The talk which Stephanie and Gladys Chamberlain had the following morning was prolonged into the after luncheon hours.
It was an intimate, personal conference, wherein Stephanie recounted every material incident of the Amherst affair. She told her friend all, freely and without reserve: how the affair started; how it progressed; of Lorraine's indifference or blindness; how it culminated; where she and Amherst went; what they did; how they avoided their acquaintances; how she grew to hate Amherst; his brutalities and meannesses; their slow rupture; the final break; the return, with the episode of yesterday on the Club-house piazza, and her husband's refusal even to recognize her.
"He wasn't altogether accountable, I fancy," said Gladys kindly. "He has had his trials too, Stephanie, you must remember."
"I do remember—or I try to," Stephanie replied; "but I can never forget his conduct or his want of conduct—his stupidity and want of sight. He could have saved me, and hedidn't."
"Would you have given up Amherst, if Harry had demanded it of you?"
"Yes—if he haddemanded it like a man. If he had thrashed Amherst within an inch of his life, I think I should have adored him."
"Instead, he did the usual thing—thought that his wife could be trusted, or he didn't perceive. In either of which events, I don't see that he is much to blame. Give Henry Lorraine his due, dear. He isn't much of a character possibly; he is irresolute and hesitating despite his size and appearance. Yet I had hoped that you would make it up—for your sake."
"For my sake!" marvelled Stephanie.
"It's a lot easier, you know," Gladys nodded, "to resume the old life, than to cut out a new one—now."
"Perhaps so—but how long would the reconciliation last?"
"Long enough for Society to forget the past. If the husband forgives, who else may say a word?"
"It may be the way of expediency; it is not my way," answered Stephanie. "However, if Harry Lorraine had made the slightest sign of forgiveness—of recognition when he saw me—even if he had but bowed, it might be different. Now, I am done with him forever."
"Don't you think you put him to a rather hard test?" asked Gladys. "Without a word of warning you encountered him on the Club-house piazza, before the assembled mob, and he—failed. Could you expect anything else from one of his character?"
"Possibly not," admitted Stephanie, as she daintily flicked the ash from her tiny cigarette. "He is true to type, and it is the type to which I object. Between taking him back (assuming that he would have me back) or fighting it out alone, I much preferto fight it out alone. It may require longer, but it hasn't the drag.... I had thought of going elsewhere, but that will only postpone the struggle a little while and will make it all the harder when it comes—for sooner or later they are sure to find me out. I even considered changing my name—that, too, has innumerable obstacles, with the necessity of living a lie and the constant fear of being detected." She flung her cigarette out of the window and flexed her silken knees under her. "So, on the whole, I thought it better to return and fight. I can down it soonest, if at all, at my home; and then it will stay down. I have a nasty thing to confront. I've been all kinds of a fool, and no one realizes it more than myself; but I'm not going to be weighted down with Harry Lorraine, nor to sacrifice myself again for him—no not even for a little while, not even for my rehabilitation. He didn't save me when he might, and I'm not going to give him another chance. I prefer to make my way alone without any aid from him."
"Without any aid from him, possibly, but notalone," Gladys replied. "Some of your friends are standing by you, and more will follow—many more, I hope, and soon. I shall ask Margaret Middleton, Arabella Rutledge, Helen Burleston, and Sophia Westlake to lunch with us Tuesday. They will do as a starter, I think."
"My dear Gladys!" Stephanie exclaimed, "I don't deserve such friendship as yours. I am——"
The other interrupted her with a gesture.
"You are Stephanie Mourraille to me—nomatter what you did or may do. Isn't that enough? So let us forget it."
"I can't forget it, dear," Stephanie answered.
"Well, you can make a bluff at it!" Gladys laughed, as she arose to go. "I'll telephone you to-morrow about the luncheon, unless I see you before then. What are you doing to-morrow morning?"
"I've nothing to do," said Stephanie. "I'm not pressed with engagements as yet."
"I hope not—I want mine to be the first," Gladys returned easily. "I'll be at home all morning so if you can come over you'll find me in."
"Do you quite appreciate what you're about to do?" Stephanie protested.
Gladys stopped and looked at her thoughtfully a moment.
"Stephanie," said she, "if you are going to play this hand through you must not think for your friends. Let them think for you, and act as they see fit—and don't you be bothering about what ispast."
"I'mnotbothering—except for my friends," was the answer.
"And your friends are amply able to look out for themselves. They are not obligated to do anything for you unless they choose. You just sit tight in the saddle and give the mare her head—above all, don't fret her. You understand."
"I understand," said Stephanie, "but I fear I'll do nothing but fret them, so to speak—at least for a time. Under the circumstances, I'm rather a weightto carry, especially when the going is apt to be both rough and heavy."
"You can never tell what the going is until you ride it," said Gladys heartily. "Sometimes the field worse on the surface is the best underneath."
After Gladys had gone, Stephanie grew restless. She tried to read, but she could not keep her mind on even the print; as for the story, it made no more impression on her than a passing carriage.... Presently she laid the book aside and tried to sleep.... It was futile also—more futile even than the attempt to read.... Finally the restlessness became unbearable in the quiet of the house. She sprang up; she would go out—maybe the soft spring air and the out-of-doors would calm her. She wanted to go—go—go! To do something....
She dressed hurriedly—putting on a quiet street-suit with a small hat, and a white veil to conceal her face from the casual passer-by. As she passed her mother's door Mrs. Mourraille saw her.
"I'm going out for a walk," Stephanie said in answer to the look of polite inquiry. "I must do something—I'm as nervous as a filly."
"It will do you good," replied Mrs. Mourraille. "Do you wish me to go with you?"
"If you don't mind,ma mère, I think I can walk off better alone—you understand?"
"Perfectly, my dear," her mother smiled. "We understand each other, I hope," as Stephanie bent and kissed her.
Once on the Avenue and swinging along at rapidpace, Stephanie felt better—the restlessness was having vent.
It was Sunday and the people she passed were mainly of the working class. They were out for an airing on the only day of the week that permitted. Occasionally she encountered some one whom she knew, but the veil was excuse for neither seeing them, nor noticing that they saw—if they did. Now and then, some man would stare impertinently at her; but it lasted only for the instant. She was passing, and she did not mind—for there again the veil was her protection, though she knew that, like enough, the veil was the reason or the excuse for the stare.
