Inside the ball-room Marion found her husband, standing among a group of men, watching the dancing. "I am going home, Roswell," she said, taking his arm and drawing him away. "Find Florence, won't you?"
"Yes, dear," he replied. "Are you ill?" he added, thinking it unusual for his wife to leave so early.
"I feel tired, that is all. Tell Florence she can go home with Mrs. Smythe if she chooses."
Roswell Sanderson went in search of Florence and soon returned with her. He had given her Marion's message, but Florence did not care to remain, so she excused herself to her partner in the cotillon and hurried away with Roswell. "What is the matter?" she anxiously asked Marion.
"I feel a little faint and I think I will go home," was the answer. Florence thought Marion seemed agitated rather than faint. She wondered what had happened, but thinking it unwise to pursue the matter further, she walked on quietly beside Marion and her husband. On the stairs they met Duncan; Marion tried to avoid him, but he came toward her and said calmly: "I have been looking everywhere for you, Mrs. Sanderson. Have you forgotten you have a partner in the cotillon?"
"No;" Marion replied. "But you must excuse me as I feel quite tired; I am going home."
"I feel cheated," answered Duncan; "the more so as I leave to-morrow and must say good-by, now." He put out his hand and Marion took it. She tried not to look at him, but an indefinable attraction compelled her to raise her eyes. "Good-by," he said, softly pressing her hand.
"Good-by," she answered. Then she quickly drew back her hand and turned away. As she descended the stairs she felt that he was still looking at her. She wanted to look back, but she closed her eyes and pressed closely to her husband's arm till they reached the cloak-room door. While she and Florence were putting on their wraps, she could hear the distant strains of music coming from the ball-room; they seemed to her like the last echo of the love which had flamed so brilliantly for a moment in her heart, and now must die and become a memory. The music stopped. "It is all over," she thought; then she hurried away with Florence and her husband down the great stairway to the street door. "Mrs. Sanderson's carriage," called a servant on the stairs. "Mrs. Sanderson's carriage," was echoed from the street. She heard a rumbling noise of wheels; then the street door opened, and she felt a blast of cold, refreshing air. "The carriage is here, ma'am," called her footman, and they passed out into the darkness. At the end of the awning-covered passage the carriage lamps burned dimly, and she could hear the restless champing of bits. They reached the carriage and took their places; the door was closed; the servant mounted the box, the carriage rolled away crunching the crisp snow under its wheels. Marion sank into a corner and tried to think. "I did my best," she said to herself again and again. "I did my best, but it was so hard." Over the snow-muffled stones the carriage rolled past massive structures, black and silent in the darkness. Huge, scowling ogres, they seemed to Marion, coldly frowning their displeasure. On through the darkened streets they went and over the river bridge; she could see the flickering street lamps faintly glistening on the ice, and she thought they were feeble hope rays shining through the darkness. Marion closed her eyes and listened to the wheels creaking through the snow. How long it was she did not know, but after a time she felt a sense of stillness. She opened her eyes. They were home.
"Are you going to the 'Renaissance Club' tea, Marion, dear?" said Florence Moreland, coming into the library on the afternoon following the "Patricians'" ball. Marion was sitting on the low front window seat, and she held a sash curtain crumpled in her hand. Her eyes were slowly following the numerous sleighs gliding up and down the Lake Shore Drive. The sun shone brightly on the glistening snow, the bells jingled merrily, and the waving plumes of graceful sleighs combined, with the rosy faces of their fur-clad occupants, to form a cheery winter picture. But with all this brightness before her Marion looked thoughtful and disturbed. Perhaps the restless lake beyond, dashing its troubled waves against the grey sea wall, better expressed the thoughts which caused the discontented wandering of her eyes. She did not reply to Florence's question but continued looking out over the roadway, as though unaware of her friend's presence.
"Marion, dear," called Florence in a louder tone; "didn't you hear me?"
Mrs. Sanderson slowly dropped the sash curtain and looked up. "O, are you there?" she said vaguely.
"Yes, and I have been here an age trying to make you hear me," Florence replied. "What are you dreaming about?"
"O, nothing much," Marion sighed; but her voice told her friend that this was not quite true.
