Woman Without Love?

Front matter

Dark Ways and Women's Wiles … Bring these unusual characters into a romantic focus:

Madame Leota, who lost her youth in one evil hour, but gained worldly wisdom instead.

Steve Garland, the young poet who taught Leota tenderness—and passed on before tasting the fruits of love.

Chapter 1

Chapter I

Mary Blaine was born on a farm in Galvey, Illinois, but there was nothing in the simple occasion to foretell the lurid, over-colorful life that was to be hers. Even as a child she was in love with life. She liked to bathe nude in the golden ooze of Watson's Marsh. There was no one about to disturb her as she plunged like a slim golden dryad into the purling ooze. Although the water was golden it was neither fetid nor slimy. It laved her soft skin like an elixir of grandeur.

"Some day," she cried, "I shall bathe in a golden bath."

The wind alone heard her boasting and laughed back at her.

Mary Blaine was born to be loved, to be desired of men. She was as much out of place on that rustic farm as an orchid would be in a corn-field. Mary was a carefree child.

Her brother Templeton was ten years her senior and neighbors predicted that he would go far toward success. A boy with such a grand and glorious name as Templeton simply could not fail.

Mary was not particularly studious. Templeton was. He wanted to know everything. He devoured books. He had a legal mind. He liked to read about railroad management and the intricacies of banking. When Mary was old enough to reason for herself, she decided that Templeton had been born old. if he wasn't careful he'd die of old age before he was twenty-five. He seldom smiled, never played much with other children. The only thing that proved he was human was that he had an ungovernable temper and was ready for a fight at the slightest provocation. The battles were furious and they usually ended decisively. When Templeton Blaine licked another guy, that guy stayed licked.

When Mary was eight years old, Templeton won a scholarship for Harvard and after that she seldom saw him except for a while during summer vacations. But she never missed him. He was an old grouch in her opinion. She cared little for him. She wrote no letters to him, nor did he write to her. But he corresponded regularly with his father.

Mary was brilliant, though she gave so little time to study. She absorbed knowledge from watching the people about her. She loved crowds, parties, anything gay or festive. She adored boys and much of her time was spent roaming about the woods with them. She liked to be worshipped. She was handsome, slim, graceful, and her eyes were magnificent. Boys couldn't resist her. She laughed at their puppy-love antics. She couldn't take any of them seriously. She wanted a man.

She met her ideal when she was fourteen years old. His name was Whitman Manners. He was a salesman for a farm implement company. He was tall, with jet black hair and clear-cut features. Add to this an engaging smile, a charming manner of speaking, a ready wit, and there was nothing to be-wondered at that Mary succumbed to his charms. What she didn't know about him was that his whole life had been lived drifting from one woman to another, that he lacked the gift of continuance. He soon tired of every girl after she had become his sweetheart. Worse than that he was friendly with so many men of ill-repute that more than once he had escaped the clutches of the law only by a hair's breadth. As soon as he beheld Mary's slim form he desired her. She was tall for her age and could easily have passed for sixteen. That night he walked with her down one of the lonesome roads of Galvey.

His arm crept about her waist. "Mary," he said, "you are the loveliest thing I have ever beheld."

Then he kissed her. It was unlike any kiss she had ever known. No boy had ever kissed her like that. It left her breathless. She felt like crying. Again he kissed her. It was delicious, Sobbing, she clung to him. Gently he stroked her hair.

"I love you, Mary," he whispered. "Will you run away with me? We can be married in some nearby town. We must not tell your folks because you are so young they'd object to our wedding. Will you go with me, little sweetheart?"

"Of course I'll go," she murmured.

Mary was only fourteen and it is doubtful if she knew what love was. The first flush of passion that overcame her she mistook for love. But what matter? If it was only an illusion? Happiness always is an illusion.

The next night he left his horse and carriage down the road and waited for her. He smiled softly to himself as he thought of the delectable interlude that was in store for him. He drew his tongue over his dry lips. Then she came to him, slender, beautiful, breathless. Her eyes had never shone more brilliantly.

They drove for about fifteen miles and then stopped at a rustic hotel where Whitman Manners knew no questions were asked.

"My wife and I would like a large front room," declared Whitman, "if you have one vacant."

"I have a lovely one," replied the proprietor. "Southern exposure with windows on both sides."

Whitman laughed. "I doubt," said he, "if I'll have much time to look out of windows."

Mary had the grace to blush but she made no objection to sharing a room with him. She knew they couldn't be married in the middle of the night and anyway she was rather tired. It would be nice to sleep in his arms.

