patty Bennington! He must see her. It was impossible to wait another day. When was it he had seen her last? Patty, dark-eyed, elfish, winsome, merry! Oh, yes, he must see her at once, this very afternoon. He could no longer repress the tide of his love, which surged at the flood-gates of his heart with mighty pressure. Patty! Patty!

"Patty is not feeling well," said Mrs. Bennington, as she welcomed Warrington at the door, an hour later. "I will call her. I am sure she will be glad to see you."

Warrington went into the music-room, placed his hat on the piano, and idled about impatiently. That morning he had not possessed the courage; now he was willing to face lions and tigers, anything rather than permit another day to pass without telling Patty that he loved her. When she finally appeared she was pale, her eyes were red, but her head was erect and her lips firm.

"Patty, are you ill?" hastening toward her.

"I have a very bad headache," coldly. "You wished to see me?"

Where were all the tender words he had planned to speak? Patty had been weeping!

"You have been crying. What has happened?" anxiously.

"It can not interest you," wearily. Men! She would have a horror of them for the rest of her days.

"Not interest me? Don't you know, haven't you seen by this time, that you interest me more than any other living being or any angel in Heaven?"

Patty caught at the portiere to steady herself. She had not expected declarations of this kind.

"Don't you know," he hurried on, his voice gaining in passion and tenderness, "don't you know that a pain to you means triple pain to me? Don't you know that I love you? Patty, what is the trouble? You are not a woman to weep over headaches."

"Do you wish to know, then?" bitterly. She hated him! How could he stand there telling her that he loved her? "Read this," presenting the letter. "I despise you!"

"Despise me? What in God's name is the matter?"

"Read, read!" vehemently.

Once the letter was in his hand, her arms dropped to her sides, tense. It was best so, to have it over with at once. To crush the thought of him out of her heart for ever, such a remedy was necessary. She watched him. His hand fell slowly. It would have been difficult to say which of the two was the whiter.

"You speak of love to me?"

He stood there, stunned. His silence spoke eloquently to her. He was guilty. She leaped to this conclusion at once, not realizing that no man can immediately defend himself when accused so abruptly.

"You speak of love!" Her wrath seemed to scorch her lips. "My poor brother!"

Warrington straightened. "Do you believe this?" He threw the letter aside, as if the touch contaminated him, caring not where it fell.

"Is it true?"

"An anonymous letter?" he replied, contemptuously.

"I know who wrote it."

"You know who wrote it? Who?" There was terrible anger in his voice now.

"I decline to answer."

"So you give me not even the benefit of a doubt! You believe it!"

Patty was less observant than usual. "Will you please go now? I do not think there is anything more to be said."

"No. I will go." He spoke quietly, but like a man who has received his death-stroke. "One question more. Did McQuade write that letter?"

"No."

He picked up his hat. "So much for my dreams! Deny it? Deny calumny of the anonymous order? No! Defend myself against such a lie? No!"

He walked from the room, his head erect. He did not turn to look at her again. The hall door closed. He was gone.


Chapter XIX


Tragedy was abroad that day, crossing and recrossing Williams Street. Tragedy has the same prerogative as love and death-the right to enter the palace or the hovel, into the heart of youth or age. It was not a killing to-day, only a breaking of hearts, that is to say, the first step. Tragedy never starts out on her rounds roughly; she seeks her cause first; she seeks her anonymous letter, her idle hands, her lying tongue; then she is ready. Tragedy does nothing hastily; she graduates her victim.

Warrington stumbled rather than walked home. When he reached the opposite curb he slipped and fell, bruising his hands. ... Deny it? Deny it when convicted without trial? There are never any proofs to refute a letter written by an unknown enemy. There is never any guard against the stab in the back. ... He and Kate! It was monstrous. And John? Did John know? Did John see that letter? No, Patty surely had not shown it to John. He knew John (or he believed he did); not all the proofs or explanations Heaven or earth could give would convince John, if that letter fell into his hands. ... And he was to speak at a mass meeting that night! God! He stumbled up the steps to the door. He was like a drunken man. ... Patty believed it; Patty, just and merciful, believed it. If she believed, what would John, the jealous husband, believe? There were so many trifling things that now in John's eyes would assume immense proportions. ... In less than half an hour the world had stopped, turned about, and gone another way. He opened the door. As he did so a woman rushed into the hall.

"Richard, Richard, I thought you would never come!"

"You, and in this house alone?" His shoulders drooped.

Mrs. Jack did not observe how white he was, how dull his eye, how abject his whole attitude. She caught him by the sleeve and dragged him into the living-room.

"Richard, I am dying!" she cried. She loosened the collaret at her throat. "What shall I do, what shall I do?"

He realized then that he was not alone in misery.

"What is it, girl?" stirring himself.

"Listen, Dick!" She dropped into the old name unconsciously. She had but one clear thought; this man could save her. "Some time ago-the night you and John went down town together-I received a telephone call from that vile wretch, McQuade."

"McQuade?" Warrington's interest was thoroughly aroused by that name; nothing else could have aroused it.

"He said that if I did not persuade you to withdraw your name before the convention met he