"You are in one of your moods again," said Florence. "You need me to cheer you up; but first of all tell me if you are going to the tea this afternoon?"
"O, I fancy so," Marion replied somewhat mournfully. "I wish the 'Renaissance Club' were in Kamtschatka, or some other such place, but Roswell actually promised to come home in time to take us, so I suppose we shall have to go. It is not time yet, though."
"I know it," said Florence, "but I think I had better change my gown now."
"You look well enough as you are," Marion replied, casting her eyes critically over her friend's attire. "Put on your gold-braided jacket and you will look as smart as any girl there."
"Very well, then I shall go as I am. I would much rather talk than bother about dressing." Saying this Florence approached Marion and sat down beside her on the window seat. Marion did not notice her, but continued to look thoughtfully out of the window. Florence watched her for a moment, as though trying to read the thoughts behind her restless eyes; then she gently took both her friend's hands, and holding them in her own said inquiringly: "What is troubling you, dear."
"Nothing," Marion sighed.
"Then why do you seem so far away?"
"Because I was thinking."
"Of what?" asked Florence.
"Of how like a human life the waters of that lake are."
"I don't understand," said her friend.
"Why, like a life they roll waywardly on until they pass to mother earth again, or are borne upward to the clouds. Sometimes they lie peacefully at rest, or they ripple merrily like children at play, only to be rudely awakened and lashed to angry fury in an aimless struggle with the winds. Like a life they are merely the agents of some greater power, helplessly following their destiny."
"I think you theorize too much, my dear," said Florence. "If you want happiness, you must take life as it comes."
"Happiness," laughed Marion cynically. "Happiness is like the golden bowl at the rainbow's base; no matter how desperately you chase after it, it still glitters in the distant future."
"Possibly," replied Florence, "though I remember reading somewhere that 'the reason there is so little happiness in the world is because so few people are engaged in producing it.' Perhaps that is why we are unhappy."
"Do you know the formula for the production of this rarity?" sneered Marion.
"No, but I suppose it has something to do with the time honored saying, 'be virtuous,' and so forth."
"Yes, I know; the kind of happiness that comes from the knowledge that one is good," put in Marion. "It is a sort of self-satisfied, touch-me-not happiness, with a better-than-you-are smirk about it."
"Can't one have a clear conscience without being a Pharisee?" asked Florence.
"I don't know," sighed Marion. "It is all a question of temptation, I suppose. Some people seem to be good from birth; they are never tempted, and have no charity for those who are."
"I don't call such people good," replied Florence; "a St. Anthony without a temptation would be a sorry picture of virtuous self-control."
Marion did not reply. For a moment she remained quietly thinking, as though Florence's words had inspired her with an idea; finally she spoke, in slowly chosen words: "Do you think what the Bible says about a mental sin being as great as the outward act can be true?"
"I think it depends entirely upon circumstances," replied Florence.
Marion turned her eyes thoughtfully upon the floor, then, restlessly twisting a cushion tassel between her fingers, she asked earnestly: "Do you think a woman who is tempted and resists, yet feels the subtle poison still in her heart, has sinned?"
Florence was silent a moment, as though weighing the question in her mind. "I would not condemn such a woman," she finally said; "I would pity her."
"What ought she to do?" asked Marion.
"She has kept her self-respect, and I think on that foundation she should build the negative happiness called peace of mind."
"What if the sting is too fresh, the poison too strong? What if the cup is still before her?"
"Then she should dash it resolutely from her, and trust that time will heal the wound."
Marion smiled faintly. She was thinking of an express train rushing toward the East and bearing danger farther and farther away. "Perhaps destiny is kind sometimes," she thought. "Were you ever unhappy, Florence?" she asked after a moment.
"Why, what an absurd question," her friend replied. "Is there any one who has not been unhappy at some time?"
"O, of course people have unpleasant moments which they get over," Marion answered; "but what I call unhappiness is to feel that one has made an irreparable mistake in life, and then to be suddenly shown the unattainable possibility."
"I should think such a person would feel something like a hungry pauper, gazing into a pastry cook's window. The glimpse of possibility must intensify his craving."
