She was not dead. He realized it when he bent over her
She was not dead. He realized it when he bent over her
Nevertheless, he still protested that it was absurd, that the affair was over. Even if there were no Wynford, he knew that she would never change her mind; and, then, there was Wynford. Even now he was sitting beside her only because her eyes were sightless, because she herself was away. When she came back, it would be trespass to remain. He was in another’s place. It was Wynford who ought to have found her.
If he could have stolen away he wouldhave done so. But that being impossible, he fell to watching her as if she were not herself, but a room that she had once lived in—a room that he too had known, that was delightful with associations and fragrant with faint memory-stirring perfumes. And yet, though the tenant seemed to be away, was it not after all her very self that was before him? There was the treasure of her brown hair, with the gold light in it, tumbled in heaps about her head; there was the face that had been for him the loveliness of early morning in gardens, that had haunted him in the summer perfume of clover-fields and in the fragrance of night-wrapped lawns. There was the slim, rounded figure that once had brought the blood into his face as it brushed against him. There were the hands whose touch was so smooth and cool and strong. Presently he found himself wiping the mud from her cheek as if he were enacting a ritual over some holy thing. He looked around. No human being was in sight. The afternoon sun shone mildly. In the hedgerow some littlebirds twittered pleasantly, and sang their private little songs.
Suddenly she opened her eyes. She looked up at him, knew him, and smiled.
“Hello, Carty,” she said in her low, vibrant tones. A thrill ran through him. It was the way it used to be.
“You’ve had a bad fall,” he said. “How do you feel?”
A little laugh came into her eyes. “How do I look?” she murmured.
“You’re coming out all right,” he said; “but you mustn’t talk just yet.”
“If I want to,” she said slowly. Her eyes laughed again. “If I want to, I’ll talk.”
“No,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Hear him boss!” she murmured. She looked up at him for a moment, and then her eyes closed. But it was not the same. The lashes lay more lightly, and a tinge of color had come into her cheeks. He sat and watched her, his mind a confusion, a great gladness in his heart.
In a little while she opened her eyes as before. “Hello, Carty,” she began, butMr. Carteret’s attention was attracted by the sound of wheels in the lane. He saw an old pha\EBton, driven by a farmer, coming toward them.
The man saw him, and stopped. “Is this the place where a lady was hurt?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Mr. Carteret. “How did you know?”
“A boy told me,” said the farmer.
“I see,” said Mr. Carteret.
At first she was independent and persisted in walking to the trap by herself. But as they drove off, she began to sway, and caught herself on his arm. After a moment she looked at him helplessly; a little smile shone in her eyes and curved the corners of her mouth. At the next jolt her head settled peacefully upon his shoulder. Her eyes closed. She seemed to be asleep.
They drove on at a walk, the led horses following. The shadows lengthened, the gold light of the afternoon grew more golden. They passed through the ancient village of Tibberton and heard the rookscalling in the parsonage trees. They passed through Normanhurst Park, under oaks that may have sheltered Robin Hood, and the rooks were calling there. In the silent stretches of the road they heard the first thrushes and the evening singing of the warblers. And every living thing, bird, tree, and grass, bore witness that it was spring.
For two hours Mr. Carteret hardly breathed. He was riding in the silver bubble of a dream; a breath, and it might be gone. At the Abbey, perforce, there was an end of it. He roused her quietly, and she responded. She was able to walk up the steps on his arm, and stood till the bell was answered. When he left her in the confusion inside she gave him her hand. It had the same cool, smooth touch as of old, but its strength was gone. It lay in his hand passive till he released it. “Good night,” he said, and hurrying out, he mounted his horse and rode away. He passed some people coming back from hunting, and they seemed vague and unreal. He seemed unreal himself. Healmost doubted if the whole thing were not illusion; but on the shoulder of his scarlet coat clung a thread that glistened as the evening sun fell upon it, and a fragrance that went into his blood like some celestial essence.
When he got home, the afterglow was dying in the west. The rooks were hushed, the night was already falling, and the lamps were lit. As he passed through his hallway, there came the touch of a cold nose and the one little lick upon his hand. “Get down, Penwiper,” he said unthinkingly, and went on.
That week, before they let her see people, Mr. Carteret lived in a world that had only its outward circumstances in the world where others lived. He made no attempt to explain it or to justify it or yet to leave it. Several of his friends noticed the change in him, and ascribed it to the vague abstraction of biliousness.
It was a raw Sunday afternoon and he was standing before the fire in the Abbey library, when Miss Rivers came noiselessly, unexpectedly, in. Mrs. Ascott-Smith,who was playing piquet with the Major, started up in surprise. Miss Rivers had been ordered not to leave her room till the next day.
“But I’m perfectly well,” said the girl; “I couldn’t stand it any longer. They wouldn’t so much as tell me the day of the month.” Then for the first time she saw Mr. Carteret. “Why, Carty!” she exclaimed. “How nice it is to see you!”