She reached the entrance to the Park and turned in, choosing presently a bridle-path that took off from the main drive. It was retired and quiet, and ran amid the great trees from which vines hung in huge festoons of verdure. The path was soft and in fine condition, and on the turf that bordered it the foot fell without sound or shock. Overhead the birds whistled and sang, the wind played lightly among the leaves through which the sun penetrated timidly as though uncertain of its welcome.
After a mile or two she unconsciously hummed a song, and realized it only when it ended and the break came. She smiled to herself, and began to whistle softly one of the airs fromIn a Persian Garden. When it was finished, she whistled it again.
Presently she came to a rustic seat—a plank between two trees. She had walked now for more than an hour and the cool shade and the quiet spot appealedto her. She sat down and undid her veil. She would stay a moment and rest her eyes—the white mesh had been more than usually severe under the glint of the light through the foliage. Not a soul had passed her since she had entered on the bridle-path. The noise of the city was very distant—she could scarcely hear it. At intervals came the faint clang of a gong, the whistle of a locomotive, the exhaust of an automobile on an up-grade.
She did not see the man who, his horse's bridle rein over his arm, rounded the turn and came slowly toward her. Her back was toward them and on the soft path the steps of the horse were almost without noise.
When she did hear them and, startled, swung suddenly around, it was to come face to face with Harry Lorraine.
The recognition was mutual and simultaneous.
He stopped and surveyed her with scrutinizing glance—a bit of a frown furrowed between the eyes, the eyes themselves half closed.
She regarded him with a look as impersonally indifferent as though he were the most casual stranger, then shifted it with interest to his horse.
"So!" he said, after a moment's steady stare. "You have returned—after your paramour has cast you off. Whom do you wait for now, I wonder?"
The cold insult of the words were more than she could endure.
"Not you, at all events!" she retorted.
He laughed mirthlessly—a hollow, mocking laugh that seemed to wrench his very soul.
"No, not me," he answered—"evenyoureffrontery would hesitate at the same victim twice."
She shrugged her shoulders and made no reply.
He waited, while the horse drew over and began to crop the grass at her feet. At length, he spoke again.
"What do you intend to do, Mrs. Lorraine—have you come back with the purpose of driving some bargain with me—a bargain that will leave you a trifling semblance of your good name?"
A slight smile curled her lovely lips but she made no answer.
"Because, if you have," he went on, "I warn you that it will be unavailing."
The idea of his warning her of anything now, after the way he had stood back and let her drift upon the rocks, was so intensely absurd that she laughed.
"Youwould warn me!" she inflected. "Warn me!" and she laughed again. "Do you think you are capable of warning any one?"
He saw her meaning and his face grew pale with anger.
"You think that I might have warned you before?" he broke out. "Yes, I might——"
"And you did not!" she interrupted. "Therefore you are a contemptible knave not to have saved your own wife."
"I might have warned you," he repeated slowly,"if I had suspected you were in danger of forgetting your marriage vows."
"Then you were a fool for not realizing it.—Youhad plenty of warning."
"Plenty of warning, yes—in the light of the after events. But no warning whatever on the basis of trust and confidence. I never thought of your beingcrooked, until you proved it before all the world."
"Just so!" she exclaimed. "I proved it before all the world—which think you is worse: the woman who does, or the husband who through blindness or indifference suffers another man to rob him of his wife before his very eyes?"
"The wife who is worthless is never missed!" he retorted.
"Then what quarrel have you for my going?" she demanded, "more than hurt vanity?"
"It's not your going—it's your coming back that irritates me."
"Irritates!" she laughed. "I am sorry to have irritated you—sorry to have irritated one so childish. It may affect your mind, Mr. Lorraine."
"If my mind has survived the last two years, I think it can survive a trifle more. Nevertheless," he sneered, "I am deeply sensible of the consideration you would show me."
"What are you going to do about it?" she asked sharply.
"I don't quite follow your train of thought," he answered.
"Of course not—it was dreadfully involved," shemocked. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Lorraine. I meant what are you going to do now that Ihavereturned—divorce me?"
"Yes—divorce you," he answered bluntly.
"And without delay?"
"As quickly as the Courts can cut us asunder."
"I am glad," she said. "I rather feared you might make overtures for a reconciliation."
"A reconciliation?" he exclaimed incredulously.
She nodded. "You seem uncertain of your own mind—your letters, you know, were rather childish and vacillating."
"I know my own mind now, thank God," he answered, his voice tense. "If I didn't know it before, it was because your beauty had befuddled it into imbecility. Oh! you may smile, with all the assumed credulity you can muster, but nevertheless you know in your own heart that I speak the truth. Ididlove you—loved every part of you, from your glorious hair to your slender arched feet. Loved your proud, cold face, that can glow warm enough upon occasion—I've seen it glow for me—and often; and your lips that were made for kisses—and your arms—and your flawless shoulders, white as marble, and soft as——"
Her derisive laugh broke in on him.
"Be careful, sir, or the recollection of my charms may cause you to change your mindagain," she cautioned.
For a space he was silent. And she was silent, too—waiting.
At last he spoke, slowly and deliberately.
"No," he said; "the time when you held me by a smile and a nod has passed. You are just as beautiful, just as alluring, but your body is soiled with the touch of another's hands. Your lips, your hair, your arms, your shoulders—everything—have all been defiled by Amherst's caresses, and by yours."
"Am I then so polluted?" she queried. "At least," slowly stretching out her lithe limbs and looking herself over, "I see no trace of it—neither do I feel it in me."
"Your honor is not sufficiently developed to feel it, there's the pity," he answered. "You will catch another man with the same indifference you forsook me, or were yourself forsaken by Amherst. And your basilisktic beauty will be fatal alike to them and to you."
"Are you a prophet?" she asked.
"One does not need to be a prophet to foresee the apparent," he retorted.
She laughed pityingly.
"You had me unpolluted—why did you not keep me so?" she asked. "I was yours, why did you not hold me fast? You could had you tried. If I am as beautiful as you would have me believe, you were not alone in knowing it. Therefore it was for you to guard me; you were my husband—and you did not. Hence you are either faithless or incompetent, so you have only yourself to blame."
