Would any man?

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Katherine Montressor.

I

Would Any Man?

by

Charles Peale Didier author of

Twixt Cupid and Croesus, etc.

WITH NINE FULL PAGE

BY THE

TIONS

Williams & Wilkins

PUBLISHES s 1898.

TWO COPIES BECEIVED.

Copyright, 1898,

By CHARLES PEALE DIDIER.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

I. Katherine Montressor .... Frontispiece

Page

II. Often SHE WOULD GO IN THE afternoons ... 38

III. “Mandy is right, he is a ‘beauty’ ” .... 52

IV. Swayed gracefully to the motion of her step . 66

V. In search of local color 78

VI. “He will not like it’’ 94

VII. “I HARDLY THINK THERE IS MUCH I CAN DO” . . . Io8

VIII. Agnes 126

IX. “Would you, would any man?” 164

Would Any Man?

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

Twixt Cupid and Croesus, si, so net.

New York Sun— “A curious book, certainly, is ‘ ’Twixt Cupid and Croesus.’ One handles what seems to be the actual original correspondence of several persons.”

Boston Globe— ‘‘All whose hearts are still stirred by the old, old story which is ever new, will welcome ‘ ’Twixt Cupid and Croesus.’ ”

Baltimore Sun — ‘‘ Seldom has a charming story of fiction been told in a more unique, novel and artistic manner.”

New Haven Evening Register — ‘‘ A more unique love story than that just issued by the well-known artist, Chas. P. Didier, would be hard to find. The story is attractively illustrated.”

Coiumbus Press — ‘‘ The Press can hardly hesitate in pronouncing it the most attractive piece of book construction ever offereo the public at large by an American publisher.

‘‘ The story is delightfully told and conceived with much delicacy.”

Richmond Despatch — ‘‘ This is one of the most unique conceits in the way of a romance publication we have ever seen. Beautifully and profusely illustrated.”

Washington Times—” One of the most delightful bits of romance ever penned.”

Hartford Daily Times—” It is not easy to say whether Mr. Didier accomplishes more with the pen or the pencil. The story is told through two different modes of expression, each of which is singularly felicitous and each of which supplements the other.”

Horning News, Savannah — “The novel is a bright and breezy love story. The illustrations, printing, paper and binding are chaste and elegant.

” It is seldom the case that a bright writer is a clever illustrator or vice versa, but Mr. Didier combines the talents charmingly.”

Indianapolis Sentinel — “One of the neatest books as to outward appearance and one of the most unique and interesting as to quality is ‘ R. S. V. P.’ by Charles P. Didier. This book is c^uite a new departure in the bookmaker’s art. The illustrations place Mr. Didier well in the front ranks. They show not only technical skill, but great refinement in drawing and characterization . ’ ’

The Philadelphia Press—” Text and illustrations have both spirit and finish and merit not always found in such works, with intimate connections between the reading matter and the picture. They are good pictures to look at and an entertaining story to go with them.”

I

Would Any Man?

Chap. I

Ten miles or more to the west of one of the most important towns in Virginia, set some-what back from, and overlooking, the banks of the James river, stands what was one of the finest Colonial mansions of that once glorious old State.

A huge trunk of ivy, which is nearly as old as the building itself, has put forth its countless branches clinging to the time-stained walls and twining caressingly around the broken windows as if to conceal the ruin and neglect within.

According to an inscription, graven deeply into the corner-stone of moss-covered granite, what remains of this noble structure has

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weathered the storms of more than sevenscore years and ten, and even to the present day its walls are scarred but little, and only the woodwork shows the vandal hand of Time.

As it stands, in its stricken grandeur, with its massive pillars of stone extending to the roof, like great sentinels guarding its entrance, its queer shaped windows, with their diamond panes and gruesome cornices, its wide porticos, and many acres of rich and fertile soil, it seems to dwell on by-gone days of powdered hair and minuet, when our dainty grandmamas, with their quaint short-waisted gowns, were wooed and won within its walls, or perhaps under some secluded bower, fragrant and sweet with the delicate odor of overhanging jessamine.

And the river, as it flows along, seems to question as it passes. Why, O noble manor, are you so deserted, what stain has blighted your fair history, what curse has stricken and left you desolate in your old age ?

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So the old place stands, abandoned, and uncared for. Its grounds are seldom entered, and overgrown with weeds; its noble oaks have fallen here and there, and every thing around presents a scene of abject desolation.

