The One Woman (Dixon, 1903)/Chapter 24
Overman was quick to detect the hostility of his friend's unusual silence, and hastily rose.
"Excuse me, old boy," he said, apologetically, "if I've hit too hard. I think the world of you in spite of your fool theories. You know that."
"Don't worry, Mark," he answered, carelessly. "I haven't been listening to you at all. I've been thinking of something else. Life's too short to pay any attention to your big Philistine jaw."
The banker smiled.
"Well, you have the instrument handy with which Samson slew the Philistine."
"Yes, if you would only loan it to me. Good-night."
When he had gone, Kate leaned back on the lounge and said with evident amusement:
"You forgot something in parting with your old schoolmate."
"Yes, I thought it quite unnecessary to tell him to drop in any time, unless you wish to let the front room."
A tremor of catlike fun slyly played about her mouth.
"And yet women have been called fickle. Mr. Overman was no college chum of mine."
"No; but he is evidently trying to make up for it now."
A low musical laugh seemed to come from the depth of Kate's spirit.
"And I thought I was pleasing you by neglecting my Bohemians and cultivating your powerful friend."
"Still it is not necessary to hang on his words with such melting interest," he said, with quiet emphasis.
She looked up sharply and a gleam of cruelty flashed from her blue eyes and struck the steel-gray in his. Beneath the quiet words of the man and woman there was raging the mortal struggle of will and personality, the woman in fierce rebellion, his iron egotism demanding submission.
"Oh, I see," she purred, softly. "There is to be but one man-god, arrayed and beautiful, if I may quote your formula. There may be many women-gods in paradise. I saw Ruth in the Temple the first Sunday you spoke, hanging on your words as the voice of the Lord."
Gordon flushed and turned uneasily in his chair.
"I'd as well be frank with you, Kate. Overman is coming to this house too often. I was shocked beyond measure when I failed to find you in your accustomed seat on the Sunday of the dedication of the Temple. I was told you were in the gallery with him."
She straightened herself up suddenly.
"You took the pains to find that out?"
"Yes."
She fixed on him a look of scorn.
"And stooped to ask an usher instead of asking me? You, who boldly say to the world that I am your free comrade, the mate and equal of man?"
"An odd way you took to show comradeship in such an hour," he answered, doggedly.
"Am I a slave, to sit in solemn rapture at your feet and await your nod?"
"You seemed to eagerly await the nod of another man to-night."
She laughed.
"Am I not your serene-browed Grecian goddess whose untamed eyes of primeval womanhood proclaim the end of slave marriage?"
Gorden winced, scowled and was silent.
"I like the beautiful ceremony you invented. I've memorised every word of it," she said, teasingly.
He sat for several minutes sullenly looking at her with a strange fire in his eyes, now and then moistening his lips as though they burned.
At length he said: "It will be necessary for you to go to his office to-morrow to sign papers in the transfer of the deed of the Temple to me. The lawyers informed me to-day that everything was in readiness for your signature. After this event there will be no business requiring your further attendance at his bank."
She closed her eyes lazily.
"I am not going to sign any such deed," came the firm answer.
Gordon turned pale, nervously fumbled at his watch-chain and stammered:
"Kate, you don't mean this?"
"I do."
The man hesitated, as though stunned.
"After your announcement to the world, and all that has passed between us, would you humiliate me by the withdrawal of your gift?"
She lifted her beautiful brows.
"Humiliate you? Surely I have honoured you with the richest gift woman can bestow on man: myself. The ownership of property can have no meaning after this. I claim my rights as your equal. Your eloquence and genius give you power. This money is scarcely its equivalent. You have your Temple, and I still have my fortune. Its investment in this building has enhanced its value. What more can you ask?"
"The fulfilment of your word of honour to the cause of truth," he firmly answered.
She smiled.
"Nonsense! You were my cause, my truth—the god I worshiped. I desired you. Now at closer range the aureole has slightly faded, though you are as handsome as ever, Frank, dear. What is money between us? We are equals. I will take the worry of financial details off your shoulders and leave you free for your inspiring work."
Gordon's eyes grew soft; he went over to the lounge on which she was resting, sat down and slipped his arm about her.
The full lips smiled with conscious cruelty.
He bent and kissed her passionately.
"You are my priceless treasure, my dear. I am honoured in your beauty and love. Money is nothing to me, so long as you are mine."
She drew his head down and kissed him in a sudden burst of intensity.
"You know I love you, Frank!"
"And we must not quarrel," he said, wistfully, slipping to his knees with one arm still encircling her waist. "You and I have gone through too much for harsh words or thoughts to ever shadow our life. But you must give me more of your time, and other men less. A growing uneasiness and the loss of the sense of finality in life are robbing me of my capacity for thought and work."
"Not so bad as that surely," she cried, with teasing laughter. "You're not afraid of losing me?"
"No; but you will promise?" he asked, tenderly.
She placed one of her arms about his neck, a soft warm hand under his chin, and, still laughing, slowly kissed him and murmured:
"I'll do just what I please, and you may do the same."