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THE PURPLE PARASOL
GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
THE PURPLE PARASOL
Young Rossiter did not like the task. The more he thought of it as hewhirled northward on the Empire State Express the more distasteful itseemed to grow.
"Hang it all," he thought, throwing down his magazine in disgust, "it'slike police work. And heaven knows I haven't wanted to be a cop since welived in Newark twenty years ago. Why the dickens did old Wharton marryher? He's an old ass, and he's getting just what he might have expected.She's twenty-five and beautiful; he's seventy and a sight. I've a notionto chuck the whole affair and go back to the simple but virtuousTenderloin. It's not my sort, that's all, and I was an idiot for mixing init. The firm served me a shabby trick when it sent me out to work up thiscase for Wharton. It's a regular Peeping Tom Job, and I don't like it."
It will require but few words to explain Sam Rossiter's presence in thenorth-bound Empire Express, but it would take volumes to express hisfeelings on the subject in general. Back in New York there lived GodfreyWharton, millionaire and septuagenarian. For two years he had been husbandto one of the prettiest, gayest young women in the city, and in the latterdays of this responsibility he was not a happy man. His wife had fallendesperately, even conspicuously, in love with Everett Havens, the newleading man at one of the fashionable playhouses. The affair had beengoing on for weeks, and it had at last become the talk of the town. By"the town" is meant that vague, expansive thing known as the "FourHundred." Sam Rossiter, two years out of Yale, was an attachment to, butnot a component part of, the Four Hundred. The Whartons were of the innercircle.
Young Rossiter was ambitious. He was, besides, keen, aggressive, anddetermined to make well for himself. Entering the great law offices ofGrover & Dickhut immediately after leaving college, he devoted himselfassiduously to the career in prospect. He began by making its foundationas substantial as brains and energy would permit. So earnest, sosuccessful was he that Grover & Dickhut regarded him as the most promisingyoung man in New York. They predicted a great future for him, no smallpart of which was the ultimate alteration of an office shingle, the nameof Rossiter going up in gilt, after that of Dickhut. And, above all,Rossiter was a handsome, likable chap. Tall, fair, sunny-hearted, wellgroomed, he was a fellow that both sexes liked without much effort.
The Wharton trouble was bound to prove startling any way one looked atit. The prominence of the family, the baldness of its skeleton, and thegleeful eagerness with which it danced into full view left but little formeddlers to covet. A crash was inevitable; it was the _clash_ thatGrover & Dickhut were trying to avert. Old Wharton, worn to a slimmerfrazzle than he had ever been before his luckless marriage, was determinedto divorce his insolent younger half. It was to be done with as littlenoise as possible, more for his own sake than for hers. Wharton was proudin, not of, his weakness.
It became necessary to "shadow" the fair debutante into matrimony. Afterweeks of indecision Mr. Wharton finally arose and swore in accentsterrible that she was going too far to be called back. He determined topush, not to pull, on the reins. Grover & Dickhut were commanded to getthe "evidence"; he would pay. When he burst in upon them and cried in hiscracked treble that "the devil's to pay," he did not mean to cast anyaspersion upon the profession in general or particular. He was annoyed.
"She's going away next week," he exclaimed, as if the lawyers were toblame for it.
"Well, and what of it?" asked Mr. Grover blandly.
"Up into the mountains," went on Mr. Wharton triumphantly.
"Is it against the law?" smiled the old lawyer.
"Confound the law! I don't object to her going up into the mountains fora rest, but--"
"It's much too hot in town for her, I fancy."
"How's that?" querulously. "But I've just heard that that scoundrelHavens is going to the mountains also."
"The same mountain?"
"Certainly. I have absolute proof of it. Now, something has to be done!"
