"Isn't incompatibility of temper a ground for divorce?" she asked.
"Yes, but it would not apply in your case, if he opposed the suit."
"It all rests with him then," she remarked, with a shrug of denuded shoulders. "Unless he wishes to be free of me, I must stay bound. It doesn't seem quite just—and it'sveryirksome."
"It is entirely just," he said, "but itisirksome to you—and foolish in him to hold you. However, it is his right and he alone is the judge. The sensible thing would be for him to divorce you on the ground of desertion. It would accomplish the result with a minimum of unpleasantness for you both."
"Then it would be the first time that he ever didthe sensible thing, when he could do the reverse," she remarked.
"Aren't you a little bitter?" he smiled.
"Bitter!" she said thoughtfully. "Probably I am. I can't pardon him for his supineness, his silly disregard of my danger. I may be wrong—may be doing him a deep injustice—but I shall never forgive him for letting me sink into Amherst's clutches. A pretty mess I have made of my life so far!" she commented, with a sarcastic little laugh.
He leaned forward and took her hand—and she let him take it.
"Don't, dear!" he entreated, with all the tenderness of the strong man. "It is not such a mess as you think. It will work out for your advantage—it has already done so—you're free of both Lorraine and Amherst. Isn't that something?"
"If Iwerefree of Lorraine I think I should be satisfied; it would be worth everything else—but I'm not."
"Not legally free, but free in fact," he answered. "And you'll be legally free also in a short time—a very short time. Lorraine's present mind can't last much longer, Stephanie."
"I hope you're a true prophet," said she, withdrawing her hand—as Tompkins appeared to light the candles in their big glass shades.
"I wish I were as certain of something else as I am of that," he reflected slowly, studying the coal of his cigarette, but watching her face with deliberately avowed surreptitiousness.
And she observed it and inferred what he meant, and her pulses beat a trifle faster, but beyond a smile, which she contrived to be half-puzzled, half-questioning, and wholly fascinating, she made no answer.
She was lovelier now, he thought, than he had ever seen her. Her figure, in its clinging narrow evening gown, had rounded into the most adorable curves, though retaining all its youthful slenderness. Two years ago she had suggested what to-night she was—a glorious woman. And the flawless face, ordinarily so cold in its beauty, was soft and tender as he had never thought to see it. He bent over and deliberately looked her in the eyes—and she, from the recess of her chair, knowing that he would come no further, calmly looked him back. Neither spoke—yet the one told a purpose formed, and the other did not warn him to desist.
"Do you realize just how lovely you are?" he asked.
"Yes," she smiled. "I have my eyes and my mirrors—and an admiring maid."
"But you haven't——" he began—and broke off. He was about to say "you haven't a husband to tell you."
And she guessed his words instantly—but not his exact meaning.
"'I haven't a husband to tell me,' you were going to say. Why didn't you say it? It would have been no more than the truth."
"I was not thinking of Lorraine as the husband," he replied.
She gave a little gasp of surprise at its unexpectedness—a gasp that ended, however, in a smile and a shake of the ruddy head.
"Please give me a cigarette," she said, extending her hand.
He drew out his case and offered it to her.
"Is this all that I may give you now?" he asked.
"All!" she replied, passing a match across the tip. "All—now.... What is it, Tompkins?" as the butler appeared in the doorway and bowed.
"The telephone, madam!" monotoned Tompkins.
"Did you get the name?" she asked.
"The Homœopathic Hospital, madam; they want to speak to you at once."
"What can it be?" she exclaimed, turning to Pendleton. "Come into the living-room with me, Montague—I'm afraid of hospitals—dreadfully afraid—even by telephone."
Pendleton arose and accompanied her.
"It is nothing," he assured her.
"I am Mrs. Lorraine," she said, when she reached the receiver. "What is it, please?"
"This is the Hahnemann Hospital, Mrs. Lorraine," came the answer and Pendleton could hear it on the other side of the table. "Your husband was seriously injured this evening when his automobile collided with a street car. He was unconscious when brought in, but revived for a moment and has asked for you."
She raised her eyes to Pendleton. He nodded that he had understood.
"Is he conscious now?" she asked to gain time. Her mind was in a whirl.
"No—he relapsed almost instantly. It is impossible to tell now how seriously he is injured. He has bled profusely, from several superficial wounds, but we fear he has been hurt internally. He may also be suffering from concussion. We thought it best, Mrs. Lorraine, to advise you of his condition and that he asked for you," the voice went on, a trifle apologetically.
"You did very right," she replied. "I'll come to the Hospital at once."
She hung up the receiver and looked at Pendleton.
"You heard?"
"Everything."
"WhatcouldI do?" she demanded.
"Nothing but what you did."
"But I don't want to do it—I don't want to see him—I don't wish him to die, but——"
"Never mind," he said tenderly. "You don't have to go—you are quite justified in not seeing him. And his condition is not dependent upon your presence or your absence. Do exactly as you choose, Stephanie."
"Butifhe should die! If he should die, having asked for me, and I having been told and then not hastening to him at once! As a fellow human—not as a wife—is it right that I should deny him what may be his last request?"
"A request he has already forgotten in unconsciousness," Pendleton replied. "Under all thecircumstances, your duty depends wholly upon your own desires—to go or not to go as you think best. You are not obligated to consider anything else. Hence I approved of your first determination to go to the Hospital; when you changed your mind and said you would not go, I approve of it also."
"What do youadviseme to do?" she asked tremulously.
"I should advise you to go," he said quietly.
"And stay?"
"That can be determined later."
"And will you go with me?"
"I'll go anywhere or do anything you want, dear," he replied.
Throwing a wrap over her evening gown, Stephanie hurried out and into Pendleton's car, which was standing at the curb. He sprang after, opened the throttle and they whirled away.
"How long will it take to get to the Hospital?" she asked.
"About fifteen minutes—if we are not held up by traffic when we come off the Boulevard."
