"Lorraine?" she inflected contemptuously.
"You didn't say itthatwaythen," he replied.
"No—I was too blind to see." She arose. "I am going," she said; and went down the crowded piazza with the same contemptuously ignoring smile as at her coming.
As they neared the entrance—the eyes of all whom they had passed upon them, the eyes of all those who were yet before them busy elsewhere—a tall, good-looking young fellow sauntered out from the Club-house and met them, face to face, before the door.
It was Harry Lorraine!
For an instant husband and wife confronted each other—while the onlookers gasped, and gaped, and were silent. Never had they thought to witness such a scene! Even Pendleton hesitated, uncertain what would be Mrs. Lorraine's course. Assuredly it was a most unfortunate contretemps—a trying moment.
She, however, did not seem to mind it in the least—the smile still lingered on her lips as she paused and looked the man, whom she had sworn before God's altar to love and to cleave to, calmly in the face. It was a look of inquiry—is it to be an armed neutrality, or is it to be war?
Then suddenly Lorraine's face changed. His startled surprise vanished—he saw only the woman who had shamed him and disgraced herself; and without a word, either of reproach or of greeting, he turned from her and went back into the house.
A soft rustle passed over the craning throng, growing quickly into a buzzing of whispers and low laughter:—Lorraine had refused even to recognize her!
The next instant the Victoria drew up and Pendleton handed Mrs. Lorraine in.
"That was Harry Lorraine's last chance," she said, as Montague bowed over her hand. "I shall never go back to him now."
Lorraine, a scowl on his face and wrath in his heart, went slowly down into the café—never seeing whom he passed—and made his way to a secluded table in the darkest corner.
For a time he sat staring at the wall—across his mental vision floated pictures of his courtship and his short married life—of the beautiful woman he had caressed and who had caressed him—whose arms had been around his neck—whose ruddy head had lain on his shoulder—whose lips he had kissed—whose form he had embraced in a fury of tenderness—of the woman who was his wife—who was his wife for yet a little time longer, until the Courts could cut the bond asunder. The uncertainty that had dominated him was ended. He knew his mindnow—knew whether he loved her still or whether that love was turned to hate. Why had he not known sooner? Why had it taken him so long to realize it? Why had he vacillated like a pendulum—not sure of himself nor of his feelings? Why had he hadanyfeeling for her since she had none for him?... He laughed—a little, bitter laugh—and turned his face deeper into the shadow. It was not pleasant to contemplate. It had been misery for him every day since that shameful one when he had found her gone—and waiting, dazed and unbelieving, had read the truth in the newspapers—thehorrible, damning truth, that she had given herself to another man.
And now—she had returned; flung aside by the man. Would he receive her! take her back! take someone's else leavings! a dishonored woman—lower than the hired ones who stand for pay, honest in their dishonor.
Had she lost all idea of the fitness of things? Was she dead to every sense of shame that she should thus show herself at the Club—to all the mob—and flaunt her degradation before their very eyes—to their vast enjoyment and bitter tongues? And then to have met him—by accident, it was true; but none the less had she remained in seclusion it would not have happened, and he would not have been compelled to bear the ignominy of that scene, while a staringly curious crowd looked on, laughing slyly and with zest.
It was horrible! horrible! He buried his face in his hands and groaned in spirit. The humiliation of it all pressed down upon him with overwhelming weight. He was ashamed to leave the Club-house—he was ashamed to remain—he was ashamed to be seen—he was ashamed to——
"What's up, old chap?" said a hearty voice beside him. "Can't you put, or have you been guessing wrong in the stock market—like the most of us lately?"
Lorraine looked up to see Steuart Cameron stretch his long length in a chair opposite and draw out his tobacco bag.
"Oh—is that you, Cameron?" said he. "No—that is, I've been feeling a—bit out of sorts the last day or so—stomach, I reckon. Have something?"
"No, thanks—I've cut it out for a month," replied Cameron, neatly rolling a cigarette and licking it. "Do you know," striking a match and holding his head to one side while he deftly applied the flame—"I never before realized how long a month was—it's been a week since yesterday."
"At that rate your month will be over in about four days," Lorraine replied, with a forced laugh.
"That is an idea—I hadn't thought of it," said Cameron.
He had seen the meeting on the piazza and had followed Lorraine down for the purpose of being with him—after a little. He was Lorraine's particular friend, and he knew that presently it would be well for the other to have some one to talk to.
Lorraine relapsed into moody silence. Cameron smoked and rattled ahead, without pausing for answers nor seeming to note their absence.
Occasionally Lorraine stirred himself to throw out a reply, only to fall again, after a moment, into silence. Cameron talked on—with never a word however which could imply that he was waiting for his friend to unburden himself. He was aware that Lorraine must break out to some one—the longer he waited the surer it was, and the less likely that he would choose his confidant. He would go off like a delayed explosion—say things that later he would give much to unsay, and which would be much betterunsaid. But the unsaying being impossible, it was best that he should say them to him—who would forget them.
It is not many friends who will voluntarily consent to act as safety valves for the overflow of another's feelings—and then not tell. And Cameron's patience and consideration were at last rewarded.
Lorraine shook himself—as though to get rid of his thoughts—and sat up.
"Cameron," he said, "what shall I do? Stephanie is back—she was here in the Club—just now. I met her on the front piazza—before them all!"
"I know," said Cameron, "I saw it."
Lorraine regarded him thoughtfully.
"And you followed me here so as to—it was mighty good of you, Steuart."
Cameron smiled sympathetically.
"What do you think you want to do?" said he.
Lorraine made a despairing gesture.
"I don't know—except that I shall never take her back," he replied.
"Um—what else is there to decide?" Cameron asked.
"Whether I also shan't kill Amherst!" exclaimed Lorraine.
Cameron shook his head. "It is too late now!"
"Too late for what?"
"To kill him."
"Why?"
"If you've cast off Stephanie, you've let him out."
"What?" Lorraine demanded. "I've let him out?"
"To my mind, yes. If another man goes off with my wife, I'm not justified in killing him unless I'm ready to take my wife back. If she is worthless it is folly to kill because of her. The killing is for her honor—for having led her astray."