One morning, eight years or more before the opening of this chapter, a young girl was leaning against one of the stone pillars which have been mentioned. Her head was slightly inclined, her expression one of mingled resignation and despair, an expression which sorrow alone can produce on the countenance of a true and noble nature. She wore a simple gown of black material, trimmed with crape, showing her tall, graceful figure to advantage.

Here she stood trying to collect her thoughts, — trying, but failing utterly. Her sorrow had taken complete possession of her and was weighing her down like a mighty mountain. Her brain was dead to every thought, except the one, that her mother, her own dear mother, had gone forever.

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She had been here but a few moments, when she was startled by the sound of footsteps in the hall behind her. With a shudder of abhorrence, she turned to confront the new-comer.

He was a man of about fifty years of age, tall and slender, with hair and moustache* of an iron grey color, slightly bent in the shoulders, and his eyes, which were small and very dark, were sharp and restless.

His teeth, which he was continually displaying, owing to a much indulged in smile — looking anything but human — were very white and regular. On the whole he was what is called aristocratic looking, but one whom a keen observer would have mistrusted.

*‘Good morning, Katherine,” he said, with affected cordiality. ‘^1 am glad to see you. It has been sometime since you have condescended to vouchsafe me the honor of your company. This is the first time, I believe, since the funeral of your departed mother. I trust, I was not conspicuous by my absence.

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and that there were no hitches in the ceremony. It would have looked better, perhaps, if I had been present, but I have always had the greatest antipathy for funerals, they are tiresome, to say the least, and then, too, I had an engagement in town that morning, and couldn’t possibly have been back in time.”

The girl gave him a look of contempt, and turned to pass through the doorway.

“Not yet,” he said insinuatingly, taking a few steps backward to block the way, “ I am off for New York to-night, and it is natural that I should want to enjoy your company while I can.”

The girl saw that resistance was useless, and sank heavily down on a rustic bench, by the side of the door.

“ There are several things I want to speak to you about this morning,” he continued, rubbing his hands as he spoke, “only trifles at present, but I will have something of much more import in the near future. Your mother had some handsome jewels, a diamond brooch

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among them, which doubtless you remember very well. I would like to have them. Do you know where they are ? ”

“I do,” the girl answered slowly.

“Well, I should like to have them reset, for a friend of mine, whom they will become much more than they ever did your mother. Kindly get them at once.”

“I do not quite understand you,” the girl said, rousing herself and looking up into his face, with an expression of half fear, half wonder.

“I can’t see that it is at all necessary that you should, but to satisfy your curiosity, I will tell you. I intend having the stones reset in New York, to give to a very dear friend of mine, against whom your mother has doubtless tried to prejudice you.”

“I should think,” Katherine replied, now fully convinced of his intention, “ that you would have the decency not to mention that woman in my presence, especially at such a time as this. As to my mother’s jewels, her father’s presents to her, I will never give them up for such a purpose, never!”

“How very dramatic. Really, Katherine, you are endowed with a number of talents. They should all be cultivated, they should indeed. Your sentiment is something beautiful, too, but it does not pay in this enlightened century. You should learn to look at life from a more practical standpoint. It is about time you were giving up your foolish illusions, and taking things as they come. “That woman,” as it pleased you to style her a few moments ago, will, before many weeks, be my wife, and the mistress of this place. And you will have to treat her as such. Do you understand ? ”

“I think you forget,” the girl said, in a calm tone, born of self-restraint, “that this place and all his property, was, at my mother’s death, by my grandfather’s will, to belong to me. Do you not think that I should be consulted somewhat as to the management of it?”

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“We’ll see about that later,” Richard Montressor said, with a confident smile. “We’ll see about that. Wills are often misinterpreted and very easily broken. I think your grandfather’s will prove itself as brittle as a good many others in the past.”

The girl looked at him wonderingly. An undercurrent of assurance in his threat puzzled her. She knew him to be too much of a diplomat to threaten unless he was sure of winning in the end, and yet, how, or in any way, he could have a will set aside which had stood for ten years or more was incomprehensible to her. Had her mind been free of grief, she might have given his words more thought, but as it was, they made but little impression.

“However, we will let that matter rest for a while,’^ he continued. “What I wish to know now is, where are those jewels ? I would like to take them with me, and have no time to bandy words with you;” and looking at his watch, “I have some business in town.

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it is time I was off. I ask again, will you get them or not ?

''I have told you,” Katherine replied, in a very determined tone, “once and for all, I will not.”