“Thank you,” he answered. Their eyes met, and he felt his heart beating. As for Miss Rivers, she flushed, dropped her eyes, and turned to Mrs. Ascott-Smith.
“My dear young lady,” said the Major, impressively, as he glanced through his cards, “it is highly imprudent of you to disobey the doctor. Always obey the doctor. I once knew a charming young lady—”
“I hope I’m not rude,” she interrupted, “but I might as well die of concussion as die of being bored.”
“But you had such a very bad toss, my dear,” said Mrs. Ascott-Smith.
“What one doesn’t remember, doesn’ttrouble one,” observed the girl. “In a sense it hasn’t happened.” She paused and then went on with a carelessness that was a little overdone: “What did happen, anyway? The usual things, I fancy? I suppose somebody picked me up and brought me home.”
Mr. Carteret’s face was a mask.
“But you remember that!” exclaimed Mrs. Ascott-Smith.
“I don’t remember anything,” said Miss Rivers, “until one evening I woke up in bed and heard the rooks calling in the park.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Ascott-Smith, “you said good-by to him in the hallway, and thanked him, and then you walked up-stairs with a footman at your elbow.”
“That is very strange,” said Miss Rivers. “Idon’tremember. Who was it that I said good-by to? Whom did I thank?”
Mr. Carteret walked toward the window as if he were watching the pheasant that was strutting across the lawn.
Mrs. Ascott-Smith folded her cards in her hand and looked at the girl inamazement. “Mr. Carteret found you in a field,” she said, “not far from Crumpelow Hill and brought you home. You said good-by to him.”
At the mention of Mr. Carteret’s name the girl’s hand felt for the back of a chair, as if to steady herself. Then, as the color rushed into her face, aware of it, she stepped back into the shadow. Mrs. Ascott-Smith continued to gaze. Presently Miss Rivers turned to Mr. Carteret. “This is a surprise to me,” she said in a voice like ice. “How much I am in your debt, you better than any one can understand.”
He turned as if a blow had struck him, and looked at her. Her eyes met his unflinchingly, colder than her words, withering with resentment and contempt. Mrs. Ascott-Smith opened her cards again and began to count: “Tierce to the king and a point of five,” she muttered vaguely. Her mind and the side glance of her eyes were upon the girl and the young man. What did it mean? “A point of five,” she repeated.
Mr. Carteret hesitated a moment; he feared to trust his voice. Then he gathered himself and bowed to Mrs. Ascott-Smith. “I have people coming to tea; I must be off. Good night.” His impulse was to pass the girl with the formality of a bow, but he checked it. With an effort he stopped. “Good night,” he said and put out his hand. Her eyes met his without a glimmer of expression. She was looking through him into nothing. His hand dropped to his side. His face grew white. He went on and out. As the door closed behind him he heard Mrs. Ascott-Smith counting for the third time, “Tierce to the king, and a point of five.”
He reached his house. In his own hallway he was giving orders that he was not at home when he felt the cold nose and the one little lick, and looking down, he saw the sad eyes fixed upon his. He went down the passageway to the smoking-room, and the patter of following feet was at his heels. He closed the door, dropped into a chair, gave a nod of assent, and Penwiper jumped into his arms.
When he could think, he constructed many explanations for the mystery of her behavior, and dismissed them successively because they did not explain. Why she should resent so bitterly his having brought her home was inexplicable on any other ground than that she was still out of her head. He would insist upon an explanation, but, after all, what difference could it make? Whatever reason there might be, the important fact was that she had acted as she had. That was the only fact which mattered. Her greeting of him when she first opened her eyes, the drive home, the parting in the hallway, were all things that had never happened for her. For him they were only dreams. He must force them out into the dim region of forgotten things.
On the next Tuesday he saw her at the meet—came upon her squarely, so that there was no escaping. She was pale and sick-looking, and was driving herself in a pony trap. He lifted his hat, but she turned away. After he had ridden by, he turned back and, stopping just behindher, slipped off his horse. “Sally,” he said, “I want to speak to you.”
She looked around with a start. “I should prefer not,” she answered.
“You must,” he said. “I have a right—”
“Do you talk to me about your right?” she said. Her gray eyes flashed.
He met her anger steadily. “I do,” he replied. “You can’t treat me in this way.”
“How else do you deserve to be treated?” she demanded fiercely.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“You know what I mean,” she retorted. “You know what you did.”
“What I did!” he exclaimed. “What have I done?”
“Why do you act this way, Carty?” she said wearily. “Why do you make matters worse?”
He looked at her in perplexity. “Don’t you believe me,” he said, “when I tell you that I don’t know what you mean?”
“How can I believe you,” sheanswered, “when I have the proof that you do?”
“The proof?” he echoed. “What proof?”
His blank surprise shook her confidence for an instant. “You know well enough,” she said. “You forgot to put back the violet.”
“The violet?” he repeated. “In Heaven’s name what are you talking about?”
She studied his face. Again her conviction was shaken, and she trembled in spite of herself. But she saw no other way. “I can’t believe you,” she said sadly.
