Читать книгу Leonie, the Typewriter - Wenona Gilman - Страница 3

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The day was delicious! A warm, soft breeze, that seemed to suggest sunny Italy, or the luxurious indolence of far-off Japan, tinted the atmosphere with a golden hue.

It rested like a halo upon the head of a young man who sat beside a desk, idly twisting a pen between his fingers. It was a beautiful head! Too beautiful for a man, too strong for a woman.

From the large, velvety eyes, Italian in color and softness, but Mexican in their occasional gleams of thrilling brilliancy, to the clear complexion with the touch of crimson in the cheeks; from the dainty, curly hair that lay in tiny rings upon the broad, white brow, to the mouth, with its sweeping, silken mustache, the face was absolutely without flaw or blemish. And yet no man ever laughed at Lynde Pyne for his beauty, or would have thought of pronouncing him effeminate.

"He is one of the best fellows in existence," they told each other at the club; "and it is a confounded shame that he was cut out of his uncle's will in the manner in which he was. There was never a more honorable man than Lynde Pyne, and for all he knows by what means Luis Kingsley came in possession of the money that is rightfully his, he never says a word, but works away, early and late, with but poor reward. It is a queer world that robs an honest man to give his birthright to a scoundrel."

But Lynde Pyne was giving little thought to that as he sat dreamily twirling his pen on that golden day in June.

His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of his office boy.

"If you please, Mr. Pyne," he said respectfully, though not servilely, "there is a young lady here to see you."

Lynde glanced up slowly, evidently not pleased at the interruption.

"Her name?"

"She is a typewriter!"

"Oh! Show her in."

He returned to his idle dreaming, but was aroused again at the expiration of a moment.

"I came to see about the position you advertised, sir," a cool, refined voice said.

He arose and offered her a chair, looking at her in his own irresistible fashion.

And what he saw he never forgot!

The face was as flawless as his own. The short, curling, red-brown hair, that looked as though the sun had become entangled in a shadow, the violet eyes, the graceful sweep of the perfect chin, the exquisitely fitting gown of cheap gray tricot, all appealed to him with irresistible force.

"What machine do you operate? and what is your record for speed?" he asked, scarcely conscious that he had spoken at all.

"I use the Hammond mostly, and can write seventy words to the minute, provided they are not too long."

"You can write from dictation?"

"Yes, sir. I am a stenographer and typewriter. My last position I lost through the death of Mr. Carl Lefevre, my employer."

"Then you are Miss Cuyler?"

"I am."

"Your reputation has preceded you!" exclaimed Lynde, with one of his most entrancing smiles. "I shall be only too glad to engage you. You know the duties without my going into detail. There is only one thing that I shall require that he did not, perhaps, and that is, in addition to a typewriter, I wish you to act rather as a private secretary. You are to open all of my mail that is not marked personal, reporting the contents to me, that I may not be bothered with it. You think you can do that?"

"Perhaps not just at first, but I am so familiar now with the work of a lawyer's office that I don't think I would have much difficulty in learning."

"That will be quite satisfactory. And the salary?"

The charming face colored crimson.

"I know so little of business," she answered, hesitatingly. "Of course beginning with you is quite different from what it would be if you were sure that I could do your work."

"But I am sure! I should expect to pay the same that Mr. Lefevre did, with a suitable addition for the extra amount of work. I suppose that would be reasonable?"

"More than I could expect."

"Can you begin to-day?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. There is a whole raft of copying in that drawer to be done. You will find a dressing-room on that side."

Leonie Cuyler did not wait to be told a second time. With a bow in Lynde's direction, she withdrew, laying her hat and a soft lace scarf, that had been wrapped about her neck, upon a table.

She glanced carelessly into the small mirror, endeavoring to smooth down the rebellious curls that were one of her chief attractions.

For a single moment she stood gazing idly about her, a dreamy smile upon her lips, then shaking herself together with a little impatient jerk, she walked into the room where Lynde Pyne awaited her.