"You are utterly practical and entirely unsympathetic," said Marion, somewhat ruffled at Florence's levity. "Sometimes I think you are a most unsatisfactory person."
"I will not be dismissed as a person," laughed Florence. "You may call me anything you like, but don't subject me to the degradation of being styled a person."
"I think you deserve it for turning my seriousness so inconsiderately into ridicule," said Marion with an injured air.
"It is just the best thing for you," Florence replied. "You worry unnecessarily."
"You always say that," sighed Marion, "but you don't understand."
"Yes, I do. No one understands you as well as I do."
"Then why don't you sympathize with me more?"
"You don't need sympathy; that only panders to your discontent. What you need is to be shaken up and made to forget yourself."
"You're a cruel girl."
"I know it, and I am going home to-morrow."
"Are you daft, Florence?" said Marion, amazed at her friend's abruptness.
"No, I mean it," replied Florence. "But it is not because you have treated me badly, my dear. I did not mean to tell you so suddenly, but something happened a short time ago which makes me feel I had better leave. Please don't ask me about it, dear," she continued, seeing the questioning expression in Marion's eyes. "I only feel that it will be wiser for me to go away."
"Why, Florence," said Marion sympathetically, "can't you trust me?"
"It is not because I can't trust you, my dear," she replied. "You understand me, don't you? I think it would be kinder for me not to remain, and then," she added hesitatingly, "I want to be away where I can better think it over."
"Yes, I understand," Marion answered. "You are such a queer girl, though; how could you keep so quiet about it?"
"I didn't feel that I could talk about it. I am queer, I suppose, but you will forgive me if I go away, won't you? I have thought it over for three days and I feel it is best."
"I will forgive you, of course, my dear; but, O, Florence, do be sure you are doing right. Don't make a mistake."
"That is why I am going away. I will know better then."
At this moment a man quietly entered the room. He had delicately cut features and a determined mouth, softened by gentle, brown eyes. His dark hair was slightly tinged with grey upon the temples, and his colorless complexion indicated a man whose life was little spent in the open air, a fact somewhat emphasized by his slightly stooping shoulders and thin, nervous hands. His clothes were plain and neat, but without any of the pronounced effects of fashion, and his entire appearance was decidedly that of one who is termed in America "a business man."
"Why don't you speak when you enter a room, Roswell?" said Mrs. Sanderson, looking up suddenly, startled at seeing her husband. "Did you hear what we were talking about?"
"I am not an eavesdropper, my dear," he said quietly. "I merely came to tell you that I am back from the bank. Are you ready to go to the tea?"
"I had no idea it was so late," said Marion looking at her watch. "We must hurry, Florence." The two women went to put on their hats, and when they returned all three entered the carriage waiting at the door and were driven quickly toward the rooms of the "Renaissance Club" in lower Wabash Avenue.
The institution which bore the name of "Renaissance Club" was a ladies' literary society devoted to studying the effect of humanism upon the literature of the world. It held meetings in its tastefully arranged rooms on each alternate Thursday afternoon throughout the season, and on these occasions original papers were read and discussed with an amount of erudition which astonished the members unacquainted with the usual works of reference, and rendered the club the admiration and pride of feminine Chicago. It is true that literary ability was by no means the first requisite for admission, and that the membership list might be used with impunity for directing invitations to the smartest dances; but despite these facts, there was a decidedly literary flavor about the meetings of the club, enhanced perhaps by the presence of two or three ladies who had actually experienced the delight of seeing their writings in print. Of course the talking was confined to a confident set, who enjoyed the excitement of a literary discussion; for as no one else desired to undergo the tortures of speaking in public, the vast majority assumed a dignified expression of wisdom, and remained discreetly silent. The club had discussed Dante and Petrarch, Villani and Ariosto, even Lorenzo de Medici; it had laughed over Cervantes and blushed profusely over Boccaccio and Rabelais, but the meeting to which the Sandersons and Florence Moreland had gone was called for no such intellectual purpose. Once during the season the club gave a tea to which men were invited, and on such occasions the entertainment was confined to the efforts of elocutionists and balladists. Whether the club dared not expose its intellectual attainments to public criticism, or did not care to have its literary efforts judged by the standard of the Board of Trade, was never sufficiently clear; but in spite of the fact that no literature was ever discussed at the annual tea, this meeting was invariably the most fully attended of any during the season.