"A naturally good woman doesn't have to be guarded," he sneered.
"Which shows how little—how very little—youknow!" she smiled. "You are scarcely fit to be out of the nursery, Harry—you need a guardian, not a wife."
"The Divorce Court at least will relieve me of the wife," he retorted—"and I shall not want another very soon."
"I trust not," she replied.
Two horses trotted quickly around the bend—their riders rising and falling in perfect time. An amused smile broke over Stephanie's face when she recognized Helen Burleston and Devonshire. As they flashed by, the former nodded pleasantly, the latter raised his hat. Their surprised looks, however, were not concealed—nor Lorraine's embarrassed acknowledgment.
"We are creating a scandal—a fearful scandal!" Stephanie laughed. "Husband and wife, about to be divorced, have been caught talking together in a secluded bridle-path in the Park. What can it mean?"
"It can mean anything their imagination may suggest—except the truth!" exclaimed Lorraine. "No one will ever believe it is a chance encounter."
"Thanks," said she. "You do me that much credit, at least."
"Yes; I fancy I may truthfully assume that this meeting is unpremeditated on your part as well as on mine—though you doubtless are expecting some one," he sneered. "Else why are you here?"
"Foronceyou do me an injustice," she replied ironically.
"The circumstances speak for themselves—asecluded by-path, unfrequented on Sunday afternoons, especially by pedestrians—the thick veil which you have just laid aside, doubtless to prepare for the greeting."
"All of which you know perfectly well is not the truth!" she laughed.
He answered with an expressive shrug.
"It is not the way of those with whom you intimate that I properly belong, to appoint a rendezvous for such a place," she remarked.
"Their ways differ—this is your way. You are rather—unconventional, you know."
"Have it as you will," said she indifferently; "though, if you are correct in your assumption, don't you think the man is very laggard at the tryst?"
"Or you are early!" he cut in. "Ah! perhaps he comes!" as the canter of a horse was heard around the bend.
A moment later, Montague Pendleton came in sight.
Instantly the occurrence of yesterday at the Club—Pendleton's pre-nuptial admiration, together with the rumors current at that time, flashed to his mind. He leaned forward and bent his eyes on Stephanie's face—to meet her amusing glance.
"Perhaps hedoescome!" he said. "Perhaps I amde trop."
"Then why don't you go?" she asked indifferently.
It was like a blow in the face—and it angered as a blow—sharply, hotly.
He took a step toward her—recovered himself—stopped—glaredat her an instant—then faced Pendleton, who was just at hand, and motioned for him to stop.
Instantly Pendleton drew rein and dismounted. His surprise he concealed under the well-bred air of courteous greeting.
"What does it mean?" he thought. "Have they become reconciled—is it a chance meeting—has Stephanie reconsidered—has Lorraine made his peace for the affront of yesterday?"
One glance at Lorraine's face, however, answered him. There had been no reconciliation—no peace made; rather had the breach widened, if that were possible. He put his arm through his bridle-rein, and coming forward took Stephanie's hand and pressed it meaningly—and got an answering pressure back. Then he nodded pleasantly to Lorraine.
"You will pardon me for intruding!" Lorraine exclaimed. "I didn't realize, until a moment ago, that Mrs. Lorraine had an appointment here with you."
Pendleton understood a little now—and he turned to Stephanie with a politely interrogating air.
"Mr. Lorraine seems to be laboring under some excitement, Stephanie," he said, "may I ask you to explain—if you think it worth while. I'll not misunderstand, however, if you do not."
"Mr. Lorraine does me the honor to think that I have an appointment to meet you here—and that he has discovered us," she answered, unperturbed.
"Is that what you mean, Lorraine?" Pendleton inquired.
"That is exactly what I mean," he burst out. "Else why do I find her here and waiting—and why do you come?"
"Don't be foolish, Lorraine," said Pendleton kindly.—"You don't mean that—you're overwrought and nervous——"
"I'm not overwrought nor nervous!" Lorraine exclaimed. "And neither am I foolish any longer. Iwasblindonce, but I'm not blind now. Amherst's gone—and you're substituted."
Pendleton looked at him doubtfully—was it hurt pride or just plain jealousy? He could not determine. Stephaniehadlost Amherst; but she had come back and Lorraine had denied her—and yet, here he was positively shaking with rage, because he thought he had surprised her in a rendezvous with another man. He had cast her off before all the world, and yet he wanted still to dictate as to what she did!
Pendleton glanced at Stephanie; she flashed him a smile, and shook her head not to become involved in a quarrel.
"Well, what have you to say?" sputtered Lorraine.
"Before I answer," returned Pendleton calmly, "I would like to know by what right you ask?"
"By what right I ask! By what right do you think I ask. Isn't she still my wife?"
"She is yourwife—but you have lost all right to supervise her actions. She is free of you—absolutelyfree. You made her free on the Club-house piazza yesterday. You have no more authority over her than any other man—you have less, indeed, for you renounced even that when you disowned her and cast her adrift."
"So long as she bears my name, she shall not trail it in the mire in this town by a vulgar, public assignation, if I can prevent it. I have cause enough without that disgrace!" Lorraine declared. "Until the Courts have divorced us she shall be decent, ostensibly at least—afterward I don't care what she does nor when."
Pendleton frowned.
"That is discourteously blunt language, Lorraine," he replied.
"It is not the time nor theoccasionto mince words," Lorraine retorted. "You are here by pre-arrangement and——"
"That is a lie—and you know it's a lie," Pendleton answered.
"In the light ofherpast or of yours?" was the sneering question.
Pendleton hesitated what to answer. The man was plainly laboring under intense excitement. His hands were trembling, his face was flushed, he was beating a tatoo on his boot with his crop.
Suddenly Stephanie spoke. She had remained sitting down until now.
"I think it is better that I should continue my walk," she remarked. "You men are not apt to come to an understanding, so let us go our respective ways. Mr. Pendleton, I thank you more than I cansay—and I shall be glad to see you at my home any time you choose to call. I shall wait until you both are gone."
"Come, Lorraine!" Pendleton laughed good-naturedly. "We will go together."
On Stephanie's account he was willing to do anything to get him off.
"No—we willnotgo together," Lorraine replied curtly, ignoring the other's friendly tones and manner. "You'll go first, and I'll follow to see that you don't come back."
