O. Henry

                  "Girl"


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IN GILT letters on the ground glass of the door of
room No. 962 were the words: "Robbins & Hartley,
Brokers."  The clerks had gone.  It was past five, and
with the solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons, scrub-
women were invading the cloud-capped twenty-story
office building.  A puff of red-hot air flavoured with
lemon peelings, soft-coal smoke and train oil came in
through the half-open windows.

Robbins, fifty, something of an overweight beau, and
addicted to first nights and hotel palm-rooms, pretended
to be envious of his partner's commuter's joys.

"Going to be something doing in the humidity line
to-night," he said.  "You out-of-town chaps will be the
people, with your katydids and moonlight and long drinks
and things out on the front porch."

Hartley, twenty-nine, serious, thin, good-looking, ner-
vous, sighed and frowned a little.

"Yes," said he, "we always have cool nights in Floral-
hurst, especially in the winter."

A man with an air of mystery came in the door and
went up to Hartley.

"I've found where she lives," he announced in the
portentous half-whisper that makes the detective at
work a marked being to his fellow men.

Hartley scowled him into a state of dramatic silence
and quietude.  But by that time Robbins had got his
cane and set his tie pin to his liking, and with a debonair
nod went out to his metropolitan amusements.

"Here is the address," said the detective in a natural
tone, being deprived of an audience to foil.

Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth's dingy
memorandum book.  On it were pencilled the words
"Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East --th Street, care of
Mrs. McComus."

"Moved there a week ago," said the detective.  "Now,
if you want any shadowing done, Mr. Hartley, I can do
you as fine a job in that line as anybody in the city.  It
will be only $7 a day and expenses.  Can send in a daily
typewritten report, covering -- "

"You needn't go on," interrupted the broker.  "It
isn't a case of that kind.  I merely wanted the address.
How much shall I pay you?"

"One day's work," said the sleuth.  "A tenner will
cover it."

Hartley paid the man and dismissed him.  Then he
left the office and boarded a Broadway car.  At the first
large crosstown artery of travel he took an eastbound car
that deposited him in a decaying avenue, whose ancient
structures once sheltered the pride and glory of the town.

Walking a few squares, he came to the building that he
sought.  It was a new flathouse, bearing carved upon its
cheap stone portal its sonorous name, "The Vallambrosa."
Fire-escapes zigzagged down its front -- these laden
with household goods, drying clothes, and squalling
children evicted by the midsummer heat.  Here and
there a pale rubber plant peeped from the miscellaneous
mass, as if wondering to what kingdom it belonged --
vegetable, animal or artificial.

Hartley pressed the "McComus" button.  The door
latch clicked spasmodically -- now hospitably, now doubt-
fully, as though in anxiety whether it might be admitting
friends or duns.  Hartley entered and began to climb the
stairs after the manner of those who seek their friends in
city flat-houses -- which is the manner of a boy who
climbs an apple-tree, stopping when he comes upon what
he wants.

On the fourth floor he saw Vivienne standing in an
open door.  She invited him inside, with a nod and a
bright, genuine smile.  She placed a chair for him near
a window, and poised herself gracefully upon the edge
of one of those Jekyll-and-Hyde pieces of furniture that
are masked and mysteriously hooded, unguessable bulks
by day and inquisitorial racks of torture by night.

Hartley cast a quick, critical, appreciative glance at
her before speaking, and told himself that his taste in
choosing had been flawless.

Vivienne was about twenty-one.  She was of the purest
Saxon type.  Her hair was a ruddy golden, each filament
of the neatly gathered mass shining with its own lustre
and delicate graduation of colour.  In perfect harmony
were her ivory-clear complexion and deep sea-blue eyes
that looked upon the world with the ingenuous calmness
of a mermaid or the pixie of an undiscovered mountain
stream.  Her frame was strong and yet possessed the
grace of absolute naturalness.  And yet with all her North-
ern clearness and frankness of line and colouring, there
seemed to be something of the tropics in her -- something
of languor in the droop of her pose, of love of ease in her
ingenious complacency of satisfaction and comfort in
the mere act of breathing -- something that seemed to
claim for her a right as a perfect work of nature to exist
and be admired equally with a rare flower or some beauti-
ful, milk-white dove among its sober-hued companions.

She was dressed in a white waist and dark skirt - that
discreet masquerade of goose-girl and duchess.

"Vivienne," said Hartley, looking at her pleadingly,
"you did not answer my last letter.  It was only by nearly
a week's search that I found where you had moved to.
Why have you kept me in suspense when you knew how
anxiously I was waiting to see you and hear from you?"

The girl looked out the window dreamily.

"Mr. Hartley," she said hesitatingly, "I hardly know
what to say to you.  I realize all the advantages of your
offer, and sometimes I feel sure that I could be contented
with you.  But, again, I am doubtful.  I was born a
city girl, and I am afraid to bind myself to a quiet sub-
urban life."