When the Sanderson party entered there was such a hum of subdued voices, that the efforts of a young woman engaged in singing were scarcely audible above the animated whisperings of the people who thronged the club-rooms. Numerous small tea tables supplied with all manner of dainty tea things were scattered about. Each of these was presided over by a pretty girl, and each was surrounded by a knot of black-coated youths. Although young men were there in abundance, those of mature years were conspicuously absent; but it is one of the peculiarities of a busy city like Chicago, that while young employés are able to appear at afternoon gatherings, the heads of firms are invariably detained at their offices.
The balladist's song was followed by an uninterrupted flow of feminine voices, punctuated with occasional masculine laughs, coming like intermittent grumblings of thunder during a pattering storm of rain. The American girl who does not talk is a rarity, indeed, but, though climatic influences have parched her vocal cords, her harsh, hearty voice saying something is a pleasurable contrast to the subdued vacuity of the average English maiden of twenty. The animated clatter of an occidental gathering may seem discordant when compared with the solemnity of a London drawing-room; but in this artificial age it should prove refreshing to one who admits a fondness for open-hearted naturalness. There was an intimacy among the people gathered in the "Renaissance Club" rooms which is rarely met with in the larger cities. They were nearly all acquainted with one another, and most of them were people who met with such frequency that many restrictions of formality had passed away. A person whose life is continuously passed amid such surroundings may develop an inclination to magnify his ownentourageto the disparagement of the great world he knows so little of; but he will be spared a realization of the atomic nature of a person's position in that world, and he will never know the fitful interest cosmopolitan society takes in any individual.
Marion Sanderson looked upon this society as provincial, and she felt inexpressibly bored at the thought that she must meet absolutely the same people night after night, and know by premonition what each of them would have to say on any given subject. Her senses had once been dazzled by the varied glitter of the metropolitan kaleidoscope. Had she been given time to investigate the tawdry shams, of which it is so largely composed, she might have appreciated better the less brilliant world about her; but with her superficial experience inciting discontent, Marion wandered about, that afternoon, pitying the restricted resources of the people she met, and congratulating herself and her intimates upon the aid they had already rendered toward the development of Chicago society.
Florence Moreland, however, appreciated this society, which, surrounded by all the appurtenances of civilization, was still so natural and sincere. She regretted that she had decided to leave, and she entered so heartily into the spirit of Western life, that she was more than once tempted to alter her decision; but, remembering that her presence seemed to torture Harold, she realized that her own peace of mind would be more easily attained in her New Hampshire home. She wandered about the room, taking leave of her many friends, who were, of course, greatly surprised at the suddenness of her departure, until she was accosted by Mrs. McSeeney. Her eyes beamed so triumphantly that Florence felt an instinctive dread of an encounter with a woman whom she knew to be Marion's enemy. Mrs. McSeeney spoke with a suavity which Florence felt to be entirely feigned, and she was at a loss to account for this sudden pleasantness of manner.
"I have just heard, my dear," said Mrs. McSeeney, "that you are going away, and I can't tell you how deeply we shall all miss you. What induced you to leave so suddenly?"
"I am called home because my father says he must have me there," Florence replied, thinking it the easiest excuse to make. "I am the only child, and he gets extremely lonesome when I am long away."
"You forget that while he is but one person, there are many others here. You are inconsiderate of the claims of the majority," said Mrs. McSeeney. "However, you may carry away the satisfaction that you looked absolutely heavenly at the ball last night in that charming yellow gown. How like it is to Marion's, was that intentional?"
"That is the second time I have been asked that question, but I assure you it was quite an unexpected coincidence."
"A coincidence which created a fortunate contrast," replied Mrs. McSeeney, with increased suavity. "Fortunate for you, at least."
"What does this extreme agreeableness mean?" Florence wondered, and for a moment she was lost for a reply. "By the way," continued Mrs. McSeeney, "what has become of that charming Mr. Grahame whom Marion brought to my house last week? I don't see him here."