His bearing was quite as insulting as his words, but Pendleton did not seem to notice. It was the indulgent man and the complaining boy.
And Stephanie understood and gave Pendleton a quick glance of appreciation. He was trying to save her from further annoyance, she knew, and she loved him for it, but she had endured so much the last two years that she was hardened to a callous indifference. Once she would have been shamed to the earth by Lorraine's accusation; now it made no impression on her—she simply shrugged it aside. Indeed, she found herself studying its revelations as to her husband's character, and pitying him for this exposition of his weakness and vacillation.
"Perhaps I would better go first since Mr. Lorraine is so exacting and distrustful of afriend," she interposed. "Good-bye, Montague," giving him her hand; "I seem to be unfortunate lately with all who are disposed to be nice to me. It won't always be so, I hope; I am not all bad!" she smiled.
And with never a look at Lorraine, she passed in front of him and went down the path toward town.
Lorraine watched her go—and Pendleton watched Lorraine. When she had passed around the bend, the former turned slowly and encountered the latter's eyes.
"Pendleton," said he impulsively, "I apologize! I didn't mean it—I think I'm crazy—I must be crazy. Won't you shake hands with me?"
"Of course I will, Lorraine," Pendleton replied. "And you don't need to apologize tome—apologize to Stephanie. She is the one you owe it to."
Lorraine's face hardened.
"What do you think she owes me?" he asked.
"We are not computing the balance on the Amherst affair—we are dealing with the present instance, and in it you were wholly at fault. Because she slipped once, doesn't imply that she slips constantly, nor does it excuse you for assuming that fact. Good God! man, give your wife credit for regretting her mistake and wanting to live it down—it's the normal and rational way to look at it. Be a little charitable in your view—Stephanie needs it—we all need it."
"Do you mean that I should not divorce her—that I should take her back?"
"That question you must decide for yourself."
"I ask for your opinion."
Pendleton shook his head.
"You must decide for yourself," he repeated, preparing to mount.
"I shall decide for myself—but I want your opinion," Lorraine persisted.
Pendleton let his hand rest on the pommel of his saddle and considered. What was the best for Stephanie—to return to Lorraine or to be free of him? He was not sure she knew herself; yet he wanted to help her even in a little, if his advice would be a feather-weight toward that end.
"Tell me!" exclaimed Lorraine again.
He made a quick resolution—it could do no harm—it would still be for her to determine:
"I should by all means take her back—if she will have you," he answered.
"If she will have me!" Lorraine interrogated in surprise. "You think there is any doubt about it?"
"Candidly I do—very material doubt, indeed."
"You say that with knowledge—you have talked with her!" Lorraine cried, instantly suspicious.
"I saw Mrs. Lorraine but a few minutes at the Club-house, yesterday. Is it likely she would discuss you there?" Pendleton replied. "It was not until she was leaving, remember, that she encountered you and your—rebuff."
It was an unfortunate speech. Pendleton realized it as the last word was said.
It brought to Lorraine's mind the scene of yesterday, and his decision—made before them all. He had refused to recognize her then—should he reverse himself within twenty-four hours—make himself the laughing stock of every one—prove himself a mere will-o-the-wisp? He had been about to dash afterStephanie and apologize—to ask her to come back—to forgive and forget the past. But now he was not so sure—he must take time to consider—must ponder the situation gravely—must——
He looked at Pendleton, indecision showing in his face and sounding in his voice as he replied:
"It is a serious matter—I must think over it, Pendleton, I must think over it. I will know what to do to-morrow—and to-morrow is time enough to decide a matter that has been in abeyance for two years."
Pendleton nodded.
"Very well," he replied. "I said it is a matter for you alone to decide; but if you will be advisedyouwill decide it without taking counsel with anyone. Make up your own mind, Lorraine, and then stick to it."
"You're very right, and I'll do it," Lorraine answered; and with a wave of the hand he trotted away.
"I wonder," Pendleton mused, as he went slowly down the hill, "what it must mean not to know your own mind any better than Lorraine knows his—to be as changeable and as irresponsible—to keep debating and putting off a decision for two years—and then be no nearer it than you were at first."
Lorraine took Pendleton's advice. He did not take counsel with anyone—not even with Cameron, with whom he dined at the Club that evening, and afterward played billiards until bedtime. The thought of what he had said to him yesterday, as to his intended course of conduct, may have deterred him, as well as a hesitation to admit the instability of his own mind. Yesterday he was fixed on divorce—to-day he was not so sure. The real reason for his uncertainty was his wife's beauty. Yesterday he had not noticed it—had not time to notice it, being occupied with the instant.
But this Sunday affair was quite different. He had been alone with her—and he had seen again the adorably beautiful woman—whom once he had possessed, but possessed no longer; who was colder to him now than a graven image.
The trim, slender figure in its close cut walking-skirt; the narrow, high-arched feet that she put down so well; the small head, with its crown of auburn hair; the cold, proud, high-bred face that once had been so tender for him, he now saw in all their loveliness—recollected in all their perfectness. And they weighed heavily in the scale—almost balancing her sin. Nay, there were moments when they did balance it, and a trifle more—until he grew hesitating again anddoubtful.... And the hesitancy gradually grew less, and the doubt gradually decreased.
Then one afternoon in the latter part of the week, as he was coming from his office, the day's work done, he saw her ahead of him on the opposite side of the Avenue. And he became so absorbed in watching her that he was three blocks beyond his Club before he realized it.
Guiltily he turned and retraced his steps; and alone, in a quiet corner of the lounge with a high-ball and his face to the wall, he fought it out with himself.
And having fought it out, he did a most unusual thing for him—he acted straightway upon his decision, and did not wait for it to cool and himself to doubt and hesitate and change.
He pushed the bell.
"Call a taxi!" said he to the boy.
When it came, he gave Mrs. Mourraille's number. There was a click, as the flag went up, and they whirred away.
"You need not wait," said he, handing the driver a bill as the car drew up before the house.
The man touched his cap and shot off.
Lorraine crossed the sidewalk, went up the steps and rang the bell.
The aged butler answered. He had been in the Mourraille family for a generation, but even his automaton calm was not proof against such a surprise, and he failed to repress wholly the amazement from his face and manner when he beheld who stood in the doorway.