That night was a night of music, of beauty and dreams. Whitman Manners was a perfect lover. He was an adept in his chosen art. Always in after years when she had known sorrow, privation and much bitterness, Mary looked back on that night wistfully. She had known one perfect hour in an eternity of despair.

Not for a moment was she sorry that she had eloped. This was the man she loved. If need be she would follow him to the ends of the world. It was the love viewpoint of a girl not fifteen. To her eyes, Whitman was a Greek god. He was utterly perfect, without a single blemish.

In the morning after a late breakfast, they continued their journey. All day they drove, stopping occasionally to kiss a bit when they were on a particularly lonesome road. Several times they paused by the wayside for coffee and sandwiches. Neither of them was interested in a regular meal.

The second night was spent in a sinister house in a strange city. It was a house of shadows and wraiths, of dim lights and creeping footsteps. It gave Mary the shudders merely to enter it, but she was not really afraid because Whitman was with her and she knew she'd be safe anywhere as long as he was with her. Nevertheless she wondered why he had chosen such an uncanny house in which to room until he explained to her that the place was kept by an old friend of his who had often done him favors. "He'd feel hurt if I stopped anywhere else while I was in town."

They ate supper at a nearby restaurant. Mary had no appetite. The gloom of the house had settled over her. When they returned to their room she decided to retire at once. When she was under the coverlets, Whitman came and took her into his arms. He held her so close that he could feel her heart beating against his.

"Happy?" he asked softly.

"Very happy," she whispered. There were tears in her eyes. She hoped he wouldn't notice them. For the first time she wondered what her father and mother were doing on the farm at that moment. Just the slightest suggestion of homesickness was creeping over her.

Why should there be stealthy footsteps always passing up and down the stairs? Why should the house be full of whispers? She wished Whitman had not turned out the gas. She imagined that the room was haunted. Once she heard the sound of laughter. Again she heard the loud voice of a man. This house was owned by one of Whitman's best friends. Yet she had met no one therein who seemed at all friendly. She was mortally afraid. Cold perspiration dampened her forehead. She wished Whitman had not gone to sleep so quickly. But she knew he was asleep because he was snoring sonorously. Finally from sheer exhaustion her eyes closed.

How long she slept she neither knew nor cared. But suddenly she was awakened with a frightened start. She listened intently but she could hear no sound. From beside her on the pillow she could hear the sound of breathing. But Whitman had ceased to snore.

For awhile she lay gazing in abject terror into the darkness. Still everything was silent. There was not a sound except his steady breathing. There was nothing to be alarmed about. She was succumbing to nerves. She must have been dreaming.

And then two arms touched her. She made no resistance. It was good to be loved.

"I didn't know," she said, "that you were awake."

"Ssh!" said he.

It was rather fun, she thought, to be loved in the darkness. But somehow in the blackness love seemed different. Now Whitman was not so gentle, but then it was the second night and she was more experienced. Still, she wondered why there was no beauty this time in their interlude of rapture.

She longed for him to desist so that she could quietly sob herself to sleep. She longed to be back in her own house, in her own room where she could be alone.

Then her hands came in contact with the man's arms, great hairy arms almost like those of a gorilla. She emitted a shriek of terror. Those arms did not belong to Whitman. He had vanished and she was in the arms of a monster, a cruel, merciless monster. With super-human effort she pushed him from her. She sprang from the bed and groped about in the blackness. Heavy curtains had been drawn over the windows so not the faintest vestige of moonlight flickered into the room. As she cowered in a corner she felt as though the room was filled with hands, the hands of hairy monsters. Once she came in contact with groping fingers but she drew back and was able to evade them. Then at last she heard the door close and the sound of footsteps going down the stairs. She walked across the room, feeling about in the velvet black for the door. She found it but the key had been removed. There was no possibility of locking it. She wondered what had happened to Whitman. Perhaps something dreadful. She decided she would go in search of him. She did not pause even to throw a kimono about her shoulders. All she could think of was to get away from that vile room. But when she attempted to open the door she could not. It had been locked from the outside.

Now was she in a frightful predicament, a prisoner in that sinister house of whispers and endless footsteps. In her mind all was confusion, chaos. Her head was burning but her body was cold. Where was Whitman? Had he been murdered?