And so it was that the promising young lawyer, Samuel W. Rossiter, Jr.,was sent northward into the Adirondacks one hot summer day withinstructions to be tactful but thorough. He had never seen Mrs. Wharton,nor had he seen Havens. There was no time to look up these ratherimportant details, for he was off to intercept her at the little stationfrom which one drove by coach to the quiet summer hotel among the clouds.She was starting the same afternoon. He found himself wondering whetherthis petted butterfly of fashion had ever seen him, and, seeing him, hadbeen sufficiently interested to inquire, "Who is that tall fellow with thelight hair?" It would be difficult to perform the duties assigned to himif either she or Havens knew him for what he was. His pride would havebeen deeply wounded if he had known that Grover & Dickhut recommended himto Wharton as "obscure."
"They say she is a howling beauty as well as a swell," reflectedRossiter, as the miles and minutes went swinging by. "And that's somethingto be thankful for. One likes novelty, especially if it's feminine. Well,I'm out for the sole purpose of saving a million or so for old Wharton,and to save as much of her reputation as I can besides. With the proof inhand the old duffer can scare her out of any claim against his bankaccount, and she shall have the absolute promise of 'no exposure' inreturn. Isn't it lovely? Well, here's Albany. Now for the dinky road up toFossingford Station. I have an hour's wait here. She's coming on theafternoon train and gets to Fossingford at eleven-ten to-night. That's adickens of a time for a young woman to be arriving anywhere, to saynothing of Fossingford."
Loafing about the depot at Albany, Rossiter kept a close lookout for Mrs.Wharton as he pictured her from the description he carried in his mind'seye. Her venerable husband informed him that she was sure to wear a whiteshirt-waist, a gray skirt, and a Knox sailor hat, because her maid hadtold him so in a huff. But he was to identify her chiefly by means of ahandsome and oddly trimmed parasol of deep purple. Wharton had everyreason to suspect that it was a present from Havens, and therefore to becarried more for sentiment than protection.
A telegram awaited him at Fossingford Station. Fossingford was so smalland unsophisticated that the arrival of a telegraphic message that did notrelate to the movement of railroad trains was an "occasion." Everybody intown knew that a message had come for Samuel Rossiter, and everybody wasat the depot to see that he got it. The station agent had inquired at the"eating-house" for the gentleman, and that was enough. With the eyes of aFossingford score or two upon him, Rossiter read the despatch from Grover& Dickhut.
"Too bad, ain't it?" asked the agent, compassionately regarding thenewcomer. Evidently the contents were supposed to be disappointing.
"Oh, I don't know," replied Rossiter easily. But just the same he wastroubled in mind as he walked over and sat down upon his steamer trunk inthe shade of the building. The telegram read:
"She left New York five-thirty this evening. Stops over night Albany.Fossingford to-morrow morning. Watch trains. Purple parasol. Sailor hat.Gray travelling suit.
"G. and D."
It meant that he would be obliged to stay in Fossingford all night--butwhere? A general but comprehensive glance did not reveal anything thatlooked like a hotel. He thought of going back to Albany for the night, butit suddenly occurred to him that she might not stop in that city, afterall. Pulling his wits together, he saw things with a new clearness ofvision. Ostensibly she had announced her intention to spend the month atEagle Nest, an obscure but delightful hotel in the hills; but did thatreally mean that she would go there? It was doubtless a ruse to throw thehusband off the track. There were scores of places in the mountains, andit was more than probable that she would give Eagle Nest a wide berth.Rossiter patted his b
ump of perceptiveness and smiled serenely until hecame plump up against the realization that she might not come by way ofFossingford at all, or, in any event, she might go whisking through tosome station farther north. His speculations came to an end in the shapeof a distressing resolution. He would remain in Fossingford and watch thetrains go by!
After he had dashed through several early evening trains, the cheerful,philosophical smile of courage left his face and trouble stared from hiseyes. He saw awkward prospects ahead. Suppose she were to pass through onone of the late night trains! He could not rush through the sleepers, eventhough the trains stopped in Fossingford for water.
Besides, she could not be identified by means
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