"And is my honor not to be considered?" asked Lorraine vehemently.
"How has your honor been affected?" returned Cameron gently.
"My God!—how hasn't it been affected! Didn't he run away with my wife?"
"He ran away with something that you say you don't want," Cameron pursued.
"That is why I don't want her—because she betrayed me."
"Because she betrayed you may be valid ground for you to killher—it certainly isn't ground for killinghim."
"Amherst is the man in the case, isn't he?"
"In the casewith her—and her you have refused to recognize. The ethics of the situation are involved and debatable but I repeat that this much is clear: unless you are willing to take her back, you have no justification nor excuse for killing Amherst."
"As you said before!" Lorraine remarked.
"As I said before—and as I shall say twenty times, if necessary, until you see reason!"
"Suppose Ihadtaken her back—what then?"
"Then," said Cameron slowly—"it would dependon whatshewanted. Your first duty would be to her."
Lorraine frowned and stared at the table.
"You may be right," he admitted, "but what do you think is my duty to myself under the circumstances?"
"If I were in your place," Cameron answered, "I should first consider whether to take her back——"
"I have considered, I tell you—it is impossible."
"Then I should forget her and everything connected with her. I should turn the case over to my attorneys and go away until the trial. When the divorce is granted, I should resume my old life as if I had never been married."
"And Amherst—what would you do about him?" asked Lorraine.
"I should not think of him. To me, he would not exist."
"You have never been married!" commented Lorraine bitterly. "You cannot know the impulse to violence—the impulse to kill. I want to see him die—to choke him with my own hands—to feel his struggles—his writhings—his gasps—to prolong his agony—to watch his face in the death throes—to feel his last breath—sometimes, that is. At other times, I am indifferent. I don't care what becomes of her or him—nor myself. Why is it, Cameron, why is it?"
"It was the uncertainty—till you've made up your mind what to do," Cameron answered. "But it is over now, old man. You have decided.—Moreover you're likely to have plenty of time to masteryour impulse to homicide. Amherst has gone to Europe with Mrs. Amherst. They will likely be gone a long time."
"With Mrs. Amherst!" Lorraine exclaimed. "She has taken him back?"
"So to-night'sTelegraphsays."
"H-u-m—I suppose some people will think I should do that too."
"Many persons, many minds," replied Cameron. "However, it's no one's affairs but your own—so let them all go to the devil."
"It's different with Amherst," Lorraine reflected. "He's not smirched so much."
"So Society thinks."
"What doyouthink?"
"I think it is a question which concerns only the parties interested—so deeply concerns them, indeed, that no one else has any right to an opinion."
"In the abstract, no. But, in the practical, Society's view must be considered—it says the woman's case is very different from the man's—and it may make the husband feel it if he takes her back."
"Not for long—if he has the courage of his conduct, and fights," said Cameron. "However, you are not confronted by any such condition. You've met the situation according to custom. It is up to her now to do the fighting back."
"I'm not concerned for her; she's just a—woman," said Lorraine curtly.
"No—you're not concerned for her," replied Cameron slowly; "not concerned further than everyman is concerned for a woman—that she gets fair play and a square deal."
"I'm perfectly willing for Society even to forget her past, if it wishes," said Lorraine. "I'm not vindictive. I'm indifferent. I'm done with her forever."
"You look at it in the proper spirit, old man," Cameron encouraged. "The time when men took the law into their own hands is past—with one exception, possibly. Your course is dignified, and thoroughly within your rights."
It had been easier than he had anticipated. Lorraine was steadier than he had thought—had borne the meeting with reasonable fortitude, considering the circumstances and the provocation. He leaned over and put his hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Old fellow," he said, "don't misunderstand me—but—don't let your feelings run away with you and say things to others that you will regret. You'll have plenty to try you—plenty to make you forget—plenty to anger you—but don't! don't! Bear in mind that this is an occasion when silence is more than golden."
"I've been fairly steady—don't you think?" Lorraine asked. "I came down here to avoid people—to get away. If I only could get away from myself it would be much better for me. My thoughts are what madden."
"Don't think," advised Cameron—"it may be difficult—but try it."
"I've got to try it—I've nothing else to do," was the bitter answer.
"Good!—you've the right idea!"
"I've been doing little else than thinking for the last year and a half," Lorraine continued. "It's the sight of her that stirs it up afresh, just when I thought it overcome. I tell you, Cameron, you must go through what I've gone through, loving your wife, to understand and appreciate. It is well enough for you and the rest of my friends to caution prudence—to resume the old life—to forget—to choose the expedient way—but try it! only try it!" He brought his fist down on the table. "It will be the damnedest hardest thing you have ever attempted!"
"There is no possible doubt of that, Lorraine," Cameron agreed. "But you're up against a hard proposition—one that tries men's souls, and takes a man to meet and handle. You've handled it with great credit thus far, old chap, and I want to see you handle it so to the end. We're all interested, you know—interested because we're your friends."
"I know you are," said Lorraine. "I appreciate your regard more than I can say. I'm not going to make a scene with—Stephanie; nor do anything to Amherst—if he keeps away from me. This unexpected meeting with her hasn't bereft me of quite all my senses—though it did stagger me for a moment. I'm all right now, Cameron. I'll be strictly conventional, hereafter, never fear."
"I'm not afraid," Cameron smiled. "The fateful moment has passed. You'll be right as a trivet henceforth."
He gave his order to a passing boy, and this time Lorraine joined him.
"Are you staying here for dinner?" Lorraine asked presently.
Cameron nodded. "I'm dining with the Emersons—a sort of a pick-up crowd, I fancy—at least I'm a pick-up. I wasn't asked until about half an hour ago."
"The Emersons sure are coming along," Lorraine remarked. "It's the gold key with them, all right—and they use it on every occasion. I venture they try for Burgoyne—he has just returned from abroad. He is sort of a celebrity, and a near-celebrity is better than nothing."
Cameron smiled and drank his high-ball. He had heard Lorraine holding forth before on the Emersons and their kind.