"I suppose I ought not to feel indifferent at such a time," she said presently. "But I do—and I won't hide that I do. I'll try to meet what the occasion demands but nothing more. If he still wants me, I'll go to him. If he is conscious and hasn't asked for me again, I'll come away. It will be a relief to come away. I have no longer any duty to him. At least I feel that I haven't—and so why pretend the one or do the other?"
"Would you rather not go?" he asked, slowing down.
"I wouldmuchrather not go," she replied—"but I'm going just because I'm not sure of my duty in the matter. I swore at our marriage to love, honor and cherish him. I don't love him—I think I never honored him—I'm not sure that it will do any good for me to cherish him—but I'll try to be kind while his life is in danger—when the danger has passed, thecherishing shall cease." She stole a look at the man beside. "A queer philosophy, you think doubtless—and possibly it is; but toward some few people, my husband among them, I have as much feeling as a piece of marble—rather less indeed. Don't try to understand me, Montague—you can't; I don't understand myself."
She was overwrought, he saw. This sudden call to confront a condition such as she had never anticipated—the distressing fact that Lorraine, injured maybe unto death, had asked for her—had stretched her nerves to attenuation.
It was not for him to tell her what she should do. In truth, he did not know. The one thing that made it difficult was Lorraine's request. If it were not for that he would not have hesitated. But it is hard to refuse a dying man—or one who may be dying.
"Steady yourself, Stephanie!" he said, as the car ran in under theporte cochereof the Hospital.
"I am steadied," she answered. "I'll be all right when we enter—I'm not going to collapse or shriek or make a scene, you may be sure."
He rang the bell, gave the name, and they passed into the reception-room.
In a moment a white uniformed nurse entered—a woman of middle age, quiet and business-like.
"Mrs. Lorraine?" she asked.
"Yes," Stephanie answered.
"I am Mrs. Bangs, the head nurse, Mrs. Lorraine. Your husband has not regained consciousness, I am sorry to say. Doctor Wilton has been advisedof your arrival and he'll see you just as soon as possible. Will you come into the resident physician's office and wait? It will be only a moment, I'm sure."
They crossed the corridor, were shown into the office, and the nurse went about her duties.
There is not much sentiment in a hospital attendant—at least toward those not patients—and the patients themselves are but cases in the abstract.
Stephanie looked at Pendleton and smiled.
"You see—I'm steady," she said, holding up her hand. "A trifle too steady for an injured man's wife, I fear—though, I suppose, they all know the state of our—affairs."
"Every one knows it—if they've read the newspapers," Pendleton returned.
"And it's safe to assume that they have; and that they believed all they read as well—and then some. It's a common failing. I'd do the same about someone else, I reckon—if it happened to interest me."
"Thereis just the difference—it wouldn't interest you, nor me, nor any right-thinking person."
"Then the right-thinking persons are very scarce in this world!" she smiled.
"I shouldn't call them scarce," he replied—"very much in the minority would be better."
Dr. Wilton entered the room at that moment—the rubber-soled shoes having deadened his steps in the corridor. His was one of the old families, and so he was no stranger to Stephanie or to Pendleton. He was familiar with the peculiar situation—and, man like, sympathized with Stephanie. He respondedto the look of inquiry in her eyes before she had time to ask.
"Your husband, Mrs. Lorraine, is resting quietly. The concussion is slight—and unless something develops internally, which we can't yet tell, he will likely recover. He has had four ribs broken, has sustained numerous cuts and bruises, and has lost much blood—but these are merely temporary in their effects."
"Has he recovered consciousness?" Stephanie asked.
"At brief intervals—but not for any length of time."
"Is there any indication that he is hurt internally?"
"It is too early to know certainly; though the character of the accident and the wounds make it very possible. There was a slight hemorrhage, but that has ceased."
It was as if he were discussing the case with an ordinary visitor or a reporter. He already knew she was not likely to be particularly interested, but the impersonal manner in which she asked and received his account of her husband's accident—certainly grievous and possibly fatal—was most indicative. He found himself wondering why she had taken the trouble to come at all.
And she read something of what he thought, for she remarked, without preliminary:
"The Hospital said over the telephone that he had asked for me when he was first brought in—and I came because of that. Has he asked again?"
"I think not, Mrs. Lorraine—nor for any one."
"May I see him?"
The doctor hesitated. "You may—if you very much wish—but we should prefer not."
"Can I do him any good by seeing him?"
"Not a particle. He is, pardon me, much better as it is—with the surgeons and nurses. In such cases, the presence even of one nearly connected is frequently a deterrent, and excites the patient unduly."
"I can do nothing then?" she persisted.
"Absolutely nothing," he assured her.
"And in event of his needing me?"
"We will telephone you."
"You think I should not wait?"
"I do," he said. "It is quite unnecessary. At present, Mrs. Lorraine, your husband is in no immediate danger."
Either Harry had revoked his request, or Doctor Wilton was making it easy for her.—At all events, she could depart with the equanimity of a duty done.
"Then I will go home—depending on being advised on the instant, if I am needed," she said with the most bewitching smile and holding out her hand.
The doctor took it in a friendly grasp.
"I think that is best, Mrs. Lorraine," he replied.
"I suppose you know nothing of the details of the accident?" she asked.
"No—we leave them to the newspapers and the ambulance chasers," he smiled. "Our record begins with Mr. Lorraine's entry here."
"I will depend then upon the Hospital notifyingme if I am needed," she repeated, and with another smile and a nod she went out.
"Thank heavens!" she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, when they were once more in the car and turned toward her home. "I've done as much as the circumstances warrant—at least, to my mind. The next move is up to him and the Hospital."
"You've done all that anyone could demand," he said. "More than was necessary, I think."
"Which being the case, I'm going to forget it, except that twice a day, until he is out of danger, I shall inquire for him by telephone. Now let us talk of something else."
It was on the fourth day thereafter that Doctor Wilton himself called Stephanie on the telephone.
"Mr. Lorraine has asked for you," he informed her. "He knows that you were here the night of the accident and it pleased him greatly. Will you come some time this morning, if it is convenient?"
"It is not very convenient," Stephanie responded; "I am going out of town—to Criss-Cross—this afternoon for a couple of days, but I'll stop in for a moment. I can't well break the appointment at this late moment."
