THE WOMAN.
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Glenn sent his congratulations with a lot of flowers. He did not trust himself to call. That was not indifference, but too much feeling. The following week he sent her a few lines:
“My dear Esther;“It will be impossible for me to take you to the musicale, but I have arranged to have Mr. Kent call for you, and I feel sure that you will be in good hands.”
“My dear Esther;
“It will be impossible for me to take you to the musicale, but I have arranged to have Mr. Kent call for you, and I feel sure that you will be in good hands.”
This note of mild regret made her a little cross, as it was the first time he had ever consented to have her go out alone with another man. Thereseemed nothing else to do but submit, wash a tear of vexation from her face, and be ready to go when Mr. Kent called.
From Glenn Andrews’ point of view this privilege was an endorsement of the man he had selected. She was his treasure and he could never entrust it to any man in whom he had not the staunchest faith. Later he learned through Stephen Kent that they had gone together and the affair had been as pleasant as usual. That was satisfactory. He would have them go again together.
Ever since the concert Glenn had tried to think only of his work. His calmness at such a crisis at first led him into the belief that it would be easy to hold himself in check. The revelation that had come to him upon that night had been the work of a strong thing but for a moment. What he was now he would remain. How little did he dream of what a sharp conflict he would have in the strife to conquer himself.
He could not stay away too long—he lookedupon it in a measure as his duty to see how the infrequent visits were affecting her.
It was not until he was taking up his hat to leave that he approached the subject of Stephen Kent as her escort to the next musicale.
“He will be very glad to have you go with him.” Glenn pressed her hand in his and he saw tears in her eyes.
“Esther!” He laid aside his hat, drew her down beside him on the divan. He could not leave until he had traced those tears to their source. “What does this mean, tell me?”
“Oh, don’t ask me that!” She folded her hands before her as if in mute emphasis.
He was not suspicious, but this made him afraid—he felt as if something had struck him.
“Did Stephen Kent dare to hurt you. If so, it’s my fault—I introduced you to him.”
“Oh, Mr. Glenn, let it go, but nothing would induce me to go with him again.” She felt the color go out of her face as she became conscious of his fixed gaze.
“Where has your frankness and freedom gone?” He drew her toward him and compelled her to meet his eyes.
His voice was full of power.
“You must tell me what Stephen Kent has done.”
“You like him; I am afraid you will be angry, disappointed.” She made no effort to free herself.
He could not draw a confession from her as he sat some minutes waiting. “Have you that little confidence in my friendship?”
“I don’t want to make you feel that you have not the friendship of that man.”
“Then you know that I haven’t.”
“I know that he told me horrid, false things of your life abroad, and tried to make me lean upon him instead of you. He tried to persuade me to do all the things and go to all the places that you had warned me of. If I had known by nothing else that would have made me know it would be wrong—wickedly wrong.”
“Wolf!” He could scarcely hold his grasp for the trembling of his hands.
“I’ll settle with Stephen Kent,” he said, aloud. “He must answer to me for this.”
Glenn Andrews’ face looked manlier than ever in its rage.
Esther’s heart stood still for a moment, then beat wildly in its fear.
“Don’t risk yourself for me. I’m so sorry I told you.”
“Now I shall take care of myself and of him also. Don’t be fretting about the outcome. This is the last time you need be annoyed with it.” He stroked her hair, and there was a calming tenderness in the way he did it.
She could have borne the indignity alone if only Glenn had not brought the subject up. She had never meant to tell it to anyone.
Glenn left the house and went at once, only to find that Mr. Kent was not at home. Several days in succession he called with the same result. He wondered what impulse would lead him toif he should meet him by chance. Delay could scarcely weaken his determination to even up this score.
When Glenn went to the regular meeting of the club a few days later, it was a little shock of surprise that the name of Stephen Kent was up for membership. With a delicate tact he avoided any part of the proceedings that was not forced upon him. When it came his turn to cast his ballot for the man of whom he could have said a week ago he was all honor, he started, trembling violently as he let fall from his hand—a black ball.
The results of the ballot came as a great surprise to every man of them except the one who had turned the course. Questioning, no doubt, went round the room and there was a ripple of comment passing among the groups after the meeting was over and the members were going out. At the foot of the stairs one man met Stephen Kent and told him the result, which he had come over to learn. The disappointment in hisface was intense as he took a few steps more, taking out his penknife to cut his cigar, and met Glenn Andrews.
“Look here, Andrews, what does this mean? They tell me I am blackballed.”
“They told you the truth,” he said, coolly.
“Well! that’s damned strange.” Kent’s answer had in it the sting of humiliation.
“If I knew the man who did it, I would thrash him within an inch of his life. The sneak!”
Glenn Andrews’ eyes were dilated and flashing.
“Stephen Kent, you don’t have to go very far to find him. I am the man.”
“You; and may I ask why?”
“Because your dishonorable conduct to Miss Powel proved to me that you are not a gentleman.”
He was fearless in speech and action. His exultant manliness made the other cower.
“A man generally knows the lay of the land. She is pretty free.”
“Free, my God!” Glenn Andrews’ face flashed fire. “You are a liar!”
The next moment the two grappled. A crowd gathered around in wild excitement. Before they could be parted the battle had been fought. With the first lift of his hand, Stephen Kent’s penknife had slipped across and cut the radial artery of Glenn Andrews’ wrist. Regardless of the flow of blood, he had dealt the blow that laid the other at his feet.