“Oh, very well have it your own way this time, but I think you will regret it, I do indeed,” he said in his usual suave manner, but in a tone which the girl knew contained much latent wrath.

“I will not be back for several days,” he continued. “On my return, I will have some matters of much more importance to talk to you about. I hope my absence will prove of much benefit to your health, and that you will sufficiently recover to talk reasonably. I say reasonably, but I think, rationally is more fitting; the former could hardly be expected of any woman.”

So saying, he descended the steps, got into his buggy, and hardly giving his servant time to seat himself beside him, he gave the horse a sharp cut with the whip, and dashed down the road which led to town.

lO

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The girl rose wearily, like one who has been dazed by a sudden blow, and giving him a glance of mingled dread and loathing, turned and walked into the house.

With slow and languid step, she ascended the broad stairs at the back of the hall. The slanting rays of the morning sun, pouring in through the large stained glass window which crossed the recess at the head of the first landing, threw a mellow glow of color around her sombre figure, and then passed on to touch into life and brilliancy the portraits of her ancestors which had been hanging for many years on the walls below.

When she reached the landing her artistic nature prompted her to turn and look back to see the effect of light and color. However stricken by grief and misery she was, she yearned to return to her painting, and there , find something to absorb and occupy her j mind. i

The soft rays fell obliquely across the pic- f tures, bringing out in bold relief one of their |

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1 1

i number — that of her grandfather Faulkner, I her mother's father. His was a lovable, kind I old face, surmounted with long silvery locks combed back from a high, noble forehead. What a contrast, she thought, to the man she recognized as her father. The portrait seemed so life-like, looking out at her with its kind j grave eyes, that she almost cried out to it for I help, as she had done so often to the original j in her childhood days, and never without suci cess.

“Oh!” she thought bitterly, “if he only had lived, that brute would never have killed my mother by his cruelty, and torture me as he does.”

She stood for some moments watching the portrait, until the light which illumined it shifted its position, and the canvas was left sombre and colorless.

“How like my life,” she thought sorrowfully, “the light has passed, and left it dark and shadowed.”

CHAP. 11.

Richard Montressor had come to this country from England when a young man, with the making of a much coveted fortune in view, but, like many of his kinsmen, he had found it to be a more difficult matter than he had first supposed.

Many schemes were entered into by him, but they all waned into failure. Finally, with the slight means left him he purchased a small tract of land in Virginia, with the intention of stock-farming, but with little knowledge of that pursuit. Being at that time a man of prepossessing appearance, courteous manners and of considerable outward refinement, it is not to be wondered at that the doors of Southern hospitality were soon thrown wide open to him. He readily succeeded in gaining entre to the best families of the locality; and it was at her father’s house he met Mary Faulkner, the mother of the girl we have seen ; and an only and idolized child.

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Naturally supposing that she would some day inherit her father^s large estate, Montressor lost no time in laying siege to her heart, which he became most anxious to possess after he had searched the records of the county court and ascertained the amount of property shown there to her father’s credit.

It was not long before Mary Faulkner, romantic and at a susceptible age, found herself in love with the young Englishman, or rather imagined herself to be, which suited his purpose equally as well.

Mr. Faulkner, however, being a keener observer of what is called character than his daughter, bitterly opposed the attentions of young Montressor, and not until a space of two years had elapsed did he reluctantly give his consent to their marriage. One child, Katherine, was born of this marriage, and it was for her sake that Mr. Faulkner tolerated the later conduct of his son-in-law and allowed him to remain under his roof, for, after Montressor was thoroughly convinced of the fact that his wife’s father would make almost any sacrifice rather than scandal should be connected with those of his blood, he plunged into all kinds of dissipation and showed himself as he really was.

He wilfully and openly neglected his young wife, and subjected her to the grossest insults in the presence of strangers. He even Vvent so far as to boast among his profligate companions, that should the estate ever come under his control he would find the means of getting the most of it into his possession, divorce his wife, and bring to the Manor a new mistress, in the person of one who had long since held that position to him.

For years Mrs. Montressor bore her husband’s infidelities and cruelty without a murmur, for the sake of her daughter and in order that the last years of her father’s life might be as free as possible from care and trouble.

After the death of Mr. Faulkner, when it was found that the income from his estate was all his daughter could control — the entire property being entailed for the granddaughter, absolutely — Montressor plunged into dissipation even more deeply than he had in the past. His insatiate demands and ever accumulating debts were a constant drain on his wife’s income, of which^ although it was large, there was scarcely enough left to maintain the Manor.

