CHAPTER VI
Dorothy went to the city on a Tuesday, in order to inspect some furniture that was being done over to suit her scheme of things, and also in order to do some early Christmas shopping. Armstrong knew nothing of her coming. When she dropped into the office about noon, she discovered that he was downtown on business and would not be back until later in the afternoon.
Jimmy Wren passed through the reception room, turned to her with a delighted greeting, and Dorothy at once commandeered him.
"Reese is somewhere downtown, and I want to take advantage of his absence to find him a Christmas present. You're a sensible young man, Jimmy, so I'll call on you for advice—if it'll not interfere. Can you get away to go shopping with me?"
"You bet!" exclaimed Wren heartily. "You've not lunched? Good. We'll get a bite to eat and then go sleuthing for something that'll make the old boy's eyes stand out when he lamps it Christmas morning. Eh? Fine! I'll be out in a second."
"If you're sure it won't interfere—"
"Not a bit of it! I wouldn't miss the chance for worlds—chance to spend your money, I mean—"
With a grin, Jimmy Wren rushed off for his hat and coat, and they went out together.
Dorothy liked Wren, liked his unspoiled enthusiasm; beneath his impulsive warmth there was a great fund of shrewdness and ability. None the less, he possessed a certain open ingenuousness of character, a wide-eyed confidence in people, as though his boyish illusions had never been shattered. In the office, Wren's whiplash keenness was all to the fore. Out of the office, he was himself—clean and frank and unafraid. Behind his black-rimmed spectacles, his gray eyes danced with energy and high humor. One liked Jimmy Wren at sight, and Jimmy either liked or disliked the other person with swift impulse.
They walked to the Biltmore, and were presently seated at a window-table à deux.
The order given, Jimmy lighted a cigarette. Dorothy observed that he was glancing about as though in search of some one, and suddenly his eyes lighted up eagerly. There was no mistaking this radiant delight, and she was not surprised when he excused himself for a moment to speak to some one, and rose.
Smiling, Dorothy glanced after him.
"Jimmy ought to marry and settle down," she reflected, with all the shameless match-making instinct of the happily married bride. "I wonder who she could be? He's never breathed a word to Reese, I'm sure—"
Dorothy's instinct was not at fault. As her glance followed the wide-shouldered figure of Jimmy Wren, it rested upon a table near the entrance. At this table sat two men and a woman, very handsomely gowned and furred in white, to whom Wren was speaking.
Both the men were unknown to Dorothy. The face of the woman was hidden until Wren turned to leave; then she had one swift, clear glimpse of the profile—a striking and unforgettable profile. The eyes of Dorothy widened suddenly, widened with astounded incredulity; and their steely blue was altered to a stormy violet.
Beaming all over, Jimmy Wren returned and slid into his chair.
"That friend of mine—by George, I wish you knew her!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "A wonderful woman, Mrs. Armstrong, and from the South, too. Mrs. Bird Fowler of Paducah. Talk about your Kentucky belles! Perhaps you know her, though? Isn't Paducah somewhere near Evansville?"
Dorothy, smiling, shook her head.
"There are a number of Fowlers; the river-packets used to be named after them, you know, but I don't think I know your friend. Of course, one can't keep track of every member of a famous family."
"I suppose not," assented Wren.
"Is she a widow?"
"Yes. Had a frightful time with her husband, I understand. Poor girl!"
At this, Dorothy bit her lip.
"I caught a glimpse of the lady's face," she said sweetly. "She looked like some one I used to know in Evansville."
A peculiar nuance of her voice held Wren's attention.
"Eh? She's the same one?"
"Oh, of course not—merely a fancied resemblance," responded Dorothy with assurance. "You see, Jimmy, this Evansville girl was very unfortunate; Viola Bland was her name. She was a stunning beauty, and her mother forced her to marry for money, and—well, poor Viola just didn't care, I suppose!"
"How do you mean?" queried Wren, staring at her. Dorothy made an indescribable gesture.
"A terrible scandal, my dear Jimmy! She became quite the talk of the town. Finally she decamped with another lady's husband and there were divorces and everything. I always felt very sorry for poor Viola."
Jimmy Wren blushed faintly, but looked relieved.
"Mrs. Fowler might not be flattered by the resemblance, then," he said drily. "She's awfully keen on the proprieties and all that sort of thing."
"How did you come to meet her, if I may ask?"
"Came in here one day with Macgowan to luncheon, and met her; she was lunching with a chap he knew—that's the man over there now, with her; his back to us. Harry Lorenz. He's a broker or something that doesn't take work."
Dorothy nodded. She had heard Armstrong speak of Macgowan's intimacy with Harry Lorenz, and now she frowned slightly.
"Is she a friend of Lawrence Macgowan?" she enquired.
"I don't think he knows her, except casually," said Wren. Then he kindled. "I've been up to her place several times; she has a wonderful little apartment uptown, and gives small musical affairs there. She has the voice of an angel! She's thinking of giving some big recitals later in the season. Not for the money—she doesn't need that: but for some charity she's interested in. She knows all the big musical people. They say Caruso advised her to go into opera, but she won't do that."
Luncheon arrived. Wren was too absorbed in his subject to be observant, or he might have noticed a singular change in Dorothy's manner. Her careless gayety had quite departed. In its stead, there appeared an active and keen interest, a tense eagerness. She seemed suddenly all on the alert, as though she had glimpsed some antagonist and were seeking an opening for her weapons.
