CHAPTER XIIITHE THREAT

CHAPTER XIIITHE THREAT

Onthat same afternoon Beatrice sat in the library gazing with troubled eyes at a letter lying open in her lap. Suddenly she tore it into shreds and flung the pieces into the open fire.

“How dare he?” she exclaimed aloud.

“Beg pardon, Miss Beatrice,” said Wilkins, patiently. He had already addressed her three times.

“What is it?” asked Beatrice, for the first time aware of his presence.

“Detective Hardy is at the telephone, miss. He wishes to know if you can see him this afternoon.”

“No, I cannot.” She shivered slightly. “Tell him, Wilkins, that I am lying down, but that I will see him to-morrow about this time. I am not at home to anyone to-day.”

“Very good, miss.”

Just as Wilkins hung up the telephone receiver, the front bell rang so loudly that in the library Beatrice paused in her rapid pacing back and forth to listen. She heard voices raised in a heated altercation. “Some more reporters,” she thought, shrugging her shoulders nervously. She threw herself on the lounge and took up her embroidery.

“Well, here I am,” said a heavy bass voice from the doorway. Beatrice glanced up in surprise, and saw Mrs. Curtis, wife of the Secretary of War, standing on the threshold. Wilkins’ flushed and unhappy countenance could be seen over her shoulder. It was not often that he was out-maneuvered as a watch-dog. “Your servant said you were out, but I knew he waslying, so just walked right by him. I simply had to see you, Beatrice,” kissing her affectionately.

“And I’m very glad to see you, Mrs. Curtis,” answered Beatrice, warmly, as she helped her off with her wraps.

“Joe said you wouldn’t want to see me,”went on Mrs. Curtis, picking out a comfortable chair and seating her two hundred odd pounds in it very gingerly. “Joe also said I must not allude to your troubles—Mercy on us!”—greatly embarrassed—“well, the murder’s out—good gracious!”

Her consternation was so ludicrous that Beatrice smiled as she pulled a chair forward. Mrs. Curtis’ faculty for making “breaks” was well known among her friends.

Short of stature, her weight made her waddle when she walked, and no art of any dressmaker could give her a waist line. Boasting as she did of a long line of ancestors, whose names were illustrious in American history, she considered she could do as she pleased, live where she pleased, and associate with whom she pleased. Her manners could not always be relied on; they were apt to vary with the state of her digestion. Abrupt and often overbearing at times, she had, however, two traits of character shared by few—loyalty and the courage of her convictions.

She had always been fond of Beatrice, andsome recent gossip about the Trevors coming to her ears that afternoon had made her very angry. She championed their cause at once, to the consternation of the two worthy women who, having repeated the gossip, wilted under her indignant glance. Hence the determined assault on the Trevors’ front door.

“Tea!” she exclaimed, overhearing Beatrice’s order to Wilkins. “My dear, don’t have it on my account. I detest the stuff. A glass of sherry and a biscuit will do me more good than anything else you can offer.”

“How is the Secretary?” asked Beatrice, placing the decanter and biscuits which had been quickly forthcoming, before her guest.

“Very well, barring an attack of gout. I told him it was a case of suppressed kicking against the powers that be on Capitol Hill. I met your father on the street this morning. He looks dreadfully, poor man. Is there any truth in this rumor of his resigning?” casting a keen glance at the unconscious girl.

“No truth at all,” Beatrice answered emphatically. “We may both go to Atlantic Cityfor a week, but that is the only time father will be away from his office until June. I can’t imagine how such a report started.”

“Washington is a hotbed of rumors always,” retorted Mrs. Curtis. “What people don’t know, they make up. But I did not come here to talk about my neighbors’ shortcomings, but to ask if you won’t go motoring with me as soon as the condition of the streets permits. You need to be out in the fresh air,” and she patted Beatrice’s thin cheeks. The somber black garb enhanced her pallor, but for all that Mrs. Curtis decided in her own mind that she had seldom seen her look more lovely. “If that man has been playing fast and loose with her affections,” she thought, “I’ll—I’ll give him a piece of my mind.” It was no idle threat. Those who had experienced a piece of her gray matter would rather have faced a Gatling gun; at least, the end came swiftly.