For five years longer, Mrs. Montressor’s constitution gradually weakened under her husband’s brutal conduct, which then scarcely knew any bounds, there being no one to check it. She made a brave and pitiable struggle, but at last her shattered health gave way and, after a lingering illness of some months, she died.

Katherine was at this time in the twentysecond year of her age. She had inherited all the earlier beauty of her mother without her delicate constitution. Her tall majestic figure showed grace and strength in every movement and gave evidence of the healthy out-door life which she had led since her earliest childhood.

Her face, surrounded by a wealth of deep brown hair, was beautiful in its strength of line and clear complexion. Her eyes were large and sad, her mouth was firm yet sweet and contained lines indicating much force of character and purpose.

Since she had been able to appreciate the cause of her mother’s distress and failing health, all her natural love for the man she recognized as her father had ceased. And with advancing years, what at first had been disgust and loathing, ripened into hatred. She despised him with as much fervor as she loved the woman against whom he directed his brutalities.

That Mr. Montressor’s conduct toward his wife had long since crushed out all filial love for him was no secret, and consequently there was much speculation as to how he would fare at the hands of his daughter, who was known to be of much sterner mould than her mother.

During his absence, Katherine’s time was largely taken up by the painful duty of getting her mother’s things together, and with the

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aid of Mandy, her old negro nurse, packing them in the chests which had stood for many a year in the garrets of the Manor. The rings and smaller articles of value, she took to her own room and placed under lock and key. In going through an accumulation of old letters, she found a small package daintily tied with white ribbon and marked on the top in her mother’s handwriting “D. K., who died in India in 1874.” She opened the package and took from it a miniature, exquisitely painted and framed in a gold locket, after the old style.

It was a portrait of a man about thirty years of age, with regular features, dark eyes and a thick suit of brown hair. Katherine examined it closely. She wondered who the original could have been; she knew of no one in the family with those initials, and yet the face seemed strangely familiar. It was queer, she thought, that her mother, knowing how interested she was in all works of art, should never have shown this beautifully executed thing to her. She studied it a while, then turned it over, and found engraved on the back of the locket “To Mary Hollingsworth Faulkner, the only woman I ever loved.” She placed it back again in its box, with a sigh, and continued her work of straightening the desk. When she had about completed her task she turned to gather up some papers which she had put on the top of the dressing table beside her. In so doing, she caught a glimpse of her own features in the mirror. Again she ; took the miniature from its box and stood before the glass, glancing from the painting to her own reflection and vice versa.

Hearing the wheels of a carriage coming up the road which led to the house, she quickly placed the box and its contents in the desk. She then closed in the shutters quickly, gathered up her bundle of torn letters, locked the door and tip-toed back to her own room, j She had been there but a short time when a knock came on the door. On being bidden, ^ her old nurse entered. '

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“What is it, Mandy?’’ Katherine asked, seeing the old negress somewhat agitated and nervous, “a message from my father, I suppose?”

“Ya’s miss^ it are miss, he say he’s cum back, miss, an’ want to see you.”

“Oh, very well; you can tell him I’ll be down directly.”

“Miss Katherine, cawn’t you cum now? I’s skeered to go back. He seem powerful cross dis evenin’.”

Katherine could not help smiling at Handy’s terrified expression, but said nothing, for she never encouraged the slightest disrespect in the servants towards her father, and avoided as much as possible any scenes in their presence.

She quickly changed her gown and, leaving Mandy to straighten her room, went down to the library, to be as civil as possible under the circumstances.

Mr. Montressor was reclining in a large arm chair, smoking a cigar. He did not hear

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Katherine until she had passed well into the room, but seemed to be lost in thought, which, judging from his clouded brow, was not of the most agreeable nature. Becoming aware of her presence, he rose and advanced to meet her.

“I am glad to see you, Katherine,” he said with an attempt at an affectionate tone.

The girl drew back and inclined her head slightly.

*‘You sent for me,” she said coldly.

‘‘Yes,” he replied, motioning her to a chair as he spoke. “I have something to say to you, but before I do so, I would like to tell you that I am exceedingly sorry that I spoke to you as I did before leaving. The fact of the matter is, I was much worried at the time and spoke more harshly than I intended, and, too, }OU irritate me, Katherine; you do, indeed.”

“In what way?” she asked calmly.

“In many,” he replied. “You do not show me proper respect, nor do you ever seem to have the slightest regard for my wishes.”