He made no answer, but a change came over his face. His patience had gone. His anger was kindling. It began to frighten her. She summoned her will and made an effort to hold her ground. “Will you swear,” she said—“will you swear you didn’t open the locket?”
Still he made no reply.
“Nor shut it?” she went on. She was pleading now.
“Sally,” he said in a strange voice, “I neither opened nor closed nor saw a locket. What has a locket to do with this?”
She looked at him blankly in terror, for suddenly she knew that he was speaking the truth. “Then what has happened?” she murmured.
“You must tell that,” he said.
“I only know this,” she began: “I wore a locket the day of the accident. There was a pressed flower in it.” The color began to rise in her cheeks again. “When I came to, the flower was gone, so I knew the locket had been opened.”
For a moment he was speechless. “And you treat me as you have,” he cried, “on the suspicion of my opening this locket!”
She made no answer.
He laughed harshly. “You think of me as a man who would open your locket!”
Still she made no answer.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “O Sally! Sally!” he exclaimed.
“There are things on my side!” she saidprotestingly at last. “You can’t understand because you don’t know what was in the locket.”
“I could guess,” he said.
She went on, ignoring his remark: “And you have no explanation as to how it was opened and closed again. What am I to think?”
“Sally,” he said more gently, “isn’t it possible that the locket was shaken open when you fell and that the people who put you to bed closed it?”
“My maid put me to bed,” said the girl; “she says the locket when she saw it was closed.”
“Then perhaps the flower was lost before, and you had forgotten,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “No,” she answered, “the maid found the flower when she undressed me. She gave it to me when I came to. That is how my attention was called to it.”
“Then strange as it seems,” he said calmly, “the thing must have jarred open, the flower dropped out, and the locketshut again of itself. There is no other way.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“Perhaps!” he repeated. “What other way could there have been?”
“There couldn’t have been any other way,” she assented, “if you say you didn’t see it when you loosened my habit.”
He looked at her in amazement. “Loosened your habit?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said; “you loosened my habit when I was hurt.”
“No,” he answered.
“Do you mean to say,” she demanded, “that you didn’t loosen and cut things?”
“Most certainly not,” he replied.
“But, Carty,” she exclaimed, “some one did! Who was it?”
Just then Lady Martingale rode up to inquire how Miss Rivers was recovering, and Mr. Carteret mounted and rode away. The hounds were starting off to draw Brinkwater gorse, but he rode in the opposite direction toward Crumpelow Hill. There he found the farmer who had brought them home. Through him hefound the boy who had summoned the farmer, and from the boy, as he had hoped, he discovered a clew. And then he fell to wondering why he was so bent upon clearing the matter up. At most it could only put him where he was before the day of the accident. It could not make that drive home real or make what she had said that afternoon her utterance. She would acquit him of prying into her affairs, but beyond that there was nothing to hope. Everything that he had recently learned strengthened his conviction that she was going to marry Wynford. It was a certainty. Nevertheless, from Crumpelow Hill he rode toward the Abbey.
It was nearly four o’clock when Miss Rivers came in. He rose and bowed with a playful, exaggerated ceremony. “I have come,” he began, in a studiedly light key, “because I have solved the mystery.”
“I am glad you have come,” she said.
“It is simple,” he went on. “Another man picked you up, and put you where I found you. Your breathing must havebeen bad, and he loosened your clothes. Probably the locket had flown open and he shut it. Then he went after a trap. Why he did not come back, I don’t know.”
“But I do,” said Miss Rivers.
He looked at her warily, suspecting a trap for the man’s name. He preferred not to mention that.
“I know,” she went on, “because he has told me. He did come back part way—till he saw that you were with me.”
Mr. Carteret looked at her in surprise.
“More than that,” she went on, “the locket had jarred open and he saw what was in it and closed it. Perhaps that was why he went away. Anyway, after thinking about it, he decided that it was best to tell me. If he had only done so before!”
“I see,” said Mr. Carteret. He did not see at all, but it was a matter about which he felt that he could not ask questions.
“You know,” she said, after a pause, “that the man was Captain Wynford.”
“Yes,” he answered shortly. His tone changed. “Wynford is a good man—a good man,” he said awkwardly. “I can congratulate you both honestly.” He paused. “Well, I must go,” he went on. “I’m glad things are right again all round. Good-by.” He crossed to the door, and she stood watching him. She had grown very pale.
“Carty,” she said suddenly, in a dry voice, “I’m not acting well.”
He looked back perplexed, but in a moment he understood. She evidently felt that she ought to tell him outright that she was going to marry Wynford.
“In treating you as I did,” she finished, “in judging you—”
“You were hasty,” he said, “but I can understand.”
She shook her head. “You can’t understand if you think that there was only a flower in the locket.”
“Perhaps I have guessed already that there was a picture,” he said—“a picture that was not for my eyes.”
She looked at him gravely. “No,” shesaid, “you haven’t guessed. I don’t think you’ve guessed; and when I think how I misjudged you, how harsh I was, I want you to see it. It is almost your right to see it.” Her hand went to her throat, but he shook his head.