"Look at the old man there!" Lorraine went on. "He is a good-natured bounder—but he ought to be tending bar in a corner saloon rather than hob-nobbing here. And as for Mrs. Emerson!——"
"How about the daughter?" Cameron inquired.
"Except for her family, Miss Emerson is all right. Only I shouldn't want to marry her—I'd be afraid the children would breed back."
"With grandpa's money, and the present day advantages and forced culture!" laughed Cameron. "I reckon not, my friend, I reckon not."
One of the attendants approached with a telephone instrument and connected it with the wire at the side of the room.
"Some one wants to talk to you, Mr. Lorraine,"he said, placing the transmitter on the table and handing him the receiver.
"Excuse me, Cameron!" said Lorraine. "Hello!"
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Yes, this is Mr. Lorraine."
* * * * * * * * * * *
"This evening—at seven-thirty!"
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Why—yes—I shall be very glad to!"
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Not at all—the pleasure is mine, I assure you."
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Yes—good-bye!"
He put down the receiver and the man took the instrument away.
"I'm elected!" he remarked.
"To what?"
"To Mrs. Emerson's pick-me-up."
"Why didn't you decline?" Cameron asked.
"Decline! How the devil could I decline—when she held me on the telephone! Damn the telephone, anyway."
"It's the old game!" laughed Cameron. "A man is helpless when a woman gets him there. He would dine with his cook, or take the laundress to the theatre, if she asked him over the telephone."
But to himself he was thinking:
"Mrs. Emerson knows of that scene on the piazza and wants to have the most talked-of man in the Club at her table to-night. She is long for the main chance."
Stephanie Lorraine, choosing a round-about route through the Park, drove slowly homeward—passing on the way numerous acquaintances and erstwhile friends, who, if they were men, looked their surprise and spoke pleasantly; if they were women, pretended not to see her, or, having seen her, either looked away or bowed distantly—very distantly. The more unstable their social position the more distant was the bow.
Just at the exit from the Park, her Victoria was stopped by a sudden congestion in the traffic ahead. Preoccupied, she did not notice it until she heard a voice exclaim:
"Why, Stephanie Lorraine!" Gladys Chamberlain in riding togs and crop was at the curb and holding out her hand in greeting. "You dear girl! How do you do?"
"Pretty fit, thank you," Stephanie smiled.
"When did you get back?"
"Several days ago. I'm at my mother's,—if you care to come around."
"WhysurelyI'll be around, Stephanie—I'd ride back with you now, but I expect to meet my groom here with my mare. Will you be home to-morrow?"
Mrs. Lorraine looked at her intently for an instant.
"Do you appreciate just what you are doing?" she asked.
"Certainly I do—I'm going to visit an old friend—who is a friend still—and always will be, I hope."
Stephanie put out her hand again. "Thank you, Gladys, but I think you ought to know that the Club-house piazza refused to recognize me a few minutes ago."
"I'm not controlled by the Club-house piazza, Stephanie dear," said Miss Chamberlain gently.
"You may be very lonely in your friendship," Stephanie warned. "The only two who spoke to me at the Club were Montague Pendleton and Sheldon Burgoyne—the rest didn't even see me."
"I would bank on Pendleton, and on Burgoyne, too. They aremen."
"They came to the front of the house to meet me—assisted me from the carriage—escorted me through the crowd to their table—sat with me—and Montague went back with me and put me in the Victoria. It was a brave thing to do—and I told him so."
"How like Montague Pendleton," said Gladys. "And it was brave too of you to go there and beard the old dowagers and tabbies to their very faces. They can't but respect you for it."
"They are more likely to view it as shameless effrontery," Stephanie answered.
"Let them—they are apt to say anything for a time. Then they will hurt themselves playing follow-my-leader—and trying to distance her."
THE OFFENDER
THE OFFENDER
"Who is the leader?" Stephanie smiled.
"Whoever starts first," said Miss Chamberlain contemptuously. "They're all afraid to commence anything unconventional, but whenoneventures they all break after her, and then it's bally-ho! for the race. You've noticed it, surely?"
"I can't say I have—but then I've not been very observant of the dowagers and the tabbies."
"And of course they like you accordingly. Well, who cares? You didn't have to regard them—before, so why regard them now? They'll come around, Stephanie, never fear. If you make the pace as hot as you seem to have made it this afternoon, they'll be along in full cry shortly. Wait until some of their men folks have hadtheirsay—there will likely be another thought coming to them then. I've great faith in the men—they prevent us from becoming cats."
A groom rode up leading a spanking bay mare. Touching his hat he dismounted. Miss Chamberlain swung up lightly astride and gathered the reins.
"Until to-morrow morning then—at eleven?" she asked.
"Whenever it suits you," Stephanie smiled.
"I'll be there on the dot," said Gladys—and with a little laugh and a nod she rode away.
Stephanie continued her drive homeward. The way was pleasanter now—she was not alone—Gladys would stand by her—and with Gladys would come others of her old intimates. The first was the hardest—the rest would follow in time, depending on theindependence of the individual and the extent and force of the opposition. It might take a year for her to be rehabilitated—for Society to white-wash her or to forget—or it might take only a month. At all events, she was going to try it. She would rather enjoy the struggle—enjoy fighting those who were opposed. She always had despised the conventional ones—those who were afraid—those whose God was Society's good opinion, and who worshipped at the altar of commonplaceness and custom. True she was a false wife, branded so all could see; but she knew that, except for the brand, she was not alone. She was in good company; only, the others were ostensibly regular, while she had broken over and had left no room for doubt nor for exercise of a discretionary blindness. She had been honest about it—she had gone away never to come back, she thought. She had staked herself openly and unreservedly before the whole world, with the intention never to seek for restitution. The others staked nothing unless found out—they broke the seventh commandment with impunity, but discreetly and with due regard for the conventions. And the very ones who were breaking, or had broken it, would be the most frigid to her now. She smiled a bit sarcastically. It was the way of the world, and she knew it years ago, so she had nothing to cry over. They also were doing the conventional and the proper—and looking out for themselves. When she had melted the ice around her sufficiently for them to sail up to her without endangering their own crafts in the floe, they would come promptly andwith dispatch. Until then she was aware they would hold off.