Oh, that terrible blackness! It seemed to bear down upon her like lead. It seemed to be crushing her. She could scarcely breathe. She must have light! Frantically she searched about until she found a match. As she struck it and lighted the gas, she breathed more easily. She had more than half suspected that the gas wouldn't work. That she would have to remain in darkness. But at least that thought was groundless. It was far easier to think clearly when she had light. She turned toward the corner window. She would sit down and rest. Then abruptly she paused—for seated in the chair was a huge giant of a man.

"Hello, sister," he said airily, "looking for somebody?"

"Yes," she managed to gasp, "my husband."

"You mean Whitman Manners?"

"Yes," she said.

He laughed softly as he drew a large cigar from his pocket and very deliberately lighted it.

"Lady," he drawled finally, "Whitman Manners was no husband of yours."

"Of course he wasn't—exactly," she faltered, "but we were to be married as soon as we could find a minister."

"The lad has a droll sense of humor," chuckled the man. "Think not unkindly of him. He already has one wife but that does not prevent him from going off occasionally on honeymoons. Boldly speaking he is hired by my associates to secure girls for various enterprises. Our girls make lots of money if they are wise and prudent. They are made equal partners and have equal share of the profits. Of course if they are rebellious we have to use stern tactics."

"And Whitman brought me here, knowing that?" She scarcely could believe it.

"Worse than that," said the man curtly. "He sold you to me and you can't leave this house until you've paid back the money you've cost me. You needn't bother thinking about Whitman any more. He has gone away and you will perhaps never meet him again. Incidentally Whitman isn't his right name. He uses it solely for professional purposes."

Mary Blaine sank down upon the bed. She had to think. Her world had come tumbling about her head. She had to rebuild it anew, rebuild it quickly else she might perish. She knew that there was no use to beg for mercy. In a house like this there would be no mercy. If she struggled she would be shown every indignity. If she seemed to be compliant, before long they might relax their vigil and it would be possible for her to escape. Fortunately she had always cared a great deal for men, not of course under such obnoxious conditions. Still it made it easier for her than if men had been repulsive to her.

At last she lifted her head and she was smiling. "What the hell," she said. "I didn't give a damn for Whitman anyway. I only went away with him because I wanted a good time. I was sick of the humdrum existence I had to live on the farm."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," the man declared, "because it is going to make your future a whole lot easier. You'll enjoy yourself. Lots of good food and you won't have a dull moment."

He arose to his feet. "My name," he said, "is John Rott. It is a God-awful name. I think it has ruined my life. With such a name I was cursed at birth. Had it not been for it, I might have turned out a poet. But one can't be a poet and have a name like John Rott. Everybody would say you wrote rotten poetry. But I was highly romantic, and even though I couldn't devote my life to love poems, I did devote them to love nights. Now I'll go down and have some food sent up to you. Are you hungry?"

"Not so very," she told him. "I hardly ever eat much in the morning. Just some toast and coffee and a bit of marmalade if you have it."

"You ought to eat more robust food than that," he chuckled. "You've got strenuous days ahead of you."

When John Rott had gone, Mary Blaine sat down on the bed. She was very bitter with life. What was the use of being good? She had never done a mean act in her life. What had it got her? What had Christ done for her? He had kicked her out of Heaven. Now she was headed for Hell. At least there she'd be more welcome.

She had a passionate, fiery nature. She was capable of the deepest hatred, and of tremendous love. She had a strange, wild appeal for men. They couldn't resist her. She decided that she would make a deliberate play for John Rott and when she had him under her control, she would make his life rottener than ever.

Some day, she decided, she would find Whitman Manners, and when she did she'd kill him. Wild and tumultuous were her thoughts. She did not cry. She did not pray. If she showed weakness she would be ground in the mills of the gods.

Chapter 2

Chapter II

The days that followed were like a hideous dream. An endless procession of men, a nightmare of misery. Mary scarcely knew how she lived through those awful hours. But the human body is a strange machine. In time it can adapt itself to almost anything.

But the soul, unlike the body, cannot be altered so easily. Under certain conditions it is best that it be destroyed. Memory is a curse, regret is a sharp knife turning about in an open wound.

Mary tried hard not to think of the past. She dreaded equally to peer into the future. Whenever she was free she read books, endlessly. When she was absorbed in a story at least her mind was not upon herself.

Half of everything she earned was turned over to her, less charges for her room and board and for clothes and other incidental things that she ordered. She could send out for anything she wished but she was not allowed to leave the house. She was a love-slave in a house where there was ho love. And for everything she needed she was overcharged outrageously.