“It pleases me,” he said, “to be made a confidant, but I take the will for the deed. If there is anything more you might wish that I should say, imagine that I have said it—congratulations, good wishes, and that sort of thing; you understand.”
He had reached the door, but again she called him back. She paused, with her hand on the piano, and struggled for her words. “Carty,” she said, “once I told you that it was all off, that I never could marry you—that I should never marry any one. You’re glad now, aren’t you? You see it is best?”
“Would it make you happier if I said so?” he replied.
“I want to know the truth,” she said.
“I am afraid the truth would only hurt you,” he answered.
“I want the truth,” she said again.
“It is soon told,” he said; “there is nothing new to tell.”
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
“Isn’t it clear?” he answered. “Do you want to bring up the past?”
“You love me?” she asked. He could hardly hear, her voice trembled so.
He made no answer, but bowed his head.
When she saw, she turned, and, throwing her arms along the piano, hid her face, and in a moment he heard her crying softly.
He paused uncertainly, then he went to her. “Sally,” he said.
She lifted her head. She was crying still, but with a great light of happiness in her face. “There is no Captain Wynford,” she sobbed. “If you had looked in the locket—” A laugh flashed in her eyes.
And then he understood.
They were standing close together in the mullioned window where three hundred years before a man standing on thelawn outside had scrawled with a diamond on one of the little panes:
If woman seen thro’ crystal did appereOne half so loving as her face is fair
If woman seen thro’ crystal did appereOne half so loving as her face is fair
If woman seen thro’ crystal did appereOne half so loving as her face is fair
If woman seen thro’ crystal did appere
One half so loving as her face is fair
And a woman standing inside had written the answering lines:
Were woman seen thro’, as the crystal pane,Then some might ask, nor long time ask in ——
Were woman seen thro’, as the crystal pane,Then some might ask, nor long time ask in ——
Were woman seen thro’, as the crystal pane,Then some might ask, nor long time ask in ——
Were woman seen thro’, as the crystal pane,
Then some might ask, nor long time ask in ——
The rhyme word was indicated by a dash, but neither the tracings of those dead hands, nor the ancient lawns, nor the oaks that had been witness, did these two see. When many things had been said, she opened the locket.
“You must look now.”
“I will,” he said. As he looked, his eyes grew misty. “Both of us?” he whispered.
“Both of you!” she answered. And it was so, for in the corner of the picture was Penwiper.
THE CASE OF THE EVANSTONS
Carty Carteret went into the club one June afternoon with the expectation of finding Braybrooke there, and selling him a horse. Braybrooke was not in the club, but Mr. Carteret came upon three men sitting in the bow-window. They had their backs to the avenue, and were apparently absorbed in discussion. As he approached, Van Cortlandt, who was speaking, glanced up and stopped. At the same moment Mr. Carteret drew back. They were not men with whom he cared to assume the familiarity of intrusion.
“Sit down, Carty,” said Shaw. Mr. Carteret hesitated, and Shaw rose and drew another chair into the circle. “Go on with the story,” he said to Van Cortlandt.
“I dare say Carty has heard it,”observed Van Cortlandt, apologetically, as he was about to resume his narrative; “he’s a pal of Ned’s.”
Mr. Carteret looked at him inquiringly.
“I was telling them about the Evanston affair,” said Van Cortlandt.
Mr. Carteret opened his cigarette-case and took out a cigarette. “What is the Evanston affair?” he said shortly. He was more interested than he cared to show.
“They’ve caught Ned Palfrey,” said Crowninshield, with a laugh. Mr. Carteret turned to Van Cortlandt. “What do you mean?” he said.
“It’s a fact,” said Van Cortlandt. “It seems that last Thursday Frank Evanston came home unexpectedly, and found Ned there. Exactly what happened no one knows, but the story is that the gardener and a footman threw Neddie out of the house and into the fountain.” Mr. Carteret threw away his cigarette, and straightened himself in his chair.
“And they say,” observed Crowninshield, “that his last words were, ‘Comeon in, Frank; the water’s fine.’” There was a general laugh in which Mr. Carteret did not join.
“Is that all?” he asked.
“That’s the cream of it,” replied Van Cortlandt. “The rest is purely conventional—separation and divorce proceedings.”
“That’s an interesting story,” said Mr. Carteret, calmly, “but untrue.”
“How do you know?” said Shaw.
“Because,” he answered, “on Thursday, Ned Palfrey was at my house in the country.”
“Dates are immaterial,” said Crowninshield. “Very likely it was Wednesday or Friday.”
“I say,” said Van Cortlandt, “I’ll bet you even, Crowny, it was Friday as against Wednesday.”
“I’ll take that,” said Crowninshield; “but how shall we settle it?”
“Leave it to Ned,” said Van Cortlandt. There was another laugh.
“In the second place,” continued Mr. Carteret, disregarding the interruption,“I know for a fact that last evening the Evanstons were still living together in the country.”