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''And have you for mine?” she asked, looking straight into his evil, treacherous face. "When have you ever considered me in any possible way? What right have you, or has any parent, to bring children into the world and torture them as you do me? It is surely the father’s duty to make the daughter’s life, which he is responsible for, what it should be, at least so far as it is in his power to do so.”

"And is it not,” he broke in insinuatingly, "the duty of a daughter to honor and obey her father?”

"When the father merits such from the daughter, only,” the girl said bitterly. "When respect is commanded it is usually shown.”

"Well,” he said, curbing his rising anger, for he had a game to play, "we’ll let bygones be bygones, and see if there cannot be peace between us in the future. My reason for sending for you is this,” he continued after a short pause: before going to New York I stopped in town for a few hours, and there happened to run across Mr. Saunders, the lawyer, who

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you know was appointed by the court to administer on your mother’s estate. He tells me that it is necessary, before he can go any further, for you to sign a paper which he gave me. By so doing you will avoid any further delay and a great deal of trouble to yourself in the future.” He paused for a second or two; then continued carelessly, “you may sign or not, as suits you best. I am sure you will acquit me of any undue interest in the matter, as you well know I was not even mentioned in your grandfather’s will except in an insulting way, and that his entire property was left to your mother in trust for you.”

“What is the nature of the paper?” the girl asked suspiciously.

“None in particular,” he replied with affected carelessness. “It is merely a brief required by the court, yet necessary before further proceedings. Shall I read it to you?”

“I won’t trouble you,” she said stiffly, but if you will be so kind as to permit me I will read it for myself.”

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She sat for some moments eagerly scanning the paper, which, owing to its many legal phrases and purposely twisted ones, she could not understand.

“And why,^’ she asked, glancing up at him, “is your name mentioned here?”

“For a very obvious reason,” he replied, “which is this: the State supposes the husband and wife to hold an undivided interest in the property of one another. The paper which you hold in your hand is merely to show that the estate which has come to you was never your mother’s absolutely, but held by her in trust for you and in no way subject to my control. I do not wish,” he continued in a suave manner, “to influence you in the slightest against your judgment; you asked for information, I gave it.”

The lies he uttered came so quickly in response to her questions, and with so little hesitancy on his part, that she, weary and broken by grief as she was, and anxious to leave his presence, gave his words more credence than

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she would have otherwise done. She rose slowly as one in doubt, and reseated herself at his desk nearby.

"Where is the proper place for my name?’’ she asked, wearily.

""Fortunes are not taken care of without some trouble,” he said with an attempt at flippancy. ""I fear you will find yours more of a burden than you would suppose.” He then bent and indicated the information she desired with one long thin finger.

The girl made no reply, but hesitated for a moment, while she re-read the portion of the paper in which his name appeared. She then selected a pen with which to make herself a pauper, and give him — diabolical scoundrel that he was — the power to crush her, and to bring to the Manor the cause of his frequent visits to New York, and make her his wife or continue to keep her his mistress, as it best suited him.

As he stood behind her chair, awaiting anxiously the culmination of his infamous plot, his face took on an expression that was fiend-

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ish in the extreme. All the devil that was in him shone forth in his evil countenance at that moment.

Intent on his wickedness, and eager to get the paper into his possession, he stood with hawk-like eyes riveted on the place for her signature, and entirely unmindful of the position of the mirror which stood some fifteen feet in front of them.

The girl again hesitated, then reached for the ink which was some little distance away. As she did so she raised her eyes unsuspectingly. The pen dropped from her hand, and she rose to her feet.

“I hardly think I will sign this to-day,” she said calmly. 'T have no doubt the court will notify me when there is any business to be transacted. I will bid you good afternoon.”

As the curtains closed behind her, he threw himself down in his chair with a muttered oath. He was not a man to be thwarted in his schemes. Once determined on some devilish act he would go to any length to carry it

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through. He sat for some time until an idea struck him. Wheeling his chair around suddenly, without rising, he unlocked a drawer in the side of his desk. With shaking hands he fumbled through a lot of papers, and at length found the one he wanted, a copy of the will of the late Robert Faulkner. He then leaned back and read it four or five times from beginning to end. Again turning to the desk, he quickly wrote a short note. Calling one of the young negro men he gave it to him, with the orders to hitch up the fastest horse in the stable, and to take the note to town to Mr. Saunders, the lawyer, and bring that gentleman back as fast as the horse could come. By way of encouragement to have his orders strictly and promptly obeyed, he added, “If you are not back here in two hours, I will break every bone in your damned body; do you understand? Off with you, you black scoundrel.’*