"Very well," said he. "I'll just tell him I have concluded it is unwise for him to see you for a day or so."
She drummed a moment on the table.
"No, I will come," she decided—"at eleven thirty—will you please see that I am admitted promptly?"
And at eleven thirty she was there and Doctor Wilton received her.
"The nurse will remain, I suppose," she remarked, as they reached the door of Lorraine's room.
He understood.
"If you do not object," he replied. "It would not be well for her to leave her patient—in his present condition."
Lorraine glanced up as the door opened—and when he recognized his wife he smiled and put out his hand.
"I'm glad to see you, dear," he said.
"I'm glad to see you so much better," she replied, taking his hand, but not offering to kiss him. "You had a narrow escape!"
"Rather close call," he admitted.
The doctor, after a word to the nurse, had gone out—and the nurse remained. Lorraine's eyes glanced at her impatiently. She was occupied with the chart.
"You're ever so much stronger—aren't you?" said Stephanie, inanely.
"I suppose so—I think I am.... They told me of your being here the evening I was injured. It was very good of you to come, Stephanie."
"I came because they told meyouhad asked for me," said she quietly.
"I did—I thought I was going to die; and I wanted to see you again—just to—apologize."
"Don't think of that," she replied hastily. "You're not going to die."
"They say I'll probably pull through now—my head is all right—but I'm pretty weak."
"Of course, you're weak," she echoed. "Who wouldn't be weak with all that you've endured."
She simply did not know what to say to him. The last spark of affection was in ashes—cold ashes—else would it have been warmed, at least a trifle, by the sight of him lying there, injured and helpless.
He smiled faintly—and the nurse came to the rescue. She looked at Mrs. Lorraine meaningly. Stephanie nodded.
"Your nurse intimates that it is time for me to go," she remarked. "And the nurse is in command." She reached down and took his hand. "Good bye!" she said.
"You will come again!" he questioned.
"Certainly, whenever you wish—and the nurse lets me."
He smiled—and she, with an answering smile, went quietly out.
He closed his eyes and lay quite still. The nurse came to the bed; played with gentle fingers a moment upon his wrist, and went softly away.
It was pretty hopeless, he reflected, pretty hopeless! Stephanie cared no more for him than for an utter stranger—probably less. She had come in response to his request, but she had let him know that it was because he had asked for her and not of her own volition. And when she did come, the talk had been the veriest of inanities; and the nurse had remained in the room the entire time—at Stephanie's behest he had little doubt. Her "whenever you wish," had really meant, "but don't wish".... He didnot see why she had taken the trouble to come at all, since he was nothing to her—why she had not simply answered that she would not come, that she no longer recognized any obligation toward him. Everyone knew the facts of the last two years so why should she not be candid, even brutally so? This visit was nothing—nothing but ashes to them both—nothing but the proof that the rupture was beyond repair. And he loved her still!—loved her as in the days of courtship, though it had been obscured by the hate and injury of the recent past. If he could not affect her now, even so far as to win a look of regard, his case was forlorn. If his condition would not melt even a little the ice of her reserve, there was small hope. But hewouldhope!—wouldhope! It was not her fault—it was Amherst's. He acquitted her—she was a wronged woman—he was a wronged husband! Amherst was the villain! Amherst was——
There was a light touch on his shoulder. He opened his eyes—the nurse was standing beside him, a glass of orange juice in her hand, a smile on her face.
"It is time to take your nourishment," she said.
For a moment he was tempted to refuse—but she smiled again, very sweetly; and put the glass to his lips.
"Now, try to relax and sleep a while," she suggested.
"Is that an order?" he said faintly.
"An order," she answered, dropping her hand on his forehead and smoothing it with deft touch.
He smiled up at her,—and closed his eyes—and presently he slept.
* * * * * * *
Stephanie, when she left the Hospital, went on to the shopping district.
It was the first time she had been down town since the day before Lorraine's accident—and she very quickly noticed the difference in the attitude of many that she knew and met. There was a more manifest cordiality, slight in some cases, more open in others, but unmistakable nevertheless. More people looked at her in a friendly way, and would have spoken had she given them the chance. Butshenever saw them, or looked right through them—depending upon whether hitherto they had been negative or positive in their hostility. From all those who had spoken heretofore, she accepted the additional smile or word of greeting—from all those with whom it was an initial effort she declined the overtures.
Mrs. Postlewaite passed down the aisle just as Stephanie was turning away from the glove counter, and thegrande damerelaxed sufficiently to glance at her in a personal way and to give her the chance to return the glance—her manner even indicating that, if Stephanie were brave enough to speak, she might condescend to acknowledge it with the faintest nod. It was plainly a look of permission—but Stephanie never looked; though taking due care to let Mrs. Postlewaite know that she saw. And the ancient lady's face congealed into impassivity—and they went their respective ways.
She knew, of course, what had caused the change. It had become known that she had visited her husband at his request—and they assumed a reconciliation was likely to follow.
She finished her shopping and went out to her car—to find it with a deflated tire and the driver just beginning the repair. She glanced at the clock on the dash. It was after one. She was much later than she thought.
"Is that the correct time?" she asked the man.
"Yes, Mrs. Lorraine!" said he, touching his cap but without raising his eyes from the wheel.
It would be too late to go home for luncheon, by the time the repair was made, so she turned back into the department store and took the elevator to the dining room on the top floor.
The place was crowded—the head waiter and the captains at the far end of the room, as usual. There was no empty table in sight, and Stephanie paused at the door.
Instantly the eyes of a hundred women focussed on her. At the same time Marcia Emerson, sitting some distance down the room, saw her and getting up hastily came forward.
"Won't you join me at my table, Mrs. Lorraine?" she asked. "It's for two and I'm alone."
It so happened that Stephanie, since her return, had not encountered Miss Emerson, therefore there could be no memory of glances withheld nor of greetings lacking. It was very polite in her and she couldnot well refuse, though she would have been better satisfied had Marcia not done it.
"I shall be glad to join you—you're very kind," she answered.