“Well, I know there is going to be a divorce,” said Van Cortlandt. “I got that from a member of Emerson Whittlesea’s firm, and he’s Evanston’s lawyer.”
“A lawyer who would tell a thing like that ought to be disbarred,” said Mr. Carteret. “If I could find out who it is, I should try to have it done.”
“Why?” said Crowninshield.
“Because the three people concerned in the story that he has furnished a foundation for, are my friends.”
“So they are his,” said Van Cortlandt; “so they are ours. That’s what makes it interesting. What’s the use of friends,” he went on, “if you can’t enjoy their domestic difficulties?”
Mr. Carteret rose. “That is a matter of opinion,” he said stiffly.
“Well,” retorted Van Cortlandt, “there’s nothing one can do about it.”
“Have you ever tried?” said Mr. Carteret.
“Have you?” said Van Cortlandt.
Mr. Carteret made no reply. He turned on his heel and left the room. Half-suppressed laughter followed him into the hall, and he went on to the billiard room to “cool out,” as he expressed it. He was very angry. He paced several times to and fro beside the pool-table; then, with a sudden determination, he walked rapidly out of the club and got into his motor.
“Go to Mr. Palfrey’s,” he said to the chauffeur. “Hurry.” A few blocks up the avenue the car drew up to the curb, and he got out. He crossed the sidewalk, and disappeared into the great apartment house where Palfrey had his rooms. Half an hour later he came out and hurriedly entered the car. He motioned to the chauffeur to change places. “I’ll drive,” he said. “How is your gasolene?”
“The tank’s full, sir,” said the man.
“Good,” he answered.
He started the car, and began to thread his way up the avenue. At 59th streetthe clock on the dash-board said ten minutes to six.
He turned into the Park and ran through the avenues at a speed which made arrest imminent, yet he escaped. The Park was a miracle of flowering things, of elms feathering into leaf, of blossom fragrances, of robins at their sunset singing; but Mr. Carteret was unaware of it all. At ten minutes past six he was in the open country. Here he opened the throttle and advanced the spark. He called upon the great machine for speed, and the great machine lifted its shrill roar and gave generously. The clock and the trembling finger of the speedometer showed that many of the miles and minutes passed together. At ten minutes of seven he turned into the gateway of a great country-place, and a few moments later came upon its master on the west terrace. Evanston greeted him pleasantly, but was evidently surprised to see him.
“Did you motor down?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Mr. Carteret; “sixty minutes from 59th street.”
Evanston gave a low exclamation.
“It wasn’t difficult,” said Mr. Carteret, “the road’s very good.” An awkward silence followed, which both men felt.
“Lovely view,” said Mr. Carteret, looking off across the lake toward the sunset. Then there was another silence.
Evanston broke it. “Have you still got that horse that you wanted to sell me?”
“I think so,” said Mr. Carteret; “but I’m not trading horses this afternoon.” His voice changed and he looked at Evanston.
“Frank,” he said, “can you keep your temper?”
“I’ve had some practice,” said Evanston. “Why?”
“Because,” said Mr. Carteret, “I’m going to irritate you. I’m going to butt in. I’m going to mix up in a matter that is none of my business. If you want to knock me down, I sha’n’t like it, but I sha’n’t resent it.”
Evanston looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?” he said.
“From what I’ve heard,” said Mr.Carteret, “your private affairs are in a tangle.”
“So you’ve heard?” said Evanston.
“Yes, I have heard a good many things which are probably not so. I want to know the facts.”
Somewhat to his surprise, Evanston made no show of resentment. “The facts are simple,” he said. “I’m tired of this thing, and I’m going to put an end to it.”
“I’ve heard that,” said Mr. Carteret; “but if you don’t mind telling me, I’d like to know why. I like you, Frank,” he added; “I like your wife; I like your children—I don’t want to see you bust up.”
“You are very good, Carty,” said Evanston, “but nothing can be done about it. It’s a long story, with rights and wrongs on both sides; but at the beginning it was my fault, and I am ready to pay for it.”
“What do you mean by ‘your fault at the beginning’?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“I married her,” said Evanston.
“Well, didn’t you want to?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“I wanted to too much,” said Evanston; “that was the trouble.”
Mr. Carteret looked puzzled. “I don’t think I understand,” he said. From his somewhat objective point of view the more complex personality of Evanston was baffling.
“It was this way, Carty,” Evanston went on. “Her mother—you know her mother?”
Mr. Carteret nodded. “Always for the stuff,” he observed.
“Exactly,” said Evanston. “Well, to put it bluntly, she made the match.”
“But I thought you were rather keen about her.”
“So I was,” said Evanston; “but Edith wasn’t keen about me. The mother forced her into it, and I was foolish enough to believe that if she married me, she would care for me. The fact was,” he added, “I was walking on air, with my head in a dream.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Well, we were married,” continued Evanston, “and then suddenly out of ablue sky came the panic and the T. & B. failure, and I was flat broke and a defaulter.”
“Defaulter!” said Mr. Carteret.