"He went back to New York to-day," answered Florence somewhat coolly, as she wished to end the conversation.
"What a pity!" said Mrs. McSeeney, speaking in a louder tone. "Mr. Grahame was such a delightful man, and dear Marion Sanderson must miss him so."
Instinctively feeling that some one else might have overheard this remark, Florence looked hurriedly behind her, and was horrified to see Roswell Sanderson and Harold Wainwright standing there. She saw the meaning of Mrs. McSeeney's action now; she had laid this trap to injure Marion in the eyes of her husband, and Roswell's expression of mingled anger and anxiety told her plainly that he had overheard. Frightened for Marion's happiness she turned to Mrs. McSeeney and said angrily: "You have no right to connect Marion's name with Mr. Grahame's in such a manner."
"Indeed!" Mrs. McSeeney replied with exasperating coolness. "I think that when a woman of Marion Sanderson's prominence is indiscreet in her actions, she must expect to cause comment. I happened to see Mr. Grahame kiss Mrs. Sanderson, under the musicians' gallery, at the ball last night. I think I am justified in any conclusions I may draw."
Florence heard a low exclamation behind her. For a moment countless thoughts rushed through her brain in jumbled confusion, then she seemed to understand it all. Mrs. McSeeney told the truth. No woman would dare make such an accusation falsely, and this explained Marion's strange talk of the afternoon. Poor Marion! was there no way to save her? With the suddenness of inspiration an idea came to her. She remembered seeing a play in which two women were mistaken for each other by the similarity of their gowns; she had also been with Duncan under the musicians' gallery, and she knew it was too dark to distinguish faces accurately there. She turned quickly toward Roswell Sanderson, and seizing his hand drew him forward. He was about to speak but she stopped him; then, facing Mrs. McSeeney, she said defiantly: "You have conceived a clever plan to ruin Mr. Sanderson's wife. Your motive, I think, is evident to all who know you, but, fortunately, your statement is untrue. 'Twas I who was with Mr. Grahame under the musicians' gallery."
Mrs. McSeeney drew back astonished at this sudden statement, but she quickly recovered from her surprise and said ironically: "Such a melodramatic sacrifice seems out of place in real life, but I suppose you are one of those heroic maidens who enjoy tarnishing their own reputation to clear a friend. I admit that the darkness and the similarity of your gowns may have rendered the confusion possible, but I assure you I was not mistaken about the facts. I suppose you are prepared to admit them also?"
"I am," said Florence deliberately.
"Well, you are ingenuous, I must say," said Mrs. McSeeney, astonished at Florence's determined manner. "Perhaps you will think better of your foolishness when you realize the position in which you have placed yourself before society. In the meantime I trust Mr. Sanderson accepts a statement which, considering my experience of the world, I believe extremely improbable."
Roswell clenched his fists to suppress his anger. "Mr. Sanderson," he said slowly, "believes absolutely in the fidelity of his wife, and he warns Mrs. McSeeney that she must answer to him for any future slurs upon her character."
Mrs. McSeeney's eyes flashed as she said coolly: "I am glad Mrs. Sanderson enjoys so absolutely the confidence of her husband." Then, shrugging her shoulders slightly, she turned and walked toward the door. It was growing so late that the distant room in which this scene occurred was quite empty, and fortunately no one but Harold Wainwright had overheard the conversation. An anxious witness of the scene, he had appeared at first dumfounded by Florence's self-accusation; but he now calmly followed Mrs. McSeeney toward the door. He quickly caught up with her, and speaking so quietly that she turned about somewhat frightened, he said: "May I speak with you a moment? I have something of importance to say."
"Certainly," she replied, and they passed on into the next room.
Florence was left alone with Roswell Sanderson. The first excitement of the resolution to save Marion had passed, and she now realized the position in which she had so suddenly placed herself, and her foremost desire now was to get away somewhere. Above all she dared not speak to Roswell. She was still holding his hand which she had grasped so earnestly in the midst of her excitement, and now she tried to release it. This action Roswell resisted, and, turning until he could see into her face, he said earnestly: "You are a brave girl, Florence, and I thank you for it from the bottom of my heart."