“I’d love to go with you, Mrs. Curtis.”

“Good. And you’ll come back and dine with us?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t like to, just yet, because ofour deep—” for the life of her she could not say grief—“mourning,” she supplemented.

“Tut! No one stops to think of that, nowadays.” Suddenly realizing that she might be treading on rather painful ground for Beatrice, Mrs. Curtis pulled herself up short. “I’ll take another glass of sherry after all, for I am simply exhausted. Ever since three o’clock I’ve done nothing but peddle cards from house to house.”

“Done what?” asked Beatrice, in blank amazement.

“Peddle cards—visiting cards. I have a calling list as long as the Washington Monument. It’s perfectly fearful. First they call; you call; they call, and so it goes, back and forth, battledore and shuttlecock.”

“It is a treadmill,” agreed Beatrice, laughing. “It is a pity someone doesn’t open a clearing house for callers, it would simplify matters, particularly for the official set.”

“The habit is just as bad among the Cave Dwellers (old Washingtonians),” she explained in parenthesis. “Theyeven make teacalls! I work like a slavey, and yet it’s all I can do to make my bread and butter ones. By the way, did you go to the Constables’ dinner dance two weeks ago?”

“No,” answered Beatrice, interested. “I heard it was a feast.”

“A feast? It was a feed! One hundred and fifty dinner guests, and fifty extra couples for the cotillion afterwards. The favors were beautiful, so beautiful that there was great rivalry to get them, and later in the evening it was noised around that the souvenir favors were twenty dollar gold pieces. Anyway, that particular favor was given out in cardboard boxes, and none of the men would give them away to a girl until they investigated them first for fear they wouldn’t get one in return.”

“What were they?” asked Beatrice, greatly diverted.

“Oh, pieces of handsome jewelry. By the way, I saw Margaret Macallister there flirting outrageously. That nice Mr. Tillinghast is very attentive to her.”

“He has been in love with her for years.But Peggy flouts him, as she does all the rest.”

“To take up with a broken stick in the end, I suppose. Well, it’s a pity young Tillinghast is wasting his time. Mrs. Macallister would never consent to her marrying a poor man when a title is in sight.”

“You are wrong, Mrs. Curtis,” said Beatrice, politely but positively. “Mrs. Macallister is a woman of the world, not a worldly woman. She is devoted to her granddaughter, and would not let money considerations interfere with Peggy’s future happiness.”

“Still, my dear, Count de Morny is a matrimonial prize. Perhaps he will win her after all, the diplomats have such charming, delightful manners—a great contrast to our men.”

“Quite true, Mrs. Curtis; but personally give me an American every time. Our men may not know parlor tricks, but they are tender, loyal and brave.” Beatrice spoke with unwonted feeling.

“Hoity-toity, child, don’t get so excited. I meant no particular criticism of our men.Haven’t I a dear old bear at home, whom I’d positivelyhateif he wasn’t an American. Mercy on us, it’s nearly six o’clock, I must run along. Good-by, my dear,” kissing Beatrice with unusual tenderness. “Keep a good heart.” And she bustled out of the house.

Beatrice walked rather slowly back to the library. She was deeply touched as well as surprised by Mrs. Curtis’ blunt kindness. “From those we expect the least, we get the most,” she thought bitterly, while gathering up her workbag preparatory to going to her room.

“May I come in for a moment?” asked a voice from the doorway. Beatrice glanced with some astonishment at the speaker, and answered quietly:

“Why, certainly, Mr. Clark.”

“Your father has just telephoned that he is detained at the White House, and will not be back until late.” He stopped speaking, and fingered the table ornaments; then burst out: “Miss Beatrice, why do you not take better care of yourself?”

Beatrice flushed. “I am stronger than I look. You must not always judge by appearances.”

Clark shook his head. “It does not require much intelligence to see that you are nearly worn out. Why,” leaning a little closer, “your eyes are actually red from crying.”

“You are not very complimentary,” said Beatrice, vexedly, biting her lip, “and,” drawing herself up, “just a trifle personal.”

“You mean familiar?”

Beatrice made no answer.