An audible buzz went up as they passed down the aisle to their table.
Some who were not acquainted with her were simply curious to see the noted Mrs. Lorraine—others, who knew both well were startled at the one's temerity and the other's acquiescence. Why Marcia Emerson should endanger her social position, none too strong with the powers that be, was more than they could understand. Never independent themselves, they could not appreciate intrepidity in another. In such a case, they trimmed their sails to the leader's wind and were content to remain under convoy. So far as they were aware, the wind had not veered with any strength to Mrs. Lorraine's quarter. And even though some had heard of the prospective reconciliation, they waited to take their cue from one of those powerful enough to indicate an assured course of action.
"I assume you know how rash you are in inviting me to your own table, and in coming the length of the room to do it," she remarked. "I am distinctlypersona non grataat present."
"You're not to me," said Marcia heartily. "I don't follow Mrs. Postlewaite and her clique. I do as I wish, and where I wish it. Your affairs are your own—they concern only those directly involved. I'm not involved, therefore it is an unwarrantable impertinence for me to interfere in the slightest—or tojudge. I've been out of town for the past three weeks is why I've not called—which, I hope, you will pardon. I didn't know you intimately before you went away, but if you'll permit it we will start in just where we left off."
"It may hurt you with the conservatives," Stephanie warned.
Miss Emerson shrugged her shoulders. "And that might injure my standing in Society, since I've not a too secure footing as it is. Let it, I'll take my chance as it pleases me to take it, not as some one else would make me take it. I'm responsible for my friendships, and I'm not going to have anyone tell me who they shall be—or who they mustn't be. Imagine amansubmitting to any such dictation!"
"I can't imagine it!" smiled Stephanie. "He would laugh in their faces—or else tell them a few truths in very plain English."
"Exactly! We women are silly fools in the way we submit to being controlled. We haven't any independence even in our clothes. We let a few shoddy French modistes, and theirdemi-mondaineassistants at the Longchamps races, prescribe what we shall wear, and we follow with the abject servility of slaves—never pausing to think whether the fashions are becoming, or hideous, or grotesque. And we change them every three months—so the tailors and dressmakers can overcharge us four times a year.A man!I should like to see the tailors who had the hardihood to try it. They make his clothes ashewants them, and they make them the same way and the same cutyear after year. A man can wear out his clothes, and be in fashion until they're worn out if it takes five years. His hats are the same style year after year, his shoes are the same last, his collars and neckties vary practically not at all. There is something fine about a man's supreme indifference; making the tradesmen do as he wants, instead of as the tradesman wants—as we do. And it's all because we are afraid; afraid of being behind the styles—behind some one who has something newer than ourselves. We forget that we control the styles, and that if we would simply refuse to change there would not be a change—and the modistes would become—as the men's tailors are—purveyors of goods, not dictators of styles."
"It is absurd, of course," agreed Stephanie; "yet who is to break the chains that custom has welded? We women are more or less fools—and the shopkeepers and their class trade on the fact, and laugh in their sleeves while doing it. And we know we're fools and that they're laughing, but we pretend ignorance. It must be very amusing to a man."
"If he takes time enough to notice it—or if it doesn't touch him in the pocket," Marcia returned.
"More especially the latter!" Stephanie laughed.
She saw Mrs. Porterfield coming down the room with Mrs. Postlewaite. As they neared, she glanced at them with the casual look of a total stranger, and went on with her luncheon. Miss Emerson remarked it and smiled inwardly in appreciation of the situation. It was beautifully carried off. The Queen P's were being deliberately ignored—not Mrs. Lorraine.
As they passed, both dames nodded pleasantly to Marcia. Then Mrs. Porterfield, catching Stephanie's eye, bowed slightly but with unmistakable deliberation—as though she wished to impress the act upon all who witnessed it.
Stephanie instantly returned it in just the way it was given—with precisely the same manner and deliberation. Then a little mocking smile crept into her eyes and lingered.
"I know it is bad taste to comment on what does not concern one," Marcia remarked, "but do you quite appreciate the honor that has been done you?"
"I understand the honor—even if I don't appreciate it," Stephanie replied. "It is the first indication that the icebergs are preparing to melt."
"I love the way you first ignored her, and then acknowledged her bow with a manner that was a perfect replica of her own," Marcia laughed.
"Are you going home?" Stephanie asked, when they were drawing on their gloves; "and have you your own car here? No?—well, won't you let me drop you on my way?"
"Indeed, I will," said Marcia. "Mother took the machine and left me to the tender mercies of the street car."
As they came out of the store, two men who were passing took off their hats and bowed most deferentially.
"Who were they?" asked Stephanie, as the car started.
"Charles Porshinger, on the outside—and HenryMurchison," Marcia answered, with a look of quick surprise.
"They must be new people—at least, I've never heard of them."
"They've been in society about a year—they both belong to the nice clubs, and are not married."
"It's comparatively easy for an unmarried man to get in," Stephanie observed. "All that he needs is to present a good appearance and to have a friend or two to vouch for him."
"And if he happens to have money, it is pretty easy to—get the friends!" Marcia smiled.
Stephanie nodded. "Tobuythe friends, you were about to say. Yes, itiseasy now-a-days—entirely too easy."
Then she suddenly thought what she was saying and to whom—and stopped.
But Marcia only laughed—and answered:
"Father is married—and has a daughter. We're in another class, and we're a bit—acclimated now."
"And that daughter," said Stephanie heartily, "has made good—you belong!"
"Mrs. Lorraine," began Marcia presently, "I don't want to seem impertinent, but did you really intend me to infer, from what you said as we came out of Partridge's, that you did not know Porshinger or Murchison?"
"Yes indeed," Stephanie replied. "I not only don't know them, but I have no recollection even of having seen them prior to to-day. Why do you ask?"
"I will tell you," said Marcia—"and you may make out of it what you can. Last evening I was upat the Club-house until rather late, and four or five of us were sitting in a sheltered place on the North piazza. While we were there, Porshinger and Murchison came out and sat down just around the corner. After a short while all of our party went in except Mr. Burgoyne and myself—and he was called, a moment after, to the telephone. Left alone I could not but hear Porshinger's and Murchison's talk. We had been making a good deal of noise, and they evidently thought from the silence that we all had gone in. But however that is, I heard Murchison say:
"'Is there anything new in the Lorraine matter?'