"My dear girl," said Hartley, ardently, "have I not
told you that you shall have everything that your heart
can desire that is in my power to give you?  You shall
come to the city for the theatres, for shopping and to visit
your friends as often as you care to.  You can trust me,
can you not?"

"To the fullest," she said, turning her frank eyes upon
him with a smile.  "I know you are the kindest of men,
and that the girl you get will be a lucky one.  I learned
all about you when I was at the Montgomerys'."

"Ah!"  exclaimed Hartley, with a tender, reminiscent
light in his eye; "I remember well the evening I first saw
you at the Montgomerys'.  Mrs. Montgomery was sound-
ing your praises to me all the evening.  And she hardly
did you justice.  I shall never forget that supper.  Come,
Vivienne, promise me.  I want you.  You'll never
regret coming with me.  No one else will ever give you
as pleasant a home."

The girl sighed and looked down at her folded hands.

A sudden jealous suspicion seized Hartley.

"Tell me, Vivienne," he asked, regarding her keenly,
"is there another -- is there some one else ?"

A rosy flush crept slowly over her fair cheeks and
neck.

"You shouldn't ask that, Mr. Hartley," she said, in
some confusion.  "But I will tell you.  There is one
other -- but he has no right -- I have promised him
nothing."

"His name?"  demanded Hartley, sternly.

"Townsend."

"Rafford Townsend!"  exclaimed Hartley, with a grim
tightening of his jaw.  "How did that man come to know
you?  After all I've done for him -- "

"His auto has just stopped below," said Vivienne,
bending over the window-sill.  "He's coming for his
answer.  Oh I don't know what to do!"

The bell in the flat kitchen whirred.  Vivienne hurried
to press the latch button.

"Stay here," said Hartley.  "I will meet him in the
hall."

Townsend, looking like a Spanish grandee in his light
tweeds, Panama hat and curling black mustache, came
up the stairs three at a time.  He stopped at sight of
Hartley and looked foolish.

"Go back," said Hartley, firmly, pointing downstairs
with his forefinger.

"Hullo!"  said Townsend, feigning surprise.  "What's
up?  What are you doing here, old man?"

"Go back," repeated Hartley, inflexibly.  "The Law
of the Jungle.  Do you want the Pack to tear you in
pieces?  The kill is mine."

"I came here to see a plumber about the bathroom
connections," said Townsend, bravely.

"All right," said Hartley.  "You shall have that lying
plaster to stick upon your traitorous soul.  But, go back."
Townsend went downstairs, leaving a bitter word to
be wafted up the draught of the staircase.  Hartley went
back to his wooing.

"Vivienne," said he, masterfully.  "I have got to
have you.  I will take no more refusals or dilly-dallying."

"When do you want me?"  she asked.

"Now.  As soon as you can get ready."

She stood calmly before him and looked him in the
eye.

"Do you think for one moment," she said, "that
I would enter your home while Hйloise is there?"

Hartley cringed as if from an unexpected blow.  He
folded his arms and paced the carpet once or twice.

"She shall go," he declared grimly.  Drops stood upon
his brow.  "Why should I let that woman make my
life miserable?  Never have I seen one day of freedom
from trouble since I have known her.  You are right,
Vivienne.  Hйloise must be sent away before I can take
you home.  But she shall go.  I have decided.  I will
turn her from my doors."

"When will you do this?"  asked the girl.

Hartley clinched his teeth and bent his brows together.

"To-night," he said, resolutely.  "I will send her
away to-night."

"Then," said Vivienne, "my answer is 'yes.' Come
for me when you will."

She looked into his eyes with a sweet, sincere light in
her own.  Hartley could scarcely believe that her sur-
render was true, it was so swift and complete.

"Promise me," he said feelingly, "on your word and
honour."

"On my word and honour," repeated Vivienne, softly.

At the door he turned and gazed at her happily, but
yet as one who scarcely trusts the foundations of his joy.

"To-morrow," he said, with a forefinger of reminder
uplifted.

"To-morrow," she repeated with a smile of truth and
candour.

In an hour and forty minutes Hartley stepped off the
train at Floralhurst.  A brisk walk of ten minutes brought
him to the gate of a handsome two-story cottage set upon
a wide and well-tended lawn.  Halfway to the house he
was met by a woman with jet-black braided hair and
flowing white summer gown, who half strangled him
without apparent cause.

When they stepped into the hall she said:

"Mamma's here.  The auto is coming for her in half
an hour.  She came to dinner, but there's no dinner."

"I've something to tell you," said Hartley.  "I thought
to break it to you gently, but since your mother is here
we may as well out with it."

He stooped and whispered something at her ear.

His wife screamed.  Her mother came running into
the hall.  The dark-haired woman screamed again-
the joyful scream of a well-beloved and petted woman.

"Oh, mamma!"  she cried ecstatically, "what do you
think?  Vivienne is coming to cook for us!  She is the
one that stayed with the Montgomerys a whole year.
And now, Billy, dear," she concluded, "you must go
right down into the kitchen and discharge Hйloise.  She
has been drunk again the whole day long."