“Well, I plead guilty. Do not be angry with me. I am only personal because I cannot bear to see you ill—suffering.”

“Indeed, Mr. Clark, you are mistaken,” she answered lightly. “There is nothing whatever the matter with me, except the physical exhaustion which naturally follows such a tragedy. A good sleep would be my best tonic. I am going upstairs now to rest before dinner. Ring for Wilkins if you wish anything.”

As she moved towards the door Clark put out his hands beseechingly.

“Don’t go; stay just a moment. I so seldom see you now. Why do you avoid me?”

“Youask me that?”

“Yes,” steadily.

“Your own conscience can answer better than I.”

“It tells me only of my love for you.”

“You must have it well under control then.”

Clark’s dark eyes flamed. “You doubt my love, my devotion, after all these months?”

Beatrice faced him squarely, her face showing white and drawn in the cold electric light.

“Do you call it ‘love’ to torment me day after day with unwelcome attentions; to use my stepmother as a lever against me; to poison my father’s affection for me with lying tales? Do you thinkthata way to win a woman?”

Clark’s handsome face paled under Beatrice’s accusing eyes.

“I deny your charges,” he said, keeping his self-control with difficulty.

“What is the use?” Beatrice sighed wearily. “It was owing entirely to your influence that my home became unendurable. Mrs.Trevor did everything in her power to force me to accept you.”

Under his breath, Clark muttered a remark that was not complimentary to the dead woman.

“Beatrice,” he said, gently, “in your sheltered life you know little of the temptations, of the evil of this world. Before I came to your father, I had knocked about from pillar to post and been thrown with all sorts and conditions of men and women. The least said about the latter the better.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Then I met you, so kind, so courteous to the poor secretary. Is it any wonder that I lost my head, and built castles in the air? As week followed week my admiration for you changed to passionate love. God knows, you never gave me any encouragement. But I have hoped on, my starved heart feeding on every stray crumb of attention that you showed me.

“Beatrice, Beatrice, look at me.” He flung back his head, shaking his black hair off his broad forehead, his handsome face alight with feeling; and he drew his well-knit, slender figure to his full height. “Am I deformed?Am I hateful to look upon? My darling, my dear, dear one, give me but a chance.”

Beatrice’s face softened. He was making it very hard for her. As she hesitated, he caught the look of pity in her beautiful eyes, mistook it, and springing forward clasped her in his arms, showering frantic kisses on her brow, face and lips.

Desperately Beatrice struggled to free herself. With superhuman strength she thrust him from her.

“You coward—you coward!” she cried.

Clark stood a short distance from her, panting a little from his emotions.

“You coward,” reiterated Beatrice, “to take advantage of a defenseless woman!”

Slowly the hot blood ebbed from Clark’s face, and his eyes gleamed wickedly.

“Take care,” he said. “I admit I forgot myself; but God! you don’t know how I’ve longed to hold you in my arms; to feel your heart beating against mine. It was sheer madness; but the look in your dear eyes went to my head like wine. I thought I had won.”

“Do you think that such a cur as you can win an honest woman’s love?”

“Stop! Don’t go too far. I come of a race that never forgets an insult. My mother was a Neapolitan.” He drew a long breath. “That one moment was worth your hate.”

“My hate!” echoed Beatrice. “Say rather my loathing!” And she drew her handkerchief across her lips as if to wipe out the burning kisses he had showered upon her.

Clark saw the gesture and read its meaning. The fierce anger in his eyes almost made her quail.

“So,” he said, as soon as he could speak; “so I am not good enough to touch you—” He laughed insultingly. “Bah! you are not worth my love.”

Shaken and outraged as she was, Beatrice faced him proudly.

“This scene has gone far enough,” she said. “Go!”

“Go? Yes, I’ll go.” Clark fairly shook with rage as he bent towards her. “But be sure of one thing: I’ll get even, although itruins me. Oh, I can do it, too—” seeing her look of disdain—“for—I know your secret!”

With ashen face and fast beating heart, Beatrice stood transfixed gazing at Clark’s retreating figure. As the library door slammed to behind him, she staggered rather than walked to the lounge and threw herself face down upon it.

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