"'Not much,' said Porshinger. 'The thing is coming along though, never fear. Pendleton, the snob, is not invulnerable. I've found a way to reach him, and it's only a matter of a little time till he will be having troubles of his own—and Mrs. Lorraine also.'
"'Better leave well enough alone,' Murchison cautioned.
"'That may be your way—it's not mine!' retorted the other. 'They started the fight, now I'm going to accommodate them. They will think merry hell has broke loose before I'm through with them.'
"Then Mr. Burgoyne returned and I heard no more. Can you understand it?"
Stephanie shook her head.
"I can not," she said—"but possibly Mr. Pendleton can explain it. I shall tell him, if you don't mind, the next time I see him."
"Tell him by all means," Marcia responded. "You have my permission."
Criss-Cross, the Chamberlain country place, was two hours out by a fast train. Mrs. Chamberlain had been dead a number of years and Gladys presided over her father's establishment with the ease of careful training and the assurance of an only child.
She met Stephanie at the station when the latter arrived late that afternoon, and they drove back to Criss-Cross by a round-about way that stretched the two miles into twenty—during which Gladys learned all the happenings of the last week in town, particularly the present attitude of the Queen P's and their followers, resultant from Lorraine's accident and Stephanie's behaviour incident thereto with the prospect of their reconciliation.
"Marcia Emerson seems to be an exceedingly nice girl," Stephanie observed. "Two years have done wonders for her."
Gladys nodded.
"Marcia is a dear!" she replied. "She's a good sport in everything, and she is something to look at besides. The two years that you were away have made her. I don't blame the men for being crazy about her. The only drawback she has is her mother. She's a pusher. She thinks she's put Marcia in society, whereas Marcia has come in naturally, and the old lady rides on her train, so to speak. I can't abideMrs. Emerson! To me she has about every obnoxious fault of her class. Old Emerson is not half so bad; he is honest and amusing—and the men like him, I understand. I've asked Marcia down to-morrow, for the week-end—you don't mind, I hope."
"Not in the least—ifshedoesn't mind me," said Stephanie.
"She knows you are to be here. Mrs. Emerson, however, may throw a fit when she knows it!" Gladys laughed.
"Is any one else coming?" Stephanie asked.
"Just a few—your friends, of course: Dorothy Tazewell, and Helen Burleston, with Montague Pendleton, Sheldon Burgoyne, Warwick Devereux and Steuart Cameron. Two tables of Auction, you know—and plenty of go to the crowd."
"Mayn't I be a wet blanket?" Stephanie suggested.
"Why?" was the astonished query.
"Do they also know I'm coming? They may not care to be housed up with me for two days."
"Sure they know. You're too timid, my dear—when did it come on you?"
"Abroad, I reckon," Stephanie replied. "I appear cold and calm enough, but it's all bluff, Gladys. The truth is, I'm scared to death."
"I shouldn't care to pick you for a dead one!" Gladys laughed. "You have a way about you, my dear, that is rather chilling when you choose to make it so. You know what we used to call you—The Disconcerter."
"That was before I——" she paused. "NowI'mthe one who is disconcerted—inwardly at least."
"Assuredly it's not outwardly," Gladys declared.
"I hope it isn't—but you never can tell when I shall fail to carry it off. I am always thinking—whenever I'm talking to anyone or walking the street—what must be in the other's mind: Amherst and me."
"Forget it, Stephanie—forget it!" Gladys exclaimed.
"I only wish I could."
"Don'tthink of it."
"I don't believe it's possible."
"Make it possible."
"How?"
"By making yourself interested in some one else—and some one else interested in you."
Stephanie looked at her friend with an incredulous smile.
"The latter ought not to be especially difficult," Gladys went on—"as to the former, it depends upon yourself."
"Would you suggest a married man?" Stephanie asked.
"Married or single, it makes no difference; though the single man is unattached and easier to make obey orders."
"And what of Lorraine?"
"Lorraine isn't worth considering—he doesn't count."
"I grant you that, but——"
"Oh, I know, you're tied by law—but you're free in fact."
"Perhaps!" reflected Stephanie.
"Moreover, there is no earthly reason why you should let Lorraine interfere with your enjoyment of life," Gladys went on. "I assume that you don't intend to repeat the—other experiment—so why shouldn't you do as you please, so long as that pleasure doesn't transgress the proprieties."
"You know I was at the Hospital?" said Stephanie.
"Yes—the night of the accident."
"And again to-day."
"I call it very considerate in you," Gladys declared.
"Maybe you don't know that Harry has offered to take me back."
"I didn't know it—but I'm not surprised. He always is doing things too late. You're not going back?"
Stephanie shook her head.
"No—I'm not going back—ever," said she.
"Have you told him?"
"Yes—before the accident, not since."
"He is just silly enough to fancy that his mishap and your visits to the Hospital have changed your decision," Gladys remarked.
"Not likely. My visits were very brief and—calm."
"The Disconcerter!" Gladys laughed.
"I tried to be—distant," Stephanie confessed.
"Then you succeeded—I can't imagine anyone presuming after that."
"The difficulty is you are not Mr. Lorraine."
"To my mind the whole difficulty is Lorraine himself," Gladys declared. "If he were half a man your trouble never would have started. You were about as well fitted for each other as—pardon me—an eagle and a chicken. The only thing surprising is the length of time you hung together. Of course, it's a pity you didn't select some other way out—but I don't know that it's not the natural way, after all. Only——"
"Why did I choose Amherst, you mean?" remarked Stephanie quietly. "I don't exactly know. Propinquity, opportunity—perversity—especially the last."
"But more especially because he is a slick-tongued scoundrel with the odor of eminent respectability and a perfectly fascinating way with women," said Gladys.
They were mounting a steep hill. Near the crest, she threw quickly into second; and when they were over it went back again into high.