Florence lowered her eyes. "Don't talk about it," she said anxiously, "and please promise not to say one word to Marion of all this. I am going away, and, if you can keep her from knowing about it, it will make me so happy."
Roswell was silent a moment. A curious expression of sad determination, which Florence did not understand, came into his eyes.
"I promise," he finally said, "but you must answer me one question now that we are alone. Did you speak the truth?"
Florence trembled slightly. She had been expecting this question and felt that everything depended on her answer. She pressed his hand firmly, and, looking up into his face, said in tones which bore the resolute accent of truth: "Roswell, I assure you that Marion has been true to you."
"I will ask no more," he replied, and she saw that determined expression come back again to his eyes. They heard the sound of approaching steps, and he quickly released her hand. Turning round they saw Marion approaching. "What under heaven are you doing here?" Marion said, as she entered the room. "Don't you know everyone has gone home, and we shall be late for dinner?"
On a Saturday morning in early June, about five months after Duncan's visit to Chicago, Rennsler Van Vort, attired in tweeds and carrying a bag in one hand and a bundle of coats and sticks in the other, pushed rapidly past the ticket collector of a Jersey City ferry. He was on his way to spend Sunday with the Osgoods at their place near Morristown, and his haste was inspired by the knowledge that if he missed the next boat he would be left to wander about the most unattractive portion of New York for at least another half-hour. He managed, however, to reach the ferry-boat just before she started, and was congratulating himself on his good fortune, when he observed a man with a bag in each hand, running in hot haste down the incline leading to the boat. The iron gates were closed; the windlasses were clicking rapidly as the mooring hawsers were being wound around, and the great paddle wheels had begun to stir the waters of the slip to seething foam. The man at the windlass tried to restrain the tardy passenger's efforts to reach the boat, but he brushed past him and leapt onto her deck, just as she had begun to move out from the slip.
"Great Scot! Duncan, did you drop from the clouds?" said Van Vort, as the breathless runner, aided by a deck hand, clambered over the iron gate.
"No, I beat the gate-keeper," replied Duncan, as he came to a stop beside Rennsler and deposited his bags on the deck. "He was just shutting the stile, and called to me to stop, but I didn't care to bask on the docks for an hour, so I gave him the slip and here I am."
"That explains your flying leap on the boat, but did you jump across the pond also?" asked Van Vort. "The last time I saw you, you were going to Chicago; then I heard you were in London, and now you make an amazing appearance on a Jersey ferry. You must have taken up jugglery, old chap."
"An old loafer like you doesn't know anything about business; if you did you might appreciate my flights."
"Never mind if I don't," answered Van Vort, resting his arm on the rail and gazing into the water as it surged under the paddle wheels. "Tell me what took you to London and what brought you back."
"Well, I went to Chicago, as you know," answered Duncan, "to look after an elevator syndicate. I was there a week, got things straightened up, took the 'Limited' on Thursday, reached New York Friday night, spent Saturday morning at the office, and sailed that afternoon, on the Umbria, to look after the London end of the scheme."
"That was last January. How have you been eluding your friends ever since?"
"I was in London until two weeks ago. I came in on the Etruria this morning; we should have landed Sunday, but we broke our shaft and had to be towed in."
"Well, Duncan, I am glad to see you back; but you must give an account of yourself. What did you do in London besides business?"
"During February and March I was groping about in the fog after Britons to invest in Chicago elevators, or following the hounds in the Shires. London in winter is the beastliest place in Christendom, and when I could get away I was in the country."
"Yes; I know London in the winter," put in Van Vort. "Fogs and suffocation, rain and muddy boots, slush and colds, sleet and influenza, all combine to make a dreary mackintosh and umbrella existence, which you can vary in-doors by shivering before fires that won't burn."
"I see you've been there," answered Duncan; "but you want to add something about empty theatres and clubs, and say it is a city deserted by every person who can buy, borrow, or steal a railway ticket to the country. But for one guardian angel, I should not be here to tell this tale."