But Mary made no complaint, nor did John Rott complain about her. She was attractive to men. She had many lovers. She was a competent actress. She received a great many tips

from men which she hid and gloated over in secret like a miser. She wanted money, lots of money, and she wanted power.

She decided the best way to get it was to be friendly with John Rott. He was not particularly good-looking; there was a crafty look about him. He distrusted everyone and most people distrusted him, but in the underworld of the town he was a power. In political circles, too, he was not without influence. So his place was never molested.

Mary was always smiling, always friendly when he came to her. She always had a joke to tell or a bit of scandalous gossip. She knew that he enjoyed such tales.

"If there were more girls like you," he declared, "this world would be a helluva lot nicer place to live in."

"But," she pouted, "if there were more girls like me, perhaps nobody would bother looking at me at all."

"Say, girlie," he cried, "with your eyes and figure you could get by anywhere. In my time a thousand girls have passed through my life and never have I known one that aroused my interest to such an extent. I've never met a damn one whose body was more like creamy velvet. How'd you like to go off with me some night in my carriage and have dinner somewhere?"

"But what would my customers do?" she asked curtly.

"Hell with them!" he exclaimed. "I'm your best customer and besides I own you. Nobody is going to tell me what I can do with my own property."

She was on the verge of saying that she doubted if he could prove legal ownership. But she decided not to. No use arousing his suspicions. Instead she only looked at him and smiled. With a cry he sprang toward her.

"You're, a devil-girl," he panted, "and that dinner I spoke of must take place tonight."

She could not answer because his great lips were pressed against hers. She was busy thinking of a possible chance of escape tonight. She decided that she would take all her money with her.

No matter what happened she determined she would never return to that sinister house. She hated everything about it, the whispers, the constant traffic in the halls, the vile men who frequented it. Even the other girls who roomed at the house were unfriendly. There were four of them, uninteresting, spiteful, with hardly any personality. They all looked alike and acted alike. They were multigraphed copies of an average street lady. They took coke and walked about as though in dreams. For the most part, Mary remained in her own room reading or scheming.

One of the first things she had done on entering her new life was to change her name. She chose a fancy name because it was appropriate to her calling. Louella Leota. It was a pretty name. It appealed to men. Mary Blaine was dead. She would never be resurrected. In her place was Louella Leota, who was born old, a schemer, a treacherous charmer of men.

That night she and John Rott ate at a roadhouse many miles from the shadows and wraiths of that house. Rott had a handsome team of horses. They were thoroughbreds and he drove them himself. He was pleased at the fine appearance the carriage made as it rolled through the streets. No wonder people turned to stare at them. He was dressed flashily in a Prince Albert coat, a large blue cravanette ulster, and in his buttonhole was a red rose.

Louella Leota, sitting beside him, had never looked more beautiful. She was quietly dressed in a brown suit and a small bonnet-like hat. It was an artful ensemble, for it gave to her a demure air which was simply stunning. Men could not turn their eyes away from her and John Rott was justly proud. He would perhaps have felt rather differently had he known that she had all her money hidden about her person. This night was to be a farewell party.

"We're going to have a great time," he said.

"I hope so," she told him. "It's an absolute novelty to me. You see it is a long time since I've been out."

"From now on we'll go out together often."

She smiled. "You almost make it sound as though we're a couple of city lights."

"We are," he declared.

"Yes," she said a trifle bitterly, "red lights."

He did not notice her odd tone or he might have suspected that Louella Leota was not as entirely reconciled to her new life as she pretended to be. Although John Rott was famous for his caution, which was a necessity in his nefarious business, he acted solely from impulse with Louella. Desire made him blind. Never had a woman so affected him, though he dealt in women. They were his stock in trade. He was a prosperous merchant who had suddenly grown to love one of the objets d'art which he kept for sale.

Rott had ordered dinner to be served in a small private dining room on the second floor of the Inn. "Here we can be alone," he said, "and if we desire a bit of affection, there is no one to be dismayed. I'll have the waiter bring everything at once and then I'll tell him to keep away until I ring."

"That'll be fine," said she, "and I can wait on you exactly as though I were your wife, serving supper to you in our own home."

"Hell, I'm glad I brought you here!" he cried. "You're a grand girl. I was a damn fool to share you with anybody. I should have kept you for myself."

"Is it too late to change?" she asked demurely.

Not till the waiter had deposited all the food on the sideboard did he even kiss her. Then when the man had gone, John Rott seized Mary in his arms and kissed her passionately.

"God, I never loved you more!" he muttered.