"What started us on this subject anyway?" she exclaimed. "I beg your pardon, dear—I never thought what I was saying."
"Nonsense!" smiled Stephanie. "I don't mind in the least—with you. Truth is, I rather like it. Harry Lorraine is nothing to me—and never can be. I'm not sensitive because he happens to be my husband. My poor judgment in making him such is too apparent for me to deny that I was a fool—neither can I deny that I took the worst possible way out of a badbargain by running away with Amherst. I admit I've been headstrong and willful and everything else idiotic. That possibly is my saving grace—my readiness to admit it—after it is too late. I suppose Society will consider him marvellously magnanimous in offering to take me back, and me a stupendously silly woman in declining. In fact, it won't believe that such a thing is possible. It already assumes that a reconciliation is to be effected. Mrs. Postlewaite was willing to speak to me to-day, and Mrs. Porterfield actually did bow."
"You are coming along!" Gladys laughed. "The Queen P's having indicated—it is for their followers to do likewise."
"What will they do, however, when they know the truth?" Stephanie inquired.
"Stampede—if they haven't committed themselves too far."
"They haven't—it was a tentative recognition only."
"It's perfectly absurd for two old women to set themselves up as the absolute arbiters of who shall be in it, and what shall be done to stay in—and for Society as a class to follow them abjectly," Gladys declared. "They are the high priestesses of the Conventional; and it's the fear of transgressing and being cast into outer darkness that holds every one to their narrow-minded ritual. I'm ashamed for my sex—they're so like sheep. They follow blindly after the leaders who in turn follow their fetish, the Customary; and it's useless to hope for a change. We've always done it; I reckon we always will do it—and those ofus who aren't tractable and won't submit are viewed with suspicion, and may be driven without the fold if we transgress too far. I'm thinking of starting a society of my own, in which the members will attend to their own business so long as they don't interfere with property rights. I'm inclined to think it would be mighty popular—especially among the younger set."
"There isn't a doubt of it," Stephanie agreed, with an amused smile. "Suppose we suggest it to the rest—the Order of Do as You Please—we will call it."
"You don't need suggest it to the men—they belong already. No one controls them. I wish I were a man!"
"You do quite well as you are—and are a lot more worth while," said Stephanie. "You can get a dozen men, my dear. Which one have you picked out for yourself, in the present instance?"
"I hadn't thought!" she laughed. "Pendleton is for you, of course—that is all I know now."
"Why of course?" said Stephanie.
"You can answer that better than I."
"Notyourreasons, my dear."
"Do you object to Montague being allotted to you?" Gladys asked, with a sly smile.
"Not in the least——"
"And do you fancyhewill have the slightest objection?"
"You will have to ask him."
"I'm asking foryour opinion, not for his."
"Montague is very adaptable," Stephanie remarked.
"Adaptable!" cried Gladys. "He may benow—he hasn't been in therecentpast. Your influence has evidently been softening—I shouldn't have thought of asking him if it hadn't been for you."
"Thank Heaven, I've a softening influence on some one," said Stephanie.
"Without a doubt—yes."
They were starting down a long, steep and winding grade. She cut off the spark, threw into second and opening the throttle let the gas shoot into the cylinders to cool the engine.
"My recommendation that you get some one interested in you is rather unnecessary under the circumstances, don't you think?" she remarked.
"How about my getting interested in some one?" Stephanie inquired.
"On second thought, it is not necessary—and it is better that you shouldn't. You can handle Pendleton much more easily if your affections are not engaged—except in a rational way."
"You might explain what you would call a 'rational way'!"
"I can't be specific!" Gladys laughed; "rationality depends on the circumstances of every case—and the individual view."
"Which is a trifle difficult to analyze," Stephanie remarked.
"Don't you wish to have Montague assigned to you?" the other demanded. "I'll give him to Dorothy, if you don't—she will be content."
"Won't you have some trouble in givingMontague to anybody—unless he's entirely willing to be given?" Stephanie smiled. "He isn't one to stay put, I fancy—whose place is this?" she ended, indicating a garish country-house, some little distance back from the road. "It is new, isn't it?"
"As new as the people who own it," Gladys answered. "The Woodsides live there. They belong to the Pushers Clique—and they are trying to pry their way through the outer portals. I don't like them."
"So I should infer," said Stephanie. "Who are their friends?"
"They haven't any—yet. They're trying to get in—nobody has any friends until they're in, my dear—and not many after they're in. They're pirates until the second generation."
"Do they belong to the Club?"
"Yes—that's no recommendationnow."
"I think I don't know them!" Stephanie reflected.
"Of course you don't. They came up from the weeds recently—along with Porshinger and Murchison and Berryman and their ilk."
"Who are Porshinger and Murchison?" Stephanie asked.
"Bounders. Plenty of money and an unlimited supply of brass. You know the sort. They are friends of the Woodsides and are down here very often. You may be afforded a view of them to-morrow."
"I saw them to-day—they spoke to Marcia Emerson as we were leaving Partridge's."
"Well, did you see much?" remarked Gladys.
"I saw two men—well groomed and superficially presentable."
"You saw it all then—you won't care to go deeper."
"You say they have money?"
"Great wads of it."
"What is their business?"
"Capitalists and professional directors," Gladys replied. "They are on about every important Board in town—including the Tuscarora Trust Company."
"Where did they make it?"
"Oil—principally and first. Afterward they made it everywhere. I think they must coin it, to tell you the truth. If you sold them a piece of swamp and scrub oak, gold would be discovered on it the next day. They're buying their way into Society; already they seem to regard it as an asset to be realized on. It is only a matter of time until they capitalize it, issue bonds on it, and have the stock for their own profit—you understand?"
"Not exactly!" laughed Stephanie, "but I catch your idea: They are exceedingly objectionable and offensively rich."
"Exactly!—and not a lot more beside. They are worse than bounders, they're muckers. That is about the meanest, most contemptible thing one man can call another, isn't it?"