"I want to see Mrs. Lorraine a moment, Tompkins," said Lorraine, and went in with the utmost nonchalance.
There were no instructions against admitting Lorraine, so Tompkins could do nothing but bow him into the living-room. Then he went slowly up to the library and gave the card to Mrs. Lorraine.
She took it from the tray, wondering as she did so who was calling onher, and read the name—and read it again. Then she frowned slightly and remained silent.
The butler stood at attention and waited—waited so long, indeed, that Mrs. Mourraille glanced up from her evening paper, having observed the whole thing, and inquired casually:
"Who is it, Stephanie?"
Her daughter passed the bit of pasteboard across—then nodded to Tompkins that she would be down.
Mrs. Mourraille's heart gave a great bound—if, in so placid a woman, anything ever could bound—when she read the name. The thing for which she had hoped—for which she had prayed—for two years was that Stephanie would make it up with her husband, and go back to him. It was the better way—the way that made everything as nearly right as was humanly possible—the easier way for everyone. If he overlooked her fault, who else had any cause to cavil? She had been much too wise, however, to urge it unasked. It must come voluntarily from Stephanie—then she could add her counsel and encouragement. But better even than Stephanie was Lorraine himself—and what else could his unexpected coming mean than an overture for a reconciliation!
"You will receive him?" she asked quietly.
Stephanie nodded.
"I suppose," she said, "it is some arrangement about the divorce—but I can't understand why he should come in person to make it."
"Perhaps it is a first step in an attempt to effect a—readjustment of matters," her mother suggested.
Stephanie had risen—now she paused, and a smile flitted across her face.
"As you hope it is—and hope also that it will be successful,n'est ce pas?" she said, bending down and kissing her.
"What I hope, dear, is that you will do the best for yourself," Mrs. Mourraille answered—"and you can alone decide that best, and hope to remain satisfied with the decision. Go and see what Harry wants; it was a great deal for him to come here, and you should not keep him waiting."
"Particularly as he may change his mind if I keep him waiting long!" she laughed; and with a little caressing touch to her mother's cheek, she went down to the living-room.
Lorraine was standing with his back to the fireplace, nervously drawing his gloves back and forth through his fingers. He came forward and offered her his hand—and after just a second's hesitation, she touched it momentarily.
It was as though she said:
"As the hostess, I cannot do less, but I don't in the least fancy the doing."
"Will you sit down, Mr. Lorraine?" she said perfunctorily, letting herself sink into a chair with the lithe grace he remembered so well.
She was perfectly at ease—with the air of one who entertains a casual visitor.
She looked at him, politely interrogatively, and waited for him to begin. It was his move, and she did not intend to help him in the least.
Lorraine was not so tranquil—his agitation showed in his slightly flushed face and in his manner. He took out his handkerchief and passed it across his lips. When he did speak he knew it was with an effort and unnaturally.
"Stephanie," he said, "I want to apologize for what I did at the Club-house, and what I said yesterday—will you let me?"
"Certainly," she replied impersonally. "An apology is one thing that you can tender and one thing that I can accept."
"It does not right the injury——" he began.
"No, it does not right it," she concurred.
"Any more than your apology will right the injury you have done me," he added.
"And mine was the greater injury," she observed. "I know it. There is no apology I can offer that will be effective—so, why try?"
"Don't try!" he exclaimed. "Just let us forget it, and take a fresh start." He leaned forward andtook her hand—and she, in sheer amazement, suffered him to retain it. "I am willing to forgive, Stephanie, if you are willing to come back to me. Will you do it, dear?"
For a moment she had the impulse to ask how long this notion had actuated him, and how long he thought that it would last. Then the keen injustice of the taunt came home to her, and with it a sharp sense of just what such an offer meant fromhim. Aside from everything—of blindness when he should have seen, of supineness when he should have acted, of vacillation when he should have known his own mind, of all the other deficiencies of which he was guilty—there yet remained the ever present, ever damning fact thatshewas a guilty wife; and that he was willing to overlook the past, and to restore her to the place she once had, made all his shortcomings as nothing in comparison. It mattered not how soon he might again change his mind—that was not the present question. He had offered. He was waiting for her answer. She had but to accept—and the thing was done beyond the fear of change.
"Will you do it, Stephanie, dear?" she heard him say again—she did not know how often he had said it.
She released her hand and sat staring down at the rug at her feet. It was a Senna prayer rug, beautiful in coloring and soft as an autumn twilight in the tones, but she was looking back into the past—its lost opportunities and forsaken shrines....
Presently her glance shifted to Lorraine—and lingered, speculatively, appraisingly, as thoughcasting up the balances. It swept him slowly from head to foot, pausing long upon his face—so long, indeed, that he shifted uneasily and smiled in self defence.
"Will you do it, Stephanie, dear?" he repeated.
She slowly shook her head.
"I cannot," she answered.
"Why can't you, dear?" he asked.
"Because I do not love you!"
"What has that to do with the question?" he replied. "Neither do I know that I love you—we must try——"
"I know," she interrupted; "you don't love me—and love is the one thing that could heal the wounds the past two years have made—for us both."
"Do you love that scoundrel Amherst?" he asked.
"I do not," was the calm answer—"and you have termed him rightly—heisa scoundrel."
"Do you love any other man?"
"I do not!" looking him straight in the face.
"Then let us try it, Stephanie," he said.
But she shook her head again.
"It is not just to you——"
"Let me be the judge of that," he cut in.
"Neither is it just to me," she ended. "You will take me back for the sake of appearances. You think to save me and yourself some temporary unpleasantness by obviating a divorce—by preventing scare headlines in the papers. You don't see that you would be making untold unpleasantness for us both through the remainder of our lives. When we are apart and need only the Court's severing decree, why should weassume a life of wretchedness for both? I bear the heavier burden now. I am content to bear it for a little while—until the world has forgotten—rather than to purchase that forgetfulness by a reconciliation which would be only in name—and scarcely in name, indeed."
"Why should it be only in name?" he asked, leaning toward her. "It won't be with me, dear."
"You are very good to say so," she replied—"but you'll think differently in a month—in a week possibly. Amherst will be ever between us—you will always see him; and as time passes you will see him only the more. Nothing we can do will remove him—he will be persistently present—you can't see me without thinking of him—and of what I did with him. And that can have only one result—renewed unhappiness for us both, and eventually the final break. Therefore why not let the break be now—when it is anticipated by every one and is so much easier for us both?"