“Defaulter as to my side of the matrimonial bargain, which was to provide the establishment,” said Evanston. “The realization of this fact was sudden and painful.”
“Sudden? How do you mean sudden?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“Something happened,” said Evanston, “that opened my eyes.”
“Do you mean the loss of your money?”
“No,” said Evanston, “you know the money end of it came out all right. My uncle died, and I inherited more than I had lost; but I had already learned how much and how little money could do. And so things drifted along, and now the only course open seems to be to call it all off.” Evanston was silent.
“Is that all?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“Yes,” replied the other.
“Frank,” said Mr. Carteret, “you havetold me everything but the facts. Don’t interrupt,” he went on, as Evanston made a gesture of protest. “The essence of the matter is this—you think that your wife is in love with Ned Palfrey; you believe Palfrey in love with her, and you are jealous of him.”
“I don’t see the need of going into that,” said Evanston. “There is no scandal. I trust my wife and I trust Palfrey.”
“The need of going into it,” said Mr. Carteret, “is to set you right on two points. First, your wife doesn’t care for Palfrey except as a friend, and if I am any judge of what is going on in a woman’s mind, she cares more about you than you will allow her to show you. Secondly, except as a friend, Palfrey doesn’t care for your wife.”
“Carty,” said Evanston, “you are wasting your time and mine. I know that a man is foolish to be jealous of any other man, and I know that Ned Palfrey is all right. I’m sorry for Palfrey. He has as much cause for resentment againstme as I have against him. If it hadn’t been for me he would have married her. If he marries her later on, I shall have no feeling about it. But I can’t stand the situation as it is, and I don’t care to have you tell me there is nothing in it.”
“You have no proof,” said Carteret, “that there is anything in it.”
“No proof?” said Evanston. He smiled bitterly. “Only the proof of my eyes.”
Carteret threw away his cigarette. “The proof of your eyes!” he said.
Evanston nodded. “Perhaps you remember,” he went on, “that just after the crash I disappeared for a week.”
“Yes,” said Carteret; “it was two years ago, just before Christmas.”
“People said that I was hiding from my creditors; that I had gone to Australia; and some that I had killed myself.”
“That was what Edith believed,” said Mr. Carteret. “It nearly killed her.”
Evanston laughed scornfully. “Women don’t die of such things,” he said.“Well, to go on, it happened that the day I disappeared, Palfrey called upon my wife. We were at the house in 70th street then.” He paused uneasily, and Mr. Carteret began to wonder. “I came up-town late in the afternoon,” he continued, “and let myself in with a key. I heard voices in the drawing-room and went down the hall. The curtains in the drawing-room doorway had fallen apart, and I looked in. Palfrey was there. They were standing by the fireplace and had dropped their voices so that I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I saw him take a step toward her, and then he took her hand.” Evanston stopped. “And then,” he added, “the sawdust dropped out of my doll.”
“What happened?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“He kissed her,” said Evanston.
Mr. Carteret started inwardly. Then an illumination came to him. “No,” he said; “she kissed him.”
“As a gentleman,” said Evanston, “I would rather put it the other way.”
“As a gentleman,” said Mr. Carteret, “you must put it the way it was.”
“Does it make any difference?” asked Evanston.
“The difference between right and wrong,” said Mr. Carteret. “Listen to me. You knew, I suppose, that Palfrey wanted to marry Edith’s sister Louise.”
A look of wonder came into Evanston’s face. “No,” he said.
“Well,” said Mr. Carteret, “he did. I know it, and when you saw him at their house and thought he was after Edith, you were barking up the wrong tree.”
Evanston had risen, and was listening apprehensively. His face had grown white.
“What has this to do with the case?” he demanded.
“The afternoon that you speak of,” Mr. Carteret went on, “Louise told Palfrey that she was going to marry Witherbee. With that piece of news he went to your house, to the woman who had been his friend and confidante—your wife. He was a good deal cut up, and when he saidgood-by—you know he sailed for Europe the next day—I presume she was sorry for him, and, being a generous woman, an impulsive woman, she showed her sympathy; she kissed him as you would kiss a broken-hearted child.”
Evanston made a strange gesture, as if to put away by a physical action the thoughts that were forcing themselves into his mind. “No,” he said huskily; “it isn’t true, it can’t be true.”
“Do you think I would come to you with a lie?” said Mr. Carteret.
“But you weren’t there,” said Evanston. “How do you know?”
“Neither were you,” said Mr. Carteret. “Why didn’t you go in like a man and find out your mistake?”
For a time Evanston made no answer. Then his voice sank to a whisper. “I was afraid,” he said. “If I had gone in I was out of my head.” He dropped into his chair again, and turned his face away. His body shook convulsively, but he made no sound. Carteret stepped awkwardly to the terrace balustrade andstood gazing at the sunset. The silence lasted for several minutes. Then Evanston spoke; his voice was still uncertain. He rose and walked unsteadily toward the balustrade.
“Carty,” he said, “I believe you. What shall I do? It’s awful,” he muttered; “it’s awful.”