When she arrived at home a limousine was standing before the door. Her mother was entertaining a visitor in the piazza-room, and she passed on upstairs.
Presently Mrs. Mourraille entered. She was an older edition of Stephanie, except that her hair was black and her eyes grey—the honest grey that one instinctively trusts and is rarely deceived in. Now they bore the trace of suffering, and her hair was beginning to whiten—had begun during the last year, her intimates observed.
Stephanie arose quickly from the dressing-table, where she had been straightening out her own auburn tresses before the glass, and gliding swiftly over bent and kissed her mother on the cheek.
"Sit here, dearest," she said. "I noticed Mrs. Parsons was with you when I came in, so I didn't stop."
"I saw you," Mrs. Mourraille smiled—"and so did Mrs. Parsons!"
"What did she say?"
"Not a word vocally; but she said many things by her face—chiefly bewilderment and concern."
"Some other faces have shown similarly this afternoon," said Stephanie.
"Did you meet many that you knew on your drive?"
"Yes—I went out to the Country Club—the place was crowded."
"My dear! was it wise?" exclaimed Mrs. Mourraille. "Was it wise, so soon?"
"Judging from the general result, I should say not!" laughed Stephanie. "But it will give them something to talk about the rest of the afternoon, and furnish a topic for dinner. And for that they should be grateful to me."
"My dear!" marvelled her mother.
"Oh, you should have seen the preoccupied air of every woman on the piazza—and there were scores of them there. It was positively chilling."
"Didn't any of them even speak to you?"
"Not one!"
"Who were there?" asked Mrs. Mourraille, her lips tightening.
"Every one in town, I think. It was the regular Saturday afternoon crowd—and then some."
"Did you give them a chance to speak, dear—or did you go haughtily through them, looking neither to right nor to the left?"
"Come to think of it, I went right through them—to a table in the remote corner. However, it made no difference. I might have forced some of them to bow but it would have been a holdup and they would have been justified in taking it out on me afterward. This was the better way. No one can feel hurt—and every one can choose at leisure what she will do."
"Wouldn't it have been wiser to let them choose at leisure, in the first place, rather than to force them to choose quickly, with the chance that they willreverse themselves at leisure?" suggested Mrs. Mourraille kindly.
"You mean that I shouldn't have gone to the Club?—possibly. But I wanted to see—and, as I remarked to Montague Pendleton,I saw."
"Was Montague with you?" exclaimed Mrs. Mourraille.
"He didn't accompany me—he met me at the Club-house—he and Sheldon Burgoyne." And she explained.
Mrs. Mourraille expressed her appreciation of their actions in praiseful terms—then she asked:
"Were any of my particular friends there?"
"It doesn't matter, mother dear. I won't get you into any snarl any further than I've already drawn you."
"Let me determine how far in I shall go," her mother answered quietly. "I simply want the information now—I'll decide later."
Stephanie named them.
"But you must remember, dear," she appended, "that I didn't give them much opportunity even to show a disposition to recognize me. And more of my own friends were there than of yours—and they didn't show any particular eagerness to speak. I can understand their feelings and position. My advent was like a bomb hurled into the crowd. They chose the safest course, which was to sit still and pretend not to see me. I reckon I'd have done the same had I been one of them. They will all come around in time. Gladys Chamberlain has already led off; therest will follow more or less rapidly—according to disposition or their fear of Society's frown."
She talked rapidly, seeking, for her mother's sake, to make light of her position.
And her mother understood, and smiled in indulgent appreciation. She had been averse to Stephanie's going out that afternoon, even for a drive. She never for an instant had thought of her going to the Club. She wanted her to remain passively at home until her coming had ceased to be the latest wonder; until the talk had died down, and people had got used to the new situation and had decided what they would do. It was a case for slow progress and patient waiting. But Stephanie had ever been impulsive, and a trifle headstrong when the notion seized her. Mrs. Mourraille knew what it meant—she herself had been like Stephanie until she had broken her inclinations to the ways of expediency. There was no utility in crying over what was past. No one regretted her daughter'sfaux pasmore than she, but the business now was to overcome its results and have her start afresh. Assuredly this episode at the Club was not to her idea of the proper style of campaign.
"It is most unfortunate, Stephanie, most unfortunate!" she observed thoughtfully. "Only one thing could be more unfortunate—for you to have met Harry Lorraine there and have had him deny you before them all."
"Then the most unfortunate has happened," Stephanie replied tranquilly. "My husband did meetme on the front piazza—and, before them all, he turned his back upon me and walked away."
"The brute!" cried Mrs. Mourraille.
Then her grey eyes half closed in contemplation, and for a little while she was silent.
Stephanie leisurely brushed her hair and waited.
"Do you think he quite realized what he was doing?" Mrs. Mourraille asked presently.
"I don't know," said Stephanie indifferently. "Moreover, it doesn't matter. It finished me with him utterly. I wouldn't go back to him now if he got down on his knees on the spot, and before all of them implored it. I thought I despised him before; now I'm sure of it—and I hate and loath him beside."
She got up, and crossing to her mother sank down on the floor beside her and took her hands.
"Dearest," she said, "It will all come right some time. I'm glad to be free of Harry Lorraine, though I'm sorry I did what I did with Amherst, for your sake—and a little for my own now. But it is done and it cannot be undone; and we're not given, either of us, to crying over milk that's spilt. Let us be glad rather that I'm quit of Amherst without a—drag.... It wasn't by any fault of his that I am, however. I don't want you to be made to suffer for my folly. I know you can't escape feeling it, but you must not make my quarrel yours. Let me fight it out alone. I'll go away—take an apartment of my own, where I won't weigh you down by my presence, and make your friends shy of you and your house. I'll——"
"My dear little girl, you'll do nothing of the sort," Mrs. Mourraille broke in, kissing the auburn head. "The milk is spilt, as you say—so let us forget it. You don't want Lorraine, so we'll not consider him. We'll consider you, and the future."