She might have added—what was in her mind—that with a man of strong and resolute purpose the experiment would not be so hazardous of success; but with one of his character the issue was not even doubtful—it would be decided before it was begun.
A spasm of anger had crossed his face at her reference to Amherst and herself, and for a moment she had hoped that he would recall his offer—but as she talked it passed, and when he spoke it was with quiet resolution.
"Wouldn't we better eliminate Amherst from thequestion?" he asked. "I understand that episode has ended!"
"It has, indeed!" she answered,—"as between Amherst and me—but it can never end as between you and me."
"As between you and me it is as we make it," he returned. "I engage that I shall never, by word or act, refer to Amherst, nor to what you have done. It will be as though it had never been. Is not that satisfactory?"
"You can't engage to control your thoughts," she replied; "and thoughts tincture acts, however much we may strive to avoid it. It's generous, more generous than I can say, for you to offer to take me back—but it cannot be, Harry. We may as well face the matter as it is—there need be no concealment between us surely. I do not love you—I never shall love you. You do not love me—you never can love me. It is much wiser to end things now than to drag them along a little while and end them."
"Why do you say I do not love you?" he asked.
"Because you admitted it yourself a moment since, and because, aside from that, I know it."
He made a denying gesture.
"I loved you when we were married," he broke out.
"We both loved then—or thought we did—but we both have learned much, since that day at St. Luke's." She sat up and bent nearer to him. "And one of the things we have learned is that we are better apart—and I have proven it—by running away with anotherman. And you have proven it—by not following instantly and taking me from him—or killing him."
"What have I proven by my present attitude?" he demanded.
"Your magnanimity—but not your love. And as I said, love alone would justify a reconciliation now, or give the slightest warrant for the future."
For a time he made no answer, looking at her steadily with thoughtful eyes. At last he spoke.
"Am I to understand then that you refuse my offer?" he asked.
"I refuse!" she answered. "For both our sakes—yours as well as mine—I refuse your offer."
There was a finality in her manner that left him no present ground for hope. It was useless to argue further at this time, and he knew it. He arose to go. She arose also.
Then a sudden, irresistible impulse came over him. Scarce knowing what he did, nor the reason why he did it, he seized her in his arms and crushed her to him.
She fought him in silence; with all her strength she strove to break from his encircling arms—that held her only the tighter, while his face drew slowly nearer hers. Her breath came in fierce gasps, as closer and closer he pressed her—his lips ever nearer and nearer to her own.
"Let me go!" she panted. "Let me go!"
But he only smiled. The perfume from her hair, the warmth of her body, the intoxication from herperson were working their due. He was only a man—and she was only a woman.
He kissed her on the lips fiercely—once—twice—a score of times—straining her to him with an intensity that left her helpless.
"You coward!—you coward!—you coward!" she kept repeating.
And every time he kissed her more fiercely than the last.
Then, suddenly as he had seized her, he loosed her and stepped back—so suddenly, indeed, she swayed and almost fell.
"You beast! you miserable beast!" she breathed, wiping away his kisses.
He laughed, a low mocking laugh.
"Did you call Amherst a beast?" he asked.
"You miserable beast!" she repeated.
"Who has a better right?" he queried.
"You miserable beast," she said again.
"Who has a better right to kiss you than your husband? Your lover?" he sneered.
"Go!" she cried, pointing to the door. "Go! and never speak to me again."
"Why all these melodramatics?" he inquired. "What have I done that is wrong—how have I offended?"
"I have asked you to leave the house," she answered. "If you go quietly at once well and good. If you do not"—laying her hand on the button in the wall behind her—"I shall ring for Tompkins and bid him summon the police."
"Still melodramatic!" he laughed.
She pressed the button.
"You shall decide whether the butler shows you out or summons an officer," she replied.
Tompkins appeared in the doorway and waited.
She looked calmly at Lorraine, and Lorraine looked at her—then he held out his hand.
"Good-bye!" he said.
"Good-bye!" she answered, and turned away.
He took a step toward her, and dropped his voice so that Tompkins could not hear.
"And I'm not so surenowthat I want a divorce," he said—"andyoucan't get one."
Her only reply was the slightest shrug of the shoulders and an expressive motion of her hands—she did not even take the trouble to turn her head.
And after a second's hesitation, Lorraine faced about and strode away.
A month went by and Lorraine made no move to obtain a divorce—neither did he appear to seek a reconciliation. At first Society was aghast with wonder, then it gradually accepted the course as one of Lorraine's eccentricities of character. At the beginning he had made no secret of his purpose to institute suit whenever personal service could be obtained on her—although he was of course aware that personal service was not necessary in such a case. He had a rather Quixotic idea of the matter, it seemed. Now when he was given the opportunity, and had openly expressed his intention to proceed forthwith, he suddenly veered off and became non-committal and non-communicative—even to his intimate friends.
They did not know—no one knew from him—that he had offered reconciliation and that Stephanie had refused it. On this he was absolutely silent. He had been injured enough before all the world without giving it fresh food for gossip in this new injury that was almost as searing to his pride as the other. To have his wife run off with another man was humiliating enough, but to have his offer to forget and forgive, and to reinstate calmly declined, was mortifying to the last degree. Even to Cameron he could not bring himself to confess such a shameful thing.
And the more he brooded over it, the greaterseemed the wrong and the more he grew to hate—not Stephanie, but Amherst. Amherst's was the injury: if he had not led her astray there never would have been the scandal—and her love would not have been lost. No—Stephanie was not to blame! It was Amherst! Amherst had entered his home and had robbed him of his dearest possessions—his wife and his wife's love; made of him a mock and a jest—a thing despised or pitied, as the case might be. He imagined that he was the butt of all Society—the forsaken husband at whom they were laughing slyly for his incompetence in not protecting his own.
But instead of confiding his notion to Cameron or to some other friend, as he was wont to do, he buried it deep in his heart—and fed upon it until it became the main-spring of his life: to square accounts with Amherst. And as Amherst grew the blacker to him, Stephanie grew the whiter—until finally he even acquitted her of all voluntary wrong. She was Amherst's victim, as much as himself.