For a moment she permitted him to kiss her at will. Then she pushed him gently away. "The soup will be getting cold," she said.

"Hell with the soup!"

"Hell would warm it."

"I'm crazy about you."

"I'm crazy about food. I'm starving."

"And I'm starving for love."

"Why not save the love for dessert?" "You belong to me! And what I want I take."

Mary laughed softly. "That's cheaper than buying it," she said. "Cave man stuff is very appealing. I don't object to such tactics as long as I don't cave in."

"You mean you'll do what I want?" he asked eagerly.

"Certainly, why not? What right have I to complain? Now go over there and lie on the couch. Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them. I want to surprise you."

As she spoke she kissed him fervently.

John Rott turned the key in the door but he did not withdraw it from the lock. Then he stretched himself at full length on the couch.

"If the dinner gets cold," he said, "we can order another one. There isn't any reason to hurry."

"No peeking," she said.

"I won't," he told her. "I want it to be a complete surprise." Had John Rott been able to see the cruel gleam in her eyes and the nasty expression on her face he would not have been so trusting. In one thing they were much akin. They were both on fire. He was burning with desire; she was burning with hatred. Suddenly she seized a large iron poker which stood beside the open hearth. She raised it high in the air and crashed it down on his forehead with all her strength. This rat had made a prostitute of her. Now he meant to make her his personal slave. He wasn't fit to live.

John Rott did not move. Blood was trickling down his face as Mary bent over him. From his pocket she drew a roll of bills. She would need lots of money now. It was no worse to rob him of his money than it had been for him to rob her of her decency and her self-respect. She deliberately drew the bills from the wallet and then tossed the empty case back into his face.

Then on tip-toe she walked across the room and unlocked the door. Near at hand was a flight of stairs that led directly to a side entrance. The roadhouse was a shady resort and it was so constructed that guests, wanting to, could escape quite easily. She still had on her hat and she had not even taken off her coat. In a few moments she was outside the house.

Then the full horror of what she had done dawned upon her. She had perhaps killed a man! True John Rott needed killing, but if they caught her she might be hanged. In a panic she commenced to run. She imagined that she was being pursued, but no one had noticed her leaving the house. She was quite alone. Yet she continued to run onward until she was exhausted. Her own conscience was as bad as any pursuer.

At last from sheer exhaustion she fell in a heap by the roadside. Her heart was pounding terrifically. It was painful for her to breathe. She suddenly felt very young and helpless. She longed to be home. She wanted to be held in the sheltering arms of her mother.

She buried her face in her arms and commenced to sob' It was the best way to relieve her pent-up feelings. She had escaped from nauseous captivity. But was she free? Might she not be recaptured before the night was over?

As the thought came to her, she rose to her feet. She must push on. But she no longer ran. She was too exhausted.

It was a moonlight night. The moon was at the full and it was almost as light as day as she walked along the white dry dirt road. On each side of the road the bushes and trees loomed up in grotesque forms like animals or uncanny monsters from fairy tales. She shuddered. If only she were not alone.

Then she was aware she was not alone. A man was walking beside her.

"Hello, sister," he said. "You certainly are choosing a late hour for walking."

His voice was cheerful and she was glad. After the first shock of his presence, she knew he was not one of the men from the roadhouse. His manner was much too easy and gentle. He gave no evidence of having been running, nor did he show the slightest trace of excitement.

"I've had a hideous experience," she told him frankly. "A man was attempting to abduct me, but I was able to make my escape."

"Where are you going now?"

"I don't know. To tell you the truth, I'm lost. I haven't the slightest idea where I am. All I know is that Eve been running and I am apparently not being followed."

The man smiled.

"My house is not far from here," he said. "Would you like to go there to rest?"

"Yes," she said slowly, "if it wouldn't be putting you to any bother. My mind is dreadfully upset."

"It naturally would be."

"I'd like to rest awhile. Perhaps then I could think more clearly."

"You come with me," he said, "and I'll make some coffee. That'll brace you up. Or if you'd prefer something stronger, I have that, too."

"Thank you," she said, "but the coffee will do."

"My house is only a stone's throw from here and we'll be there in no time."

Later as she sat opposite him at the table, sipping coffee and eating a cold roast beef sandwich, she decided that at last Providence had seen fit to be kind to her. It was a belated friendliness but nevertheless she was appreciative. Her companion was a talkative individual. His name was Ed Trine, he said, and he wrote stories and poetry for magazines when they would take them. He meant some day to do justice to his superb talent and write interviews with other great people.