"And you!" whispered Stephanie.
"We won't consider me—except indirectly. Whatever is best for you, dear, is best for me. We will fight this out together."
"You sweet mother!" said Stephanie, drawing the dark head down beside her own. "You shall be in reserve; I'll be on the firing line—and I won't let them get through to you."
Her mother smiled in tender clemency.
"I'll be wherever you want me and whenever," she replied.... "We might go away for a time," she suggested.
Stephanie shook her head.
"I'll go if you want very much but it doesn't appeal to me. It will only postpone, by the length of our absence, my restoration to—good standing!" she smiled.
"You wish to stay here?"
"Yes—among my friends—to the end that I may learn who they are."
"You may have some bad quarters-of-an-hour, and receive some shocks beside," her mother cautioned.
"Let them come—I've received enough shocks already to make meimmune. It will be amusing, diverting, serve to make the time pass more rapidly."
"My child!" said Mrs. Mourraille kindly. "You don't appreciate just what you are saying."
"I do, mother dear, and what it means also. I have to face it, so I may as well get out of it what I can, and meet it with a smile. I may be wrong, but to my mind there is nothing like indifference for such a situation."
"That is the best way to look at it, if you can—but can you? Can you be philosophical under the slights, and snubs, and bitter tongues?"
"I think I can—at least, I mean to try," said Stephanie quietly. "With Gladys Chamberlain and Pendleton and Burgoyne, I'm not alone. They will stand by me—if I don't offend again.... And you need not fear, dear," answering her mother's look; "I'm not going to Amherst-it again—with any man."
"Have you seen the afternoon papers?" Mrs. Mourraille asked.
"You mean—about Amherst and Mrs. Amherst? No, but Montague told me of it. It's better so—there is only one of us now for Society to get accustomed to. Moreover, his peace is made, and for him the rest is easy."
"It is always easy for the man," Mrs. Mourraille observed.
"Yes—and I can understand: his sin is not so scarlet—it's not continuing, so to speak. Ended it is ended. We women have got used to the social evil in the man, but we can't get used to it in the woman. The ethics of it are a thing apart—good to theorize over, but it is the practical view that controls andwill control in my case. I realize that I have nothing to hope for from the equitable argument. I'm a woman—I know what to expect from the women. I'm not blaming them. I've no one but myself to blame. Man and woman may be equal before the law where men are the judges, but they are not equal in Society's Court where women are the judges. I shall get small show there, mother dear, small show there! With rare exceptions we women are cruel and bigoted toward our sex, with all the characteristics of cruelty and bigotry on parade." She kissed the elder very fondly. "Now go or I shall not be dressed for dinner." ... "I suppose," she added, "there won't be any guests."
"Not this evening," her mother answered. "Do you wish me to ask any one—for a time?"
"I wish you to do just as you have always done,ma mère. I'll have my dinner in my room whenever I'mpersona non gratato your guests."
Mrs. Mourraille stopped in the doorway and smiled back at Stephanie.
"My guests will meet my daughter or they won't be my guests," she said quietly.
Stephanie, in the mirror of her dressing-table, threw her a kiss.
"No! no!" she said. "But if you don't mind, you might sometime ask Montague Pendleton and Sheldon Burgoyne."
"Together?"
"N—o!" Stephanie hesitated. "I think I'd rather have them apart; at least I would rather have Montague alone—Sheldon doesn't matter."
The Emerson pick-up dinner party was a decided success.
Even Pendleton admitted it. As for Burgoyne he was quite enthusiastic—possibly because he sat on Miss Emerson's right. Pendleton was on her left. Lorraine had been taken by the hostess—she was not going to let such an opportunity escape her. Old Emerson was sandwiched between Mrs. Burleston and Mrs. Smithers, and was talking like mad of everything but what he should. His wife could, at intervals, catch portions of his conversation, and she made frantically discreet efforts to flag him, but with no result—either because of the numerous cocktails he had imbibed in the grill, or because he refused to understand. As it was, Mrs. Burleston and Mrs. Smithers, as well as the others near him, were convulsed with merriment as he rattled on, serenely indifferent to his spouse's signals and attempts to distract him.
"Now you see, my dear," he whispered confidentially, leaning over Mrs. Burleston, "it is this way: When me and Sally—Sally was my first wife—was married—we didn't have nary a red—nary a red. She done the cooking and housework, including the washing, and I tended bar for McDivit. You don't remember McDivit, I guess—course not. Hewas a fine man—a fine man! He kept the old Baroque House—now the Imperial. And I was such a good bartender and mixed 'em so well, only knocked down ten per cent., instead of twenty-five, like the other fellows, that one day he says to me, says he:
"'Bill, you're a good fellow—I've been a watchin' you and I think a heap of you. I'm goin' to set you up in business. What would you rather be?'
"'I think,' says I, 'I'd rather be a gentleman.'
"'A gentleman!' says he—and smiled sort of knowing like.
"'Yes, sir!' says I; 'a gentleman—one what makes his living skinning another gentleman—legitimately.'
"'You mean you want to be a lawyer?' says McDivit.
"'Not I,' says I. 'They skin only the leavings. I want to skin the big wad. I want to go into the promoting business—I want to sell something I haven't got to somebody what doesn't want it.'
"'Good!' says McDivit with a twinkle in his eye. 'I'll go you.'
"And he set me up—and I've been going ever since—accumulating. There's a heap of profit selling something you haven't got—though you have to be a bit nimble to keep within the law. But I've succeeded purty well. Later I got to buying something that some one else wanted before he knew he wanted it—and that's profitable—especially if he wants it bad or has to have it. Why this here Club—I worked it beautiful. It didn't know it wanted the new fiftyacres, till after I knew it—and had bought it. That's how I came to be in the Club, you know—part consideration for the fifty acres. Oh, it's a great game! a great game when you know how to play it, and are lucky. I'm both. I'm worth a million and a quarter and I started with nothing—and I'm the same good fellow I was when I tended bar for Mr. McDivit. Success don't spoil Bill Emerson. No siree!" He paused a moment. "Sally, my first wife, you know, she died soon after I left McDivit, and when success came I married Maria—the present Mrs. Emerson, that is. She made a pretty good strike when she found yours truly, don't you think, my dears?" he ended, grinning broadly.