Which, only to a certain extent, was true. Amherst had led her astray—but she had gone willingly, and with never a thought of the husband who was too weak or too heedless to hold her to propriety and duty.
And though he nursed his wrath to keep it warm, he did not venture—yet—to intrude on Stephanie again. He went his usual way; and with the craft of his passion he was changed only in one respect:—upon the subject of his married life, its past and its future, concerning which he had once been so voluble, he now never spoke.
And unless he spoke first, no one could speak to him. Though every one marvelled exceedingly—and many expressed their marvel to one another in becoming or unbecoming fashion, depending on the respective point of view and the respective disposition of the expressor—usually a woman.
Stephanie, meanwhile, went her way with the same air of contemptuous indifference that she had shown on the Club-house piazza the afternoon of her reappearance.
At first, Society had resented it—a few resented it actively—but soon they began to soften a bit, and not to be quite blind when she was in the vicinity. Stephanie Lorraine was of unimpeachable birth. Her ancestors had been in Society as long as there was any Society to be in—except aborigines; and if one, under such circumstances, assumes an attitude of superiority, the general herd will follow in time—even though the way be through the avenue of the Divorce Court.
The difficulty in the case was that Mrs. Postlewaite and Mrs. Porterfield—the "Queen P's," as they were called—were a trifle recalcitrant. They ruled Society and they had not approved of Stephanie's doings even before she married. She had been quite too disregardful of conventions. Her affair with Amherst was shameful enough, they averred, but when it had culminated in the elopement, they were outraged beyond words—figuratively speaking, that is; there was no paucity and little repression of language in the actual. And when she suddenly returned,without a warning or even an intimation, and came up to the Club-house in the most casual manner—as though she had donenothing! nothing! nothing!they were enraged at her "effrontery." It was the end of their reign, they saw, unless she were made to pay penance for her offence in sackcloth and ashes. The younger set would defy their authority—they were near to defying it now, with their new-fangled ideas and disregard for every convention that stood for the old order.
They might overlook some things, even though they were bizarre and questionable, but Stephanie's offence was beyond the pale. If she were permitted to come back to all her old privileges, and to go unpunished by Society for her crime against it, then the reign of the dissolute and depraved had begun. And they shook their heads gravely, and with much decision resolved that it must not be.
So they let their decision be known and set quickly to work. It was acquiesced in by almost all elders and by those who naturally follow the leaders. Of the others, the majority thought that there was no haste in the matter, and composed themselves and awaited developments. The few who were independent, and accustomed to do as they pleased, were uninfluenced by the rest—but they waited also. And those that the Queen P's had thought would receive Stephanie with open arms—the fast members of the younger set—held off, and even edged away. They realized that the Lorraine affair had made their own conduct all the more marked, and they were afraid to take herup. As one of them put it: "A fellow feeling's all right—but we're not running an eleemosynary institution at this stage of the game." The degrees of intimacy, moreover, could be gauged by the manner of salutation. Some did not speak at all—some spoke only when it could not be avoided—some spoke when the occasion required—some spoke always but with a certain reserve—some spoke naturally, but went no further—some were as they had always been—friends.
And Stephanie met them in kind.
Gladys Chamberlain, Elaine Croyden, Dorothy Tazewell, Margaret Middleton, Helen Burleston, Sophia Westlake, and a few others among the women, were her friends. Pendleton, Burgoyne, Croyden, Mortimer, Fitzgerald, Devereux, Westlake, Devonshire and a score of others among the men. There is never a dearth of men where the woman is a beauty and well-born—that she is also a woman with a past only adds to her attractiveness.
To but one person, other than her mother, did Stephanie reveal the incident of Lorraine's visit—and then not until some time thereafter.
It was one evening when she and Pendleton had dined together alone at her home—Mrs. Mourraille being out of town for several days—and were sitting afterward in the piazza-room in the moonlight.
"Stephanie," said he—after a pause, and apropos of nothing—dropping his cigarette into the ash tray on the taboret between them and lighting another, "what do you make out of Lorraine—isn't his conduct exceedingly queer?"
"In what way?" she asked.
"In not applying for a divorce."
"Is that an exhibition of queerness on his part?" she smiled.
"It is—he never does the natural thing. What would be idiotic in a sensible chap is just what one expects from him. That Saturday at the Club-house—afterward, you know—he was going to begin action on Monday. And Sunday you had the peculiar scene in the Park where he threatened you with its immediate filing and so on—yet since that day no one has ever heard him mention divorce."
"Rather an unusual time for Harry to hold to one opinion!" she laughed. "I should say a change is long overdue." And when Pendleton looked at her with a puzzled air she added: "He told me he would not get a divorce—and that I could not. I'm waiting for him to change his mind again and to file his papers. I am advised that once filed they cannot be withdrawn without my consent, and that I am permitted to press for a decision."
"He told you that Sunday in the Park?" he exclaimed.
"No—it was somewhat later in the week. He came here, and—offered to—take me back—to forget and forgive. And I declined."
"You declined?" he marvelled. "Did you appreciate what you were throwing away, Stephanie?"
"Yes—a worthless man, for one thing," she replied.
"And what else?" he asked, leaning a bit forward.
"A life-time of incompatibility and discord."
"And what else?"
"The opportunity for Society to overlook my—sin," she answered.
He nodded. "Just so—and you choose against Society. Was it wise, Stephanie; was it wise, do you think?"
"What doyouthink it was, Montague?" she asked with an intimate little smile.
"I think it was very foolish," he replied promptly; then added—"from the point of expediency."
"And very wise from the point of happiness and myself—n'est ce pas?" she smiled.
"Yes," he said; "unquestionably, yes—but few would have had the courage to refuse."
"Let me tell you about it," she broke in. She disliked praise even from her best friends, and she feared Pendleton would not remember. "Mother was dreadfully disappointed, I fear—though she has not mentioned the matter since. It was the expedient way, of course; it would minimize the scandal, and things would go along pretty much as before. That is just the difficulty. I couldn't return to the old way. I could not endure it for a moment—not even long enough to make a show at the reconciliation so that I might purchase Society's forgetfulness. No, not even if I could be assured, before going back to him, of ultimately being divorced."
"I understand," he said.