And so, in fact, she had.
"Do you know Macgowan well, Jimmy?" she asked presently.
"Not very much, outside the office. A wonderful chap, isn't he? Been splendid to me, too; put me up at clubs and that sort of thing. He's pretty deep, too."
"Just what do you mean by that?"
"Well, it's hard to say." Wren hesitated. "He seems to be all on the surface, but he's not. He knows more than you'd think. There are good solid depths to him."
Dorothy abruptly changed the subject.
When they rose to leave, the party of three near the entrance were still in place. Jimmy Wren was close behind Dorothy. As they passed the table, the woman who called herself Mrs. Bird Fowler glanced up, met the gaze of Dorothy—and into her eyes leaped sudden, startled recognition. Dorothy halted, with every appearance of delighted surprise.
"Dorothy Deming!" exclaimed the other woman, almost mechanically.
"Why, Viola Bland!" broke from Dorothy at the same instant. "Who on earth would have thought of meeting you here—and how well you're looking! I'm so glad to see you!"
"Won't you sit down—"
"Oh, my dear, I'm simply rushed to death! We're very late now—I daren't stop even for a minute. Call me up some day, won't you? Mrs. Reese Armstrong, you know—good-by!"
Dorothy swept on. At the entrance she turned to Jimmy Wren. His face was indescribable.
"Leave the wraps, Jimmy. Come and sit down. I want to talk with you."
He obeyed meekly, a man inwardly stricken. They turned into the lounge and Dorothy took possession of a sofa.
"Light a cigarette, Jimmy. You need it."
"I do," he assented bitterly, and drew a deep breath. "By gad! Isn't there a mistake?"
His very tone showed that he knew there was no mistake. Dorothy leaned back and in silence studied him for a moment or two. She was not enjoying her triumph; when Wren looked up and met her eyes, he realized this.
"Jimmy, it hurt," she said simply. "Can't you see why I did it? Because I like you. Because Reese likes you. I suppose she always wears white? Some people do; it seems to be a matter of necessity."
Wren started at that.
"It's not true!" he exclaimed, but his impulsive speech died in silence.
Dorothy shrugged. "My dear Jimmy, just stop and think what was said. I don't believe any argument is necessary."
Wren was in torment. He saw, clearly enough, the absolute finality of the whole thing. When "Mrs. Bird Fowler" gave vent to her recognition of Dorothy, she had been lost beyond any appeal of error. Now Dorothy continued coolly.
"If you have any doubts in the matter, take a trip to Evansville and ask questions. You might as well get it all in one blunt and brutal shock, and have it over. I'm sorry for your sake, Jimmy, but I'd be much sorrier if—if I had just let things go on."
Wren nodded miserably.
"People always seem to make a fool out of me," he said boyishly. "There was a bank back in Ohio—I was the cashier. Another fellow pulled some dirty work, and I came mighty close to going over the road. Only plain fool luck saved me! And now—"
"Reese doesn't think you're a fool, and neither do I," said Dorothy. "Forget all that silly talk, Jimmy! Don't blame yourself. You've made me terribly afraid, this morning—something you said—"
Her words fell off. Wren stared at her, puzzled.
"I've made you afraid? Of what?"
Dorothy smiled, but with an effort.
"I don't know; I can't say, Jimmy. Did you ever read Othello?"
"Shakespeare? Oh, sure. What's that got to do with it?"
"Nothing, perhaps. But there are some men like Iago, either in big or small ways. Do you believe that a man could have a corrosive touch—a touch that corrodes every one with whom he comes in contact, morally or in other ways? A man who makes use of everybody and twists them to his own desires, and leaves them all broken or rotted out behind him?"
Jimmy Wren frowned over this.
"Why, I suppose so," he answered vaguely. "I've read about women like that, in stories, but I never ran up against any men—"
Dorothy rose, with a silvery laugh.
"Oh, it was a passing fancy; never mind. Now look here, Jimmy Wren! You brace up and forget this. It's our secret, understand? If any more handsome widows from Kentucky show up on the horizon, let me know and I'll throw a party at a hotel up in the forties where there are loads of Kentucky people—and you'll see fireworks! Now, forget it."
"All right, I promise." Jimmy Wren forced a rueful grin. "Now, about the Christmas present for Reese—"
"Go get the wraps, please. I'll wait here."
Dorothy smiled to herself after Wren's departing figure, and this time her smile was not forced.
"Poor Jimmy!" she murmured. "He's not so badly hurt as he thinks he is; he'll forget all about it in a week. Macgowan and this Harry Lorenz and Viola Bland—hm! I don't like it. Maybe I'm all wrong, of course, but I don't like it. Now, why would Macgowan want to get poor Jimmy Wren in that crowd, I wonder? If only I could reason it out! I'd give a good deal to learn just how well Lawrence Macgowan knows Viola, and how long he's known her! I hope she will ring me up some day."
She never did. But she rang up Jimmy Wren about a little musicale; and Jimmy, having his full share of unspoiled human nature, did not refuse the invitation. His boyishness rather resented Dorothy's severe judgment of the other woman; after all, he considered, the world judges harshly, without knowing everything!
And he was gradually confirmed in this opinion. He did not consider it necessary to bring up the matter again with Dorothy, however.