It was easy to see that Gladys reflected her father's opinion of Porshinger and Murchison, and it disturbed Stephanie. If one of Mr. Chamberlain's dispositionso considered them, then, beyond question, they were a bad lot and she must warn Montague at the earliest moment. She could not understand how Pendleton and she had offended—when she had not even so much as a recollection of ever having seen them before to-day. And it was a joint offence, at least she was joined in it someway, for they had distinctly mentioned her name and included her in their meditated revenge—that is, Porshinger had included her, Murchison, as she remembered, had been against it.
"This Mr. Porshinger," she said—"is he particularly vindictive?"
"Vindictive?" was Gladys' puzzled interrogation.
"That is a bit strong, maybe. Unforgiving—unrelenting, is better."
"Why do you ask?" the other inquired.
"I just wanted to know."
"So one would naturally suppose," said Gladys. "However, I did hear a man, whom I consider thoroughly discriminating, say one day recently that he regarded Porshinger as vindictive as an Apache and as cruel, without conscience and without mercy. Is that sufficiently definite?"
"Appallingly so!" Stephanie replied.
"Do you mind telling me who has fallen under his displeasure?"
"I have."
"You!" cried Gladys. "Why you said you didn't even know him—that you had never seen him before to-day."
"Precisely!"
"Then will you tell me what you mean?"
"I will tell you what I was told—you can help me guess what it means," she answered.
And she told her.
"It surely is astonishing!" was Gladys' comment when she had heard Stephanie's tale. "It's true to the worst they say about him—to strike at a man through a woman! or rather to strike at you because somehow you are involved in the injury which Montague appears to have done him. Tell Montague at once—he will know what it means and he should be warned. Can't you imagine what it is?"
"I haven't an idea," said Stephanie.
"Strange!" reflected Gladys, with a serious shake of her head. "You are intimately concerned, it seems, and yet you haven't done a thing. Well, we shall have to wait for Montague to solve the riddle."
She surmised that it had something to do with Stephanie's return—that she was thecasus belli—but she did not suggest it. And Stephanie, while thinking the same, did not voice it; it seemed too far fetched. Moreover, it was predicated on Pendleton's voluntary defense of her in her absence. And the latter, she thought, would be assuming much more than the circumstances warranted, and would make her appear exceedingly well satisfied of his regard.
"You're very fortunate to have been warned thus early," Gladys continued. "Montague will have time to prepare—at least, he won't be taken completely unawares. Father knows Porshinger in business, and he says that if a man gets the best of him to theextent of a nickel, he will square off though it takes a year. Of course I know that a man's method in business isn't necessarily carried into his private life, but Porshinger does not come under that class."
"How about Murchison?" Stephanie asked.
"Not quite so bad—he is rather better mannered and has more feeling. The conversation that Marcia detailed illustrates the difference between the men, I should say. Murchison was for letting well enough alone—which only seemed to make Porshinger the more determined."
"On the whole, Porshinger must be a very pleasant fellow to have camping on one's trail!" smiled Stephanie. "I'm curious to hear Montague's opinion."
"I'd rather hear him express it to aman—it would likely be a trifle more picturesque!" Gladys laughed.
"What can Porshinger do?" Stephanie asked.
"Whatcan'the do with all his money and financial influence! God is on the side of the heaviest bank account."
"All things being equal, I grant it; but there is a wide difference between Montague Pendleton and Charles Porshinger as men—and I've faith in the blood. It will win, Gladys, it will win."
"Blood doesn't count for much in these automobile pace days," Gladys responded. "It is the money that talks."
"Blood counts for much in such a contest."
"Not where money is the basis of everythingexcept eligibility to hereditary societies of the self-glorification stripe."
"You're too pessimistic!" laughed Stephanie.
"My dear, you haven't a father who is an officer in the Tuscarora Trust Company—and you haven't seen the men who visit him. It's a sad commentary on what we are coming to—and the elevation of the parvenu. Let's change the subject. I'm becoming excited; the next thing I'll ditch the car, or run into a telegraph pole."
"Heaven forefend!" exclaimed Stephanie.
A little later, as they spun down the macadam near the Criss-Cross gates, they passed a station-wagon drawn by a spanking pair of bays.
The man in it took off his hat and bowed.
"There is Porshinger now!" said Stephanie.
Gladys nodded. "He has come out to spend the night at the Woodsides', I reckon—it's their conveyance."
"I see the Lorraine woman is with Gladys Chamberlain," observed Porshinger, as he and his host were enjoying a good-night smoke in the billiard room, and incidentally knocking the balls about.
"Hum!" replied Woodside, as he made a neat gather along the rail. "When did you see her—come down on the same train?"
"No—passed them in the car, as I came from the station. What's she going to do—make it up with Lorraine, if he recovers?"
"Search me!" answered the other. "Will he have her?"
"You're a little behind, Josh—everybody knows that he has offered and she's undecided."
"Well, I wish him success. She's a damn good looking woman—better looking even than when she ran away with Amherst—don't you think so? Oh! I forgot you didn't know her then."
Porshinger shot a sharp look down the table—and followed it with a smile.
"I don't know her now—to speak to," he said. "But I have no trouble in recollecting two years back—and I quite agree with you. She is even better looking now. I don't wonder that she turned Amherst's head."
"It's a cold head, she turned!" Woodside laughed."I fancy she found it out soon enough, and that they had a parrot and monkey time of it until they broke finally. The ways of the transgressor are full of punctures."
"You refer to only one sort of transgressors, I imagine," Porshinger remarked, with a thinly veiled contempt.
"Yes at that moment I did," said his host indifferently; "but it applies to every one—you and me included," and he steadied himself for a massè.
"You know the Chamberlains well enough to—happen in?" asked Porshinger presently.
"Want to meet the statuesque beauty—hey?" Woodside laughed.
Porshinger nodded.
"She does rather appeal to one," Woodside confessed. "If I weren't married, I think I would take a flyer myself."
"Don't let that stop you—marriage is no disqualification with her; she's proven it."
"She has proven itonce—she will be mighty careful not to let it happen again," said Woodside.
"To the extent of running away, yes," Porshinger sneered. "Otherwise she is but wiser in thesavoir faire, so to speak."