“It’s awfully lucky,” said Mr. Carteret, “that we have straightened things out.”
Evanston shook his head wearily. “But we haven’t,” he said; “we can’t. It’s too late.”
“Look here,” said Mr. Carteret, impatiently, “don’t be an ass.”
“But don’t you understand,” said Evanston. “If what you say is true,—and I believe you,—then I have acted—” he stopped and thought for the right words, but they did not come. “I left her that afternoon without a word. A week later, without explanation, I came back, and for two years I have treated her—God knows how I have treated her!” he murmured. “If she did care for me at the first,” hewent on, “if she cared for me after the failure, the end of it must have come when I went away and came back as I did. And now to put an obstacle in the way of her freedom, to try to buy her again, would be the act of a blackguard.”
“But suppose she loves you?” said Mr. Carteret.
“That,” said Evanston, “is impossible.”
“It ought to be impossible,” said Mr. Carteret. “If she poisoned you any jury would acquit her; but, fortunately for us, women are not logical.”
“No,” said Evanston again; “it is impossible.”
“That is your view of it,” said Mr. Carteret. “Would anything convince you that you are wrong?”
Evanston was silent a moment. Then he smiled bitterly. “If the thoughts she had about me in those days,” he began,—“in those days after I had come home,—if they could come back like ghosts, and should tell me that all that time she cared for me, in spite of what I was and did—” He paused.
“Then of course it is impossible,” said Mr. Carteret, dryly.
He turned away toward the sunset again and looked at his watch. It was a quarter past seven. In the last twenty-five minutes his hopes had flown high and fallen dead. Evanston’s point of view was beyond his comprehension. He felt that the man was mad, and that he had come upon a fool’s errand.
He turned back toward Evanston. “I must be going,” he said. At that moment a servant came from the house and approached them.
“Mr. Whitehouse is on the telephone, sir,” the man said to Evanston. “He says his cook has been taken suddenly ill, and may he come to dine to-night and bring Professor Blake.”
Evanston looked helplessly at Mr. Carteret. “That’s odd,” he said, “isn’t it?”
“He evidently hasn’t heard,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Evidently,” said Evanston. “But why shouldn’t he come?” he added. Heturned to the man. “Tell Mr. Whitehouse that Mrs. Evanston and myself will be glad to have him and Professor Blake.” The man bowed and went back to the house.
“It’s better that way,” continued Evanston. “We’ll have a party. I don’t know who Blake is; but Whittlesea’s coming down, and you’ll stay.”
“I can’t; I have no clothes,” said Mr. Carteret.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Evanston.
“No,” said Mr. Carteret, “I must go. I’m of no use here.”
“Don’t say that,” said Evanston. He held out his hand. “Carty, you are the only human being that understands or wants to understand.”
“Then,” said Mr. Carteret, “I’ll stay.”
It was nine o’clock, and they had finished dinner. From the dining-room the men went to the library to smoke, and Whitehouse’s friend, the Professor, began to talk. He was an Orientalist, and had recently discovered a buried city on the plateau of Iran. Mr. Carteret was notinterested in buried cities, so he smoked and occupied himself with his own thoughts. From the distant part of the house came the music of a piano. He knew that it was Edith playing in the drawing-room. It occurred to him that it would be pleasant to go out upon the terrace and listen to the music. He was meditating the execution of this project when he saw Whittlesea slip out; the same idea had occurred to the lawyer.
Mr. Carteret watched him go with chagrin, but he felt that it would be rude for him to follow, so he sat where he was, and bore up under the buried city. The talk went on until suddenly the cathedral clock in the hallway began to strike in muffled arpeggios. Whitehouse started up and looked at his watch.
“It’s half-past nine,” he said to the Professor. “If you really must take the night train, we ought to be starting.”
“I’ll ring,” said Evanston, “and have somebody order your trap.”
“Thank you,” said Whitehouse, “I would rather order it myself; I want tospeak to my man. I know where the stable telephone is.” He went out.
“I am sorry you have to go,” said Evanston to the Professor.
“So am I,” the Professor replied. “This has been a most delightful evening.”
Just then Whitehouse put his head in the door. “The stable telephone is out of order,” he said, “I’ll have to ask you to send some one, after all.”
“The telephone’s all right,” replied Evanston; “the trouble is, you don’t know how to use it.” He rose, and joining Whitehouse, left the room.
As he went out, the Professor started to rise, but something held him, and he sat back awkwardly. His sleeve-link had caught in the cord of the cushion on which his arm had been resting. He stooped to disentangle it, and turning the cushion over, his eyes rested on a curious pattern worked in gold. He gave a low exclamation of surprise, and carried the cushion into the lamplight.
“Anything the matter?” inquired Mr.Carteret. To him the Professor was rather curious than human, but he felt that it was civil to show an interest in him.
“There’s a verse,” replied the Professor, “embroidered in Persian characters on this cushion. It’s the work of a poet little known in Europe. It’s very extraordinary to find it here.”