"I do, indeed, Mr. Emerson!" smiled Mrs. Burleston. "You are a find for any woman."
"So I have often told Maria—when we're exchanging compliments—like married people do, you know. I guess Burleston and you hand each other the same, hey? They don't mean nothin'—just hot air—that's pretty hot however when it first blows out!" he laughed.
"Poor old dad!" said Miss Emerson to Pendleton imperturbably. "He is telling the story of his life. Did you hear him?"
Pendleton shook his head.
"I was engaged otherwise," he replied, looking at her with a smile.
"Which is very good of you—but I'm not sensitive, I realize that every one knows what father is and was—it is not a secret that can be hid. Hestarted with nothing, either socially or financially, and he has come up to where he is—wherever that is. I'm not ashamed of it, though I will admit I would rather have been born in, than have climbed in. But ours was an honest climb, so to speak. Society saw us climbing, and stood aside and permitted it. We bought our ladder, we bought the right to use it, and we bought our way up the wall and down again on the inside. He also bought my education and polish and helped me to make good. That is my duty—to make good. I've been aware of it for years—since I first began to make friends among the nice girls, indeed. And I'm trying to make good, Mr. Pendleton—I've been trying to make good ever since. It's the business of my life to make a social success, and, with father's fortune as an inheritance, to marry well.... You know it—every one knows it—so why dissemble? Moreover, it is a legitimate business for a woman, so why be ashamed?"
She said it in the most casual tones—as though she was commenting on the weather or the latest play. Why dissemble? Why be ashamed? Everyone knew it! There was something refreshing in her candor, in her frank appreciation of the situation, and in her acceptance of it as the immediate problem for her to solve, with but the one solution possible that would spell success. She understood that her entire education had been directed with that end in view, and if she did not attain it she would be a failure.
"There is nothing to be ashamed of," Pendleton assured her.
"Nevertheless you are wondering why I talk this way to you?" she went on. "And I don't know why myself—unless it is my father in me. He has a way, at times, of becoming intimately personal concerning his affairs," with a bit of a smile.
"Your father is a good fellow," said Pendleton, seizing the opportunity to shift the conversation.
"Father isdear!" she returned; "a dear, unselfish man—with me, at least. He may set mother on edge by fracturing the conventions, but it never bothers me. He has the inherent right to fracture them—and he does it very naturally!" she laughed. "I love him, and I'm not ashamed of him either."
"Good girl!" commented Pendleton. "You're not a snob—like the most of the new-rich."
"I try not to be, at all events."
"What do you try not to be, Miss Emerson?" Burgoyne asked, breaking into the talk.
"A snob!" she smiled.
Burgoyne raised his eyebrows.
"Every one is more or less a snob, Miss Emerson; don't you want to be in the fashion?"
"I don't like the fashion," she returned.
"Consider," he said. "Is there a man in this Club-house who doesn't think himself a little better than his fellows by reason of more money, more social position, more popularity, more athletic ability, more brains, more something?"
"I can't answer for the men!" she laughed; "but if you ask me as to the women, I'm afraid I'll haveto plead guilty. We are all snobs, on that basis, Mr. Burgoyne. It's only a matter of degree."
"Everything is a matter of degree," Burgoyne answered, "from the powder on your face to a municipal councilman's venality."
"Is there any powder on my face?" she demanded.
"Altogether impersonal," he assured her.
"But is there?—I detest powder!"
"So does every man—if the women only could be made to believe it. If there is one thing that is disgusting, it is a white-washed face. Let them put it on if they must, but let them rub it off—all of it. A shiny nose isn't half as bad as a powder-smeared one."
"Mr. Burgoyne, I must know if there is any powder on my face," she repeated tragically, facing him.
He looked long and carefully—so long and so carefully, indeed, that she dropped her eyes, though she did not turn her head.
"No," he answered. "There isn't a single trace."
"Did it require so long to make sure?" she asked.
"I was looking——"
"Yes—I noticed you looking," she remarked.
"I was looking for—powder. If you think I might be mistaken, I will look again."
"You couldn't be mistaken—after such a critical and prolonged—scrutiny!" she laughed. "And it won't be necessary to look again, sir—just at present."
"Will the 'present' be very long?" he queried, with assumed gravity.
"I cannot tell—it will depend."
"Upon what?"
"Circumstances."
"Of what nature?"
"Of different natures—yours and mine."
"More especially yours, I presume?"
"No—yours, I should say," she replied.
"Why mine?"
"To give you something to guess."
"I'm a poor guesser," he protested.
"I thought as much!" she mocked. "It's a masculine failing, I—understand."
"Say rather it is a faculty distinctly feminine—and raised to the nth degree."
"What are you two talking about?" demanded Pendleton.
"I haven't the slightest idea!" Miss Emerson answered. "Have you, Mr. Burgoyne?"
"If I have, I can't find it."
"Who ever knows what they are talking about at a dinner party?" said Pendleton. "Moreover, who cares? It's all bubbles, usually, that burst the moment they are blown."
"Is it?" asked Miss Emerson, with a significant smile.
"Dinner talk I mean," explained Pendleton. "Occasionally we strike deeper—then it's something else than bubbles."
"How do you distinguish?" Burgoyne asked.
"Most people don't, my friend—hence the bubbles."
"Precisely—you're one of the don'ts," said Pendleton.
"Which being the case, let us change to something more entertaining than bubbles," Burgoyne retorted. "I'll take Miss Emerson, and you amuse yourself for a space with your left-hand opponent."
* * * * * * * * * * *
"What do you think of Miss Emerson?" Pendleton asked when, several hours later, he and Burgoyne sat smoking on the terrace.
"I should say she is a thoroughbred—if it were not for her parents. She has all the characteristics of the well-born—except that she isn't. It must be a sore trial to the girl always to have mother and father to contend against."