"I can name that angel," said Van Vort; "it is Scotch whiskey."
"Right!" answered Duncan.
"I thought so. All sufferers seek the same cure; but April and May were better, weren't they?"
"I should think so."
"Did you meet many people?"
"Plenty. I fell in with Lady Brock on the steamer, and she came in handy. I knew some people when I was there before, and took out some good letters; and then there is the American colony."
"Yes, the American colony," said Van Vort; "who are they?"
"Some of them are people one doesn't know at home, but the English don't mind that, so why should we? You remember Mrs. Raynor, that pretty woman who used to be about New York, and afterward so scandalized the prudes by an affair with a Russian Grand Duke that no one received her when she came home?"
"Of course; did you run across her?"
"Yes; she is in London now, the smartest of the smart; the friend of the prince and the envy of American turf hunters. They wouldn't have her in New York, but now they flock to her house because she is in the London smart set, and she is clever enough to receive them and forget the malarious past."
"I suppose you went there; the malarious past didn't frighten you away."
"Of course not. I was her right-hand man, and used to help entertain the people at her Wednesday afternoons. Not only that, but I was hand-in-glove with Mrs. Smallpage."
"What! the wife of the late furniture dealer on Fifth Avenue?"
"Yes; I didn't know her in New York, but she has a house in Mayfair and hobnobs with half the peerage. Good looks and money, that's all the Londoners care for. I heard a countess say that all Americans are alike. We have no aristocracy, therefore our social distinctions are absurd. The reception of an American in London depends on whether he is rich enough to entertain, good looking enough to be attractive, or queer enough to be amusing."
"I say, Duncan, we are just getting into the slip," said Van Vort, looking forward, "and you haven't told me yet where you are going, and what brought you aboard this ferry."
"Why, I met Harry Osgood this morning, just after I landed, and he asked me out to his place for Sunday. I hate New York on the blessed Sabbath, so here I am."
"I am bound for the Osgoods, too," answered Van Vort. "I am in luck to find some one going out. But come on, we must hurry or we sha'n't get seats in the train."
The ferry-boat brushed violently against the side of the slip, and most of the passengers, losing their balance, were compelled to grasp each other unconventionally for support. The engine-room bell clanged furiously; there were more jars and creakings as the boat scraped past the great piles and reached her moorings; then the restless van horses stamped, the chains rattled over the windlasses, and the passengers crowded forward to the bows. The iron gates were opened, and the living sea of people flowed rapidly up the incline toward the railway station. It was the mighty ebbing of the human tide which daily floods the great city across the river. Could one stand there, watching the weary throng come forth, and, like the Spanish student of old, find a willing Asmodæus at one's elbow, what stories of hopes and disappointments, what tales of trouble and misery could he not unfold for inspection. Pallid shop-girls and weary seamstresses were there; grimy laborers with their tools, tired clerks, toiling mothers with their babes, and pale, careworn children, early driven to the wheel, with here and there a face on whom prosperity had set her seal, and perhaps a few, like Duncan, whose lives are passed in that dazzling upper world, so hopelessly closed to the toiling masses. All these, and more, streamed off the ponderous ferry, hurrying to their homes. But Duncan and Van Vort had no time to moralize, and being anxious to get seats in the smoking car they pushed rapidly to the front of the moving mass of people, showed their tickets to the inspector, and passed through the station door to the platform.
The Morristown train was drawn up on the right-hand track. They found it already well filled with people brought over by the first boat; and after wandering the entire length of the smoking car they were about despairing of finding seats when they were hailed by a familiar voice: "Hello, fellows, where are you going?" Looking around they saw Howard-Jones, with a yellow-covered novel under his arm and a freshly lighted cigar between his lips, standing on the station platform and looking the picture of masculine content.
"We are trying to find a seat, but the place is full," said Duncan. "Are you going on this train?"
"Yes; going out to Osgood's."
"So are we," put in Van Vort, "but we don't want to stand up all the way. You look as unconcerned as though you were sporting a private car."
"So I am," replied Howard-Jones carelessly. "Just go into the car ahead and find Waterman; mention the fact that you are friends of mine, and perhaps he will give you a seat, but be sure you speak politely. Waterman won't stand impertinence."