"You always understand, Montague," she replied. "You're the most satisfactory of friends."
He made a deprecatory gesture. He was as averse as she to praise.
"You were about to tell of the Lorraine offer?" he reminded her.
And she told him all—not withholding even the final scene.
"I am not surprised," he remarked, when she had finished. "It is just what one might expect from Lorraine. He was not too strong-minded to start with, and this affair seems to have put him entirely to the bad. He is keeping his own counsel now, however, which is suspicious. As you say, he is long overdue for a change of mind, and it doesn't seem to be forthcoming. How does he act when he sees you—if you've noticed?"
"It is rather queer but I haven't seen him since that afternoon. Possibly because I've been at the Club very rarely—not over a half-dozen times, I should say—you were with me on the most of them."
"At least he has been quiescent," Pendleton added—"and sticking to business, I hear, most assiduously. In that respect your coming back seems to have steadied him."
"I'm glad to have done him some good indirectly," she smiled.
"He still is just a boy," said Pendleton, "despite his thirty years. He has always had his own way, with nothing to settle him until this came—and it completely unsettled him. So much so that very fewof the men had much sympathy for him. It went to you, Stephanie, instead. In fact, the men had the matter right from the very first; they knew Lorraine, they knew Amherst, and they knew—other things, as well."
"And the women?" she asked.
"Oh, damn the women!" he replied.—"I beg your pardon, Stephanie—but it is Mrs. Postlewaite and Mrs. Porterfield and all their kind, I mean. A small number are discriminating and broad minded, like Gladys Chamberlain and Elaine Croyden and Sophia Westlake and a few more. They are friends—the rest are worthless bundles of dress goods—manikins, if you please, pulled this way and that by the fetish of the commonplace and the proper."
"Don't tell Mrs. Postlewaite!" laughed Stephanie. "She would have a fit."
"It might do her some good if she had. I despise those people who are so smug and self satisfied in their assumed superiority that they think theiripse dixitinflates the social balloon. It's a positive pleasure to have some one kick a hole in it just to show them they're wrong."
"As I did, you mean," said she. "However, it would have been quite as effective had I made another sort of kick. I punctured the balloon, all right, but its entangling folds may stifle me. At least they are pretty stifling at present. It would be a small matter if I were a man—a man can do things and be none the worse for them; but I'm a woman—and it is a powerful big undertaking, Montague, for a womanto kick the social balloon. Generally the balloon flies back and overwhelms her."
"It's not going to overwhelm you," he insisted.
"Not if you and the rest of my friends can prevent—and I think you can," she replied. "I am fortunate in my friends—that is where I'm very, very lucky."
He smiled sympathetically. He knew what she did not:—the Governors of the Country Club were meeting that night and her resignation as a member would likely be requested.
The Queen P's andtheirallies had accomplished so much of their plans for her punishment. The majority of the Board was made up of men who sought to be popular, and who kow-towed to Mrs. Postlewaite and her clique as the ultimate authority. The popular thing was to run with the sentiment, and so they were running. The few younger members were sure to vote against it, but they would be too weak in numbers to control. He would not tell her, however, for something might yet intervene to prevent—the want of a quorum; the want of a sufficient majority; the want of anything would cause the matter to be postponed.
As an echo to his thoughts came her next remark.
"I have considered, Montague, that it might be well if I were to resign from the Country Club," she said. "I know that almost all the women members are violently opposed to me, and it seems scarcely just to the few friends I have there for me to put them on the defensive and oblige them to make a fight. TheQueen P's are hot against me, and they can render it exceedingly unpleasant for the meager opposition, if they are so minded—and I think we may assume that they are. What would you advise?"
For a while he was silent—his fingers playing slowly over the arm of his chair. He was disposed to answer no—she should not be forced into resigning, at this late day, by all the sentiment the infernal women could muster. Had she acted promptly on her return it would have been entirely voluntary; now it savored too much of compulsion, and yet without any one bearing the responsibility. On the other hand, if she permitted the Club todemandher resignation, she did not make the actual opposition any more violent, while all those who opposed such radical action—and he knew their number was not small—would naturally be favorable, in a greater or less degree, to her cause. In other words, she would stand to lose none and to gain many.
"What would you advise me to do, Montague?" she repeated.
"I would advise you not to resign. Hold on—and let them do the resigning for you, if the Governors are so minded."
"You mean you would let them request my resignation?"
He nodded. "It will make you friends—assuredly it will lose you none. That is where a woman has the advantage over a man. A Club can kick a man out and no one ever questions its justice—but it is different with a woman. She is entitled to somethingmore than mere justice—a certain courtesy and consideration must always be hers, together with a proper regard for her sex. Mere justice to a woman becomes injustice—and injustice always reacts on itself."
"You are considering the matter only as it affects me," Stephanie insisted, "while I'm concerned as to the way it affects my friends. What ought I do out of regard forthem, is the question."
"Whatever is best for yourself," he answered. "They are friends, you know."
"But I don't know what is best—moreover, for myself I don't care a rap one way or the other. It is nothing to me to belong to their Club, or to chatter small talk and scandal, to lunch and dine and go to the horse-show, and fancy I'm having a glorious time. I'm not a debutante any longer. I've seen enough of life to know the shallows—and Society is the shallowest of them all."
"Yes you do care, Stephanie," he said. "You think that you don't, and all that, but everyone cares for them to a greater or less extent. It's only a matter of degree—life is made up of degrees, and social amenities, their obligations and duties are a part of life."
"I suppose you're right," she admitted, "but, just at present, mine are in an infinitesimal degree," and she crossed her knees and leaned back in content. "At this moment I haven't a care in the world."
"Miss Philosopher!" he smiled.
"Mrs.Philosopher, you mean!" she corrected.
"Your pardon!" said he. "For the moment, I quite forgot."
"It might be well to forget it forever," she reflected.
"I am very willing," he replied, regarding her with indulgent eyes.
She gave him a quick glance, then looked away and a dreamy expression shone in her eyes.
"Montague," she said presently. "Is there no way that I can procure a divorce?"
"I'm afraid not," he answered very kindly—"unless Lorraine permits it. He has offered you a home and to take you back, and you have refused; so that disposes of desertion or non-support. And if you try to convict him of having been—indiscreet—he can set up your own indiscretion as a defense."