"Possibly she doesn't consider it," observed Pendleton. "Possibly she accepts the condition and makes the best of it. I've never noticed that she seemed to feel it in the least."
"Which makes her all the more thoroughbred," Burgoyne declared.
The other nodded. "Just so—and what is more, I've yet to hear her retail scandal or malicious gossip, criticise her friends or acquaintances, or question their motives. Pretty remarkable in a woman, Sheldon."
"Exceptional, indeed," Burgoyne agreed. "But it comports with her presence. She is an exceptionallooking girl. Hertout ensembleis wonderfully attractive—to me, at least."
"You're not the only one to observe it, my friend, as I think I told you. Ask Devereux, if you doubt. He says every blithering idiot in the Club is hot foot after her—himself included. Are you going to get in the running also?"
"There appears to be too much competition—the pace is too fast for me. Why haven't you been in it yourself?"
"For the same reason—and one other: I'm too old," Pendleton chuckled amiably.
"Poor chap!" Burgoyne observed. "Who would ever have thought it to look at you!"
"Age is as one feels," said Pendleton. "I feel sixty—therefore I'm not chasing after the petticoats. I leave that for those younger in years and spirit. I am content to stand back and look on—to sniff the battle from afar, like the old war horse."
"Who always has another battle in him," rejoined Burgoyne. "However, I would be quite satisfied to have you look on were I a contestant. The Honorable Montague Pendleton is, I fancy, a dangerous rival for any woman's affections."
"It would seem so!" laughed Pendleton.
"I mean, if you should care to be a rival."
"Thanks, that is better—one likes to fancy himself the very devil with the women, even when he knows he isn't."
"What is Stephanie Lorraine going to do?" Burgoyne asked presently.
"You mean after this afternoon?" said Pendleton. "I do not know. I fancy she doesn't know either. The meeting with Lorraine was most unfortunate, if she sought reconciliation."
"Yes; but if she didn't, it doesn't matter in the least—aside from its giving the mob fresh food for talk."
"I didn't hear anything said at our table!" smiled Burgoyne.
"Hardly!" said Pendleton. "Mrs. Emerson chose to have the sensational guest in preference to the sensation. In deference to Lorraine and ourselves everyone refrained from mentioning what was uppermost in their minds. They have made up for it since, you may be sure."
"I think I shall go around to-morrow and call on Stephanie," Burgoyne announced.
"Do it, Sheldon—she's going to need all the friends she has—most of the women will side with Lorraine, you know."
"That is what makes me so strong the other way," declared Burgoyne.
"Added to the fact that you're not married. If you had a wife to consult, the chances are you would either think differently—or not think. The unfortunate thing is, the men will have little or nothing to say about it. It is the women that Stephanie has to placate, and she has anything but a rosy path cut out for her, I'm afraid. We men don't understand woman—we never have understood her and we never shall. We see only the surface of her nature—thatis all she ever permits us to see—and it is very pleasant to look upon. Under the surface, however, is hidden a fund of petty meannesses, which she reserves exclusively for her own sex. She knows better than to vent them on us—we wouldn't tolerate it for a moment."
"Are you speaking generally or with specific reference to Stephanie Lorraine?" queried Burgoyne.
"Both. It is a general proposition applied to a specific instance."
"Aren't you a bit hard on the women?" Burgoyne asked.
"I think not—but I don't ask you to believe me. If you're happier not to believe, all right. Every man to his experience and what it teaches him."
"Has yourexperiencetaught you any such doctrine?"
"My experience, together with my observation, has taught me all of that and much more. The trouble is I don't follow it. I can't withstand the feminine fascination and charm—nor my fondness for their society and so on. I'm a good deal like the fellow who couldn't resist the alluringly beautiful color of the red-hot iron and grabbed it with bare hands instead of with tongs."
"You advise me, then, to go after Miss Emerson with tongs?" laughed Burgoyne.
"I decline to advise you—you're quite of sufficient age to advise yourself," Pendleton responded.
"To return to Mrs. Lorraine," said Burgoyne. "The women didn't manifest much charity this afternoon, I must admit. They were as cold as the proverbial ice water."
"Yes—'seeing they see not'—as some one has it."
"And until they or some of them will consent to see, I fear that Stephanie will be very lonely."
Pendleton nodded. "It might have been better if she had remained abroad for a year or two—till the thing died down. Now it will depend on Stephanie herself whether she can force Society's hand."
"Is that her idea, do you think—to force Society's hand?"
"I don't know that she has formed any idea. She has been home only a day or two, you must remember."
"Judging from this afternoon—I should say she hasn't," remarked Burgoyne. "To come to the Club was about the wildest thing she could have done—and then, as a climax, to meet Lorraine right in the centre of the spot light! He seems to have known his mind when it came to the pinch. I understand he gave her his back."
"He did. So far as they two are concerned the decision is made finally," Pendleton replied. "The last hope of a reconciliation is past."
An hour later, when the piazza was almost deserted, two men came from the house and sat down some little distance away from the quiet corner where Pendleton and Burgoyne still lingered.
"Who are they?" said Burgoyne.
"Porshinger and Murchison," Pendleton replied—"bothnew ones, also, since you've been gone. They are long on money but short on breeding and manners."
"How did they get in?"
"Climbed in some way—otherwise bought their way in. Porshinger is a capitalist, who capitalized some of the Board of Governors; and Murchison is a big broker who gave a couple of them tips that eventuated.Voilà!"
"They are bounders, I suppose—like Emerson?"
"Of a different kind. Emerson is a good sort—these fellows are bounders of the offensive type. Emerson wants to be a gentleman and tries to be one—Porshingeret al.neither wants to be nor tries. It is a great thing, now-a-days, being one of the Governors of a fashionable club—when the new rich are climbing upward on the golden ladder. Many impoverished fortunes have been restored, even to affluence, by prospective candidates for admission."
"Has it come to be so bad as that?" said Burgoyne astonished.
"It has. Within the last two years there have been at least a score of candidates elected to membership in this and other fashionable clubs who have bought their election by before-and-after favors to certain members of the Boards."
"What are we coming to?" Burgoyne exclaimed.