“Really,” said Mr. Carteret, suppressing a yawn.
“I’ll make you a translation of it,” said the Professor.
“I should be pleased,” said Mr. Carteret.
There was a silence, during which the Professor wrote on a stray sheet of paper, and Mr. Carteret speculated on the chance of his horse Balloonist in the Broadway steeplechase. The Professor was handing the slip of paper to Mr. Carteret when Whitehouse and Evanston came hurriedly into the room.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to hurry,” said Whitehouse. “We have very little time.”
“All right,” said the Professor; “but I must say good-by to Mrs. Evanston.”He nodded a good-night to Mr. Carteret, and went out of the room, followed by Evanston and Whitehouse.
Mr. Carteret heard the music stop in the drawing-room, and he knew that the Professor was taking his leave. He heard it begin again, and he knew that the guests had gone.
“I must go myself,” he thought. “Evanston wants to talk with Whittlesea.”
He was about to rise when he glanced idly at the sheet of paper which the Professor had given him. Mr. Carteret was not fond of poetry. He considered it a branch of knowledge which concerned only women and literary persons. But the words of the translation that he held in his hand he read a first time, then a second time, then a third time.
He rose, with a startled sense of being on the brink of discovery, and then Evanston came in.
“You are not going,” said Evanston.
“No,” said Mr. Carteret, vaguely. “Frank,” he went on, “do you know anything about that sofa pillow?”
“What sofa pillow?” asked Evanston.
Mr. Carteret took the cushion with the strange embroidery, and held it in the lamplight.
“That?” said Evanston—“Edith gave me that.”
“When?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“It was a Christmas present,” said Evanston—“the Christmas after the failure.”
“After you came back?”
Evanston nodded.
“Do you know where she got it?” asked Mr. Carteret. “I mean the embroidery.”
“She worked it,” said Evanston.
“But,” said Mr. Carteret, “it’s Persian.”
“Very likely she got the design from her uncle,” said Evanston. “She used to be a great deal with him. You know he was Wyeth, the Orientalist. But what is all this about? Why are you interested in this sofa pillow?”
Mr. Carteret gazed searchingly at Evanston. “The design,” he said, “that is embroidered is a verse.”
Evanston looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Well,” he said, “what of it?”
“I want you to ask Edith what it is,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Why?” said Evanston.
“Don’t ask why. Do it.”
“What use can there be in calling up the past?” said Evanston. “It can only be painful to both of us.”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Carteret; “do it as a favor to me.”
“I think you will have to excuse me, Carty,” said Evanston, somewhat stiffly.
Mr. Carteret moved to the wall and rang the bell. Neither man spoke until the servant appeared. “Please say to Mrs. Evanston,” said Mr. Carteret, “that Mr. Evanston and Mr. Carteret wish very much that she would come to the library.” As the man left the room, Evanston came forward.
“What does this mean?” he demanded.
“My meaning ought to be plain,” said Mr. Carteret. “I intend to have you ask your wife what is on that cushion.”There was something in his tone, in the look in his eyes, which made Evanston’s protest melt away, then transfixed him, then made him whiten and tremble.
Presently they heard the rustle of a woman’s dress in the hallway. “Do you understand?” said Mr. Carteret, quickly. “You must ask her. You must force it out of her. If she refuses to tell you, you must choke it out of her. The ghosts have come back!” Then he hurriedly crossed the room to the French window that opened upon the terrace. As he reached the window, Edith stood in the doorway.
“Do you want me?” she asked.
“Frank wants you,” he answered, and stepped out blindly into the night. He groped his way across the terrace, and from the terrace went on to the lawn. Overhead the stars looked down and studded the lake with innumerable lights. The night insects were singing. The fireflies glimmered in the shrubbery. The perfume from the syringa thicket was heavy on the still air. Ordinarily thesethings did not appeal strongly to Mr. Carteret; but to-night they thrilled him. A few steps across the grass and he stopped and looked back. The house was silent. From the library windows the lamplight streamed out upon the terrace lawn. He turned away again and stood listening to the night things—the measured chorus of the frogs in the distant marsh, the whippoorwill that was calling in the darkness on the point. Then he resumed his progress across the lawns. Suddenly he came upon a figure in the darkness, and started.
“Has that fellow gone?” It was Whittlesea’s voice.
“Yes,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Then I must go back,” said the lawyer. “Carteret,” he went on, “this is wretched business. One would think that, in a spot like this, on such a night, people ought to be happy.”
“You are right,” said Mr. Carteret. “Whittlesea,” he added, “come along but don’t speak.” He slipped his arm through the lawyer’s and guided their stepsback toward the terrace. They mounted it and stealthily approached the library window. From the darkness they could see into the lighted room, and not be seen. The lawyer gave a low exclamation, and drew his arm away.
Evanston and his wife were sitting side by side upon the couch. His arm was about her, and his face was bent close to hers. They made no sound, but her body shook a little, and trembled as if she were weeping silently. The two men parted in the darkness, Mr. Carteret retreating back across the terrace.