With almost tender care he showed her the position of his papers, explained to her what would be expected of her, then sat down, watching the graceful movements of her fingers as they flew lightly over the key-board.

He felt dizzy, as though from drinking wine, when the evening came and he saw that he must let her go.

He watched her from the room, then put on his own hat with a weary sigh.

"I am afraid I have not done a wise thing to bring Leonie Cuyler here," he muttered, "and yet what can it matter?"

There was something half bitter, wholly defiant in his mental question, and he walked from the office with anything but a pleasant expression upon his handsome face.

And Leonie?

After her little home had been set to rights, she sat down by the single window the room contained, her arm resting upon the sill dejectedly.

An old man, aristocratic in appearance, notwithstanding the poor clothing that he wore, a man strangely white of hair and beard, bent from age and sorrow, sat near her, playing with a string that he was twining about his fingers.

"What is the matter with you to-night, my darling?" he asked, breaking a long silence. "My little one is not at all like herself! Dad is not going to lose his sunshine at this time of life, is he? I did not know that I should miss the chatter of my little magpie so much. What is the matter, Leonie?"

She leaned over and kissed him, but even that was not done in her usual way.

"Nothing, dad!" she answered dreamily. "That is, there is nothing wrong! I was only thinking. That is something unusual, I confess."

"Of what were you thinking?"

"Of a picture that I saw to-day. It was a woman's face—a woman that I think Rembrandt or Guido would have given half their lives to paint. I couldn't describe it to you, because any description would sound commonplace applied to such an original. Her name is Miss Evelyn Chandler."

When she had finished speaking she turned her eyes slowly, and allowed them to rest upon Godfrey Cuyler's face.

She was startled at the change that flashed over it. His chin dropped, his eyes set, his brow was covered suddenly with a moisture that resembled death.

"Where did you see it?" he asked hoarsely, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

"In the private drawer of Lynde Pyne's desk."

"Lynde Pyne! In Heaven's name what do you know of him?"

"He is my employer."

"Lynde Pyne? Impossible! And you stood by his side, looking at Evelyn Chandler's portrait?"

"No. I saw it in the drawer by accident. Her name was written beneath it. Dad, who is Miss Evelyn Chandler, and why should I not look at her portrait with Lynde Pyne beside me?"

"I cannot tell you that," he gasped. "I am pledged by an oath that I can never break. Child, child, what miserable fate was it that led you to Lynde Pyne's office?"

"Miserable fate?" she cried, rising and standing before him. "Is it a miserable fate that gives us bread to eat? Do you forget that we could not have lived more than a week longer from the savings of my little salary? Summer is coming on now, and lawyers do not want typewriters, or the positions are filled. See how often I have tried and failed. Oh, dad——"

"Hush!" he interrupted. "If we starve, you must not remain there! There is a reason stronger than either life or death. Leonie, you must listen to me!"

"Dad, I have no wish not to do so. There is but one thing—I am no longer a child, and you have no right to demand a thing of me without explanation. If there is a reason why I should not remain in Lynde Pyne's office, I am ready to go, though such a course seems to indicate nothing short of starvation to me, but unless you give me the reason, for both our sakes I must decline."

"You don't know what you are saying! I know your nature, your overwhelming pride. Leonie, listen! If you refuse to hear me now, some day you will hear a secret the horror of which will kill you! My darling, what am I to say? Tell me that you will give it up?"

"I cannot!" she gasped, bowing her head upon her hands. "Oh, dad, if you asked me for the heart out of my body it would be easier for me to give you!"

With a cry that resembled that of a wild animal, Godfrey Cuyler seized the girl by the shoulder.

"Answer me, quickly!" he cried, in a choking voice—"you do not love Lynde Pyne?"

She lifted her white face and looked at him. It was enough!

The old man fell upon his knees beside her and buried his face in her lap.

"My darling—my darling!" he moaned; "how can I ever ask you to forgive me?"