"The aristocracy of dollars. In a few years those of moderate means, like ourselves, will be rooted out of our place by the gold hogs. They will make itso expensive that we cannot belong. Already the old families are beginning to drop out because of the cost: the doubled dues—the higher priced card—the increased style of doing even the simplest things—and, if they have wives or daughters or both, the elaborate dressing that is necessary if they want them to look even half decent and to be asked anywhere. They can't afford to keep up the pace. So there's nothing to do but to drop out. Our time is coming, Burgoyne—we may last longer because we have no feminine appendages, but our limit will be reached, also—it is only a question of a very little longer."
"Well, we shall be in good company at all events!" laughed Burgoyne.
"Yes, that is the recompense," commented Pendleton. "But it riles me to go down before these contemptible crowders-out, like the two yonder."
Burgoyne did not respond immediately and Porshinger's harsh voice came floating over.
"Did you see the Lorraine episode this afternoon?" he chuckled. "She camehere—actually had the audacity to come here—and she bumped into Lorraine right there on the piazza—and he gave her the frozen facehard. It was great."
"Just what Lorraine should have done," Murchison replied. "It's an infernal shame that our wives and daughters should be subjected to such effrontery. The woman has about as much idea of decency as a professional of the street—to come still warm from Amherst's arms and flaunt herself before them all.I should have thought the little shame she has left would have held her from this last atrocity."
"She's a mighty good looker all right!" the other remarked. "I don't blame Amherst—not in the least."
"Sure—she's a screamer—the tall, willowy sort—Kipling's vampire kind, you know the style?" Porshinger laughed. "I wonder who will be the next one. I should not much mind taking a flyer at her myself."
Pendleton pushed back his chair sharply and got up.
"Come along," he said to Burgoyne. "I may need your help."
He drew out his gloves and crossed the piazza to the two men.
"Well, you have the requisite amount in your clothes," Murchison was saying. "But I fancy you'll have to move fast if you want to stand any chance."
"Why?"
"Because she has——"
The rest of the remark was cut short by Pendleton's gloves falling with a snap across Porshinger's mouth.
"What the devil!" cried he, sitting up.
Crack! Again the gloves came down, and a button marked the skin of the cheek till the blood oozed out.
"I don't like the cut of your coat, Mr. Porshinger!" said Pendleton. "And just because I don't like it I'm going to give you a thrashing. Stand upand defend yourself. I don't want to hit even a cur when he's down."
"What in hell do you mean?" Porshinger shouted. "I've got no quarrel with you, Pendleton! What in hell do I care whether you like the cut of my coat or not—I'm no tailor."
"Aren't you? I thought you were—I apologize to the tailors," said Pendleton easily. "Put up your hands, you dirty scoundrel, or haven't you a single spark of courage in you?"
"I don't understand you!" protested Porshinger, edging away. "What have I done to you, Pendleton?"
"I've told you I don't like the cut of your coat," was the answer. "Put up your hands, if you don't want me to take my stick to you."
"The man must have lost his mind! Mr. Burgoyne, can't you do something?" Porshinger cried, retreating until his back was against the railing.
For answer, Pendleton's left shot out and tapped Porshinger lightly on the nose.
"Put up your hands," said he, and tapped him again.
Murchison sprang between them.
"Stop!" he cried. "What do you mean, Pendleton?"
"I've already answered that question several times," Pendleton replied. "Sheldon, will you be kind enough to take charge of Mr. Murchison?"
"Come to think of it I don't like the cut of yourcoat either, Mr. Murchison," said Burgoyne. "Oblige me by standing aside."
"What's the matter with you damn fools?" demanded Murchison. "Are you trying to pick a fight?"
"Yes," said Pendleton quietly, "but we are meeting with very poor success;" and he tapped Porshinger a third time—and harder.
"Well, if that's what you're after we'll accommodate you!" exclaimed Murchison. "Porshinger, let's give them what's coming to them"—and picking up a chair he let it drive at Burgoyne's head.
The next few minutes were very busy for all parties concerned—and when the astonished servants, attracted by the noise of overturning tables and shifting feet, hurried to the scene, Porshinger and Murchison were bearing their contusions down to the wash-room, while Pendleton and Burgoyne, without a scratch upon them—except for abraded knuckles—were in their chairs and smoking peacefully.
"What was it all about—why did they start the rough house?" Porshinger demanded, while they were repairing the damages.
"Don't you know?" asked Murchison.
"If I knew I wouldn't have asked you!" the other retorted.
"They overheard our talk about Mrs. Lorraine and resented it, I think," said Murchison.
"Hell! I might have known—Pendleton and Burgoyne met her when she came here this afternoon.Well, I fancy we can square off with them; Mrs. Lorraine is a pretty fair target—and Pendleton is not invulnerable to those who know how to reach him."
"You would better let Pendleton alone," cautioned Murchison.
"What! I think not. I'm not that sort. He started the fight so I'm going to accommodate him. Didn't like the cut of our coats, didn't they? What the devil did they mean by that—what's our clothes got to do with starting a rough-house?" he reiterated. "I don't understand—they didn't mention the Lorraine woman's name!"
"No, that is just it!" Murchison remarked. "They didn't mention her name; they chose some fool pretext for a quarrel so as not to mix her up with it. I've read of the thing, but I've never seen it before. Pretty neat dodge: I don't like the cut of your coat, or whiskers, or cravat, or trousers—so I'll knock your infernal block off. Biff! And the lady's name never mentioned! It's damn neat."
Porshinger looked at him in disgust.
"Why don't you go and tell them so!" he sneered. "They'll likely be courteous and biff you again."
"Probably they would," admitted Murchison good-naturedly.
"I didn't know they were so handy with their fists," Porshinger growled—he was bathing an eye in cold water.
"Maybe we were only particularly unhandy with ours," the other remarked. "At any rate, they're better than us, all right."
"Better at the fist-game, yes," retorted Porshinger. "We'll see now if they're better at some other games, damn them."
"Better forget it—and hold our tongues," Murchison advised again.
"Forget it? Not me! I never forget an injury—and I usually square off my debts. See!"