"That is a damn cynical way of looking at it, Porshinger!"
"You're welcome to your view, my friend," the other shrugged.
"You pays your money and you takes your choice," commented Woodside.
"There is no possible doubt about you paying your money," Porshinger assured dryly. "She will come high."
"If she is in the market—that is," Woodside amended.
"Most women," sneered Porshinger, as he clicked the balls down the rail, "have their price—even Mrs. Lorraine."
"Well, that need be no obstacle to you," Woodside retorted. "You have the price. What you haven't got is the girl—can you get her?"
"My dear fellow, I don't know yet that I want her."
His host laughed lightly.
"You want to look her over first," he said. "I understand. Well if you do want her I wish you luck. I should hesitate about going up against that chilly beauty—she can make you feel like thirty cents if she's so minded."
"She'll not have a chance to make me feel like thirty cents, depend on it," Porshinger boasted.
"You evidently don't know her," Woodside remarked.
"Do you know her?" his guest inquired.
"I've seen her at the Club, and she has the grand manner—such as you read about in books. She can humble you with a look, patronize you with a smile, humiliate you with a frown."
"She must be a wonderful woman!" Porshinger laughed. "I'm anxious to meet her."
"Well, we may happen over to-morrow eveningand you can see whether it's to be a freeze or a thaw. I'm rather inclined to the notion that it will be a freeze—and a fairly hard one, too."
"You're a cheerful sort of sponsor," Porshinger remarked. "Better not risk your reputation as a prophet of evil."
"Don't make me your sponsor!" Woodside exclaimed. "I told you I didn't know Mrs. Lorraine."
"You know Gladys Chamberlain, don't you?"
"Yes—in a sort of way. I think she and Mrs. Woodside exchange calls, once a season, down here—not in town. Why don't you work old Chamberlain—you're in the Tuscarora with him?"
"That will serve as an additional excuse for the 'happen in.' I want the meeting to be casual—without any suggestion of pre-arrangement."
Woodside nodded.
"All right!" he agreed. "We'll try it—but what the lady may do to you is quite another question."
"Which we will let the future determine," replied Porshinger, as he clicked up the last point.
There was one thing, at least, about Porshinger that was normal—his love of country life. Incident to this was his fondness for taking long walks in the early morning—a characteristic not at all accordant with his present station. He acquired it in the days when his occupation in the oil fields made it the regular manner of life.
Seven o'clock the following morning saw him on the highway, clad in knickerbockers and stout shoes, aPanama pulled down over his eyes and a light stick in his hand.
It was a glorious early summer day, with just a line of haze along the distant hills; the air was soft with the breath of the open country; the dew was still heavy on grass and shrub. As he swung along, whistling merrily as a school boy on his way to a vacation-day frolic, he did not in the remotest degree suggest the cold, hard man of finance, compared to whom an arctic night is as a torrid afternoon. It was the one occasion on which he permitted himself to relax and be entirely natural.
Presently, away off in front on the macadam road, he noticed a pedestrian—who, as he slowly decreased the distance, was resolved into a woman—and, as he gradually overtook her, into a tall, willowy figure, in a short walking skirt, high tan shoes lacing well up the leg, and a small Continental hat, set at a rakish angle.
"Who is it?" he kept asking himself—and then there came a sharp turn in the road and he recognized her.
It was Stephanie Lorraine.
A momentary smile of satisfaction crossed his lips, and he extended his stride a trifle. Here was an opportunity, better than any of Woodside's devising, for him to make her acquaintance—quite by accident and altogether informally. And for her to snub him, if she were so minded, with no one but themselves to witness it nor to remember.
He came up with her a little farther on. As sheglanced casually at him he raised his hat and said, bowing and pausing as he did so:
"Good morning, Mrs. Lorraine!"
Stephanie knew who had been behind—she had heard his quick, sharp step a long way back and had contrived, as only a woman can, to see who it was without betraying that she had seen. And she had decided what she would do, if he overtook her,—and she was intending that he should overtake her—and speak; also what she would do if, by any chance, he did not speak.
"Good morning, sir," she replied.
It was politely indifferent, yet at the same time courteous. It neither repelled, repressed nor invited.
"It is a charming morning," said he, appraising the situation as he saw it.
It was just as he had anticipated. She had no thought of snubbinghim—she was very well content to take him as one of the circle to which she belonged, and to treat him accordingly.
"Perfectly lovely!" she answered.
He shortened his steps, so that he remained a trifle in advance and appeared to be slowly passing her.
"It's the cream of the day, to me," he said—"particularly at this season of the year. I don't know that I should call it soallthe year."
"No!" she said. "Nor I—here in the North."
She saw what was coming—and it came.
"If I present myself to you properly, may I walk along?" he smiled—"we're going the same road, it seems."
"Are you willing to be sponsor for yourself?" she smiled back.
"Only in exceptional instances," he bowed and removed his hat. "Permit me to present Charles Porshinger to Mrs. Lorraine!"
She held out her hand.
"I'm glad to meet Mr. Porshinger," she said.
He fell back into step with her and they swung along, appraising each other while they talked—only Stephanie's appraisal was also with a woman's natural intuition. And the more she appraised him the less she liked him, but the more she set herself to win him—slowly and discreetly, as a clever woman knows so well how to do. And for all his shrewdness in the affairs of men, he was as a child in the ways of women.
Presently they came to a stile and Stephanie paused.
"I leave the highway here," she said. "I go back through the fields—there is a path running around the hill. Do you know it?"
"No—but I should like to know it," he invited. "Won't you show it to me?"
"It will take you out of your course!" she suggested.
"I have no course this morning but the one you fix," he said.
"Take care,m'sieur!" she warned. "I may be a poor—navigator."
"I'll risk it,madame—both your skill as a pilot and your ability as a captain."
She shot him a look from under her long lashes.
"Very well," she replied and sprang lightly to the stile.
He was before her at the steps, however, with hand extended to help her.... For just an instant, her fingers rested in his; then dropped them, and she was over. A faint smile touched his lips as he followed.