"Well, if you and he have seats in there, and there are no more to be had," said Duncan, "you might as well make up your mind to stand up. Come on, Rennsler, let's see if Howard-Jones is trying to do us." Saying this, Duncan started into the next car and was closely followed by Van Vort. This car had been kept till the last moment, so they found it just filling up, and at the farther end they discovered Waterman, trying to stretch himself over four seats and convince the numerous comers that they were engaged.
"I beg pardon, but can a lady have this seat?" said Duncan, coming up behind Waterman.
"I am sorry, but it's engaged," grunted the latter without looking up. "This is a smoker anyway."
"Well, this lady is going to sit on your lap, you old brute."
"Hello, Duncan," said Waterman, looking up somewhat startled. "Osgood told me you were back; I am deuced glad to see you."
"Pull down those feet and give us some room, and then I'll talk," answered Duncan.
Waterman made room for his friends, and depositing their luggage on the floor they sat down opposite him. As the train moved slowly out of the station, Howard-Jones sauntered into the car and took the seat remaining, next to Waterman.
"Well, how is Chicago?" Waterman asked Duncan.
"Don't talk to him about Chicago," interrupted Van Vort. "Don't you know he has just come from London?"
"Of course I do, but I know all about London. I want to hear about Mr. Breezy and Miss Lakeside, and all the other queer people one reads about inLifeandPuck. Don't you remember the last time we saw Duncan? He was going gunning for elevators, and I want to hear about them. How are the pork-packers, Duncan?"
"I didn't meet any."
"What, and you went to Chicago!"
"Exactly," Duncan replied. "They say there that one has to go away to meet them. The right sort don't seem to know them."
"What were the people like, anyway?" asked Howard-Jones.
"The women are dears, some of the men are queer, most of them are passable, and a few are the whitest chaps I ever came across. I was treated like a prince. I lived at the City Club, and they could not do enough for me there."
"Did you get anything fit to eat?" asked Howard-Jones dubiously.
"You must imagine the people out there eat jerked venison and dine in their shirt-sleeves," replied Duncan. "They don't live in wigwams, and buffalo don't run wild in the streets."
"Don't get huffy, Duncan; I was only judging by what I had heard. You remember what Waterman said about Chicago."
"Yes, and I repeat again," replied that worthy, "it is the beastliest hole it has ever been my luck to get stranded in."
"Then you display your ignorance," said Duncan.
"I admit I have heard something about Chicago being the centre of the universe," retorted Waterman, "but I thought that opinion was confined to the breezy inhabitants of the windy city."
"Well, in my opinion," said Duncan, "Chicago isn't a half bad place. 'Tisn't New York, of course, but you can't expect that. They've got most of the things there that we have, and some that we haven't. There's one thing about the people, too, that I like; they keep awake when the rest of the world is dozing, and that is bound to tell in the end."
"That's right, Duncan," echoed Van Vort.
"Sit down on sectional ignorance and prejudice. New Yorkers are getting to be as provincial as Parisians, and it is time they learned that the sun doesn't rise and set on Manhattan Island."
"You are all wrong, Rennsler," answered Howard-Jones. "Duncan is drawing a big salary for booming Chicago real estate; you'd do the same thing if you got paid for it."
"No back talk, Hyphenated-Jones," said Duncan facetiously. "Just crawl behind that French novel and don't let me hear from you again."
"I will if you will shut up about Chicago; you make me weary."
"Anything to keep you quiet," answered Duncan.
The four friends gradually settled themselves behind afternoon papers or novels, and remained silent. The train rattled on through small suburban towns and now and then drew up before a dainty, vine-covered station, with low walls and high gabled roofs, where the brakeman put his head inside the door and called off some name in unintelligible accents. People got out hurriedly, their arms filled with packages of all descriptions, the door slammed, the train started, the newsboy passed through with the papers, pop-corn, puzzles, and everything else that nobody wanted, the conductor poked dozing passengers for their tickets, the atmosphere grew blue with smoke, and the minutes passed with the exasperating slowness of time spent on a suburban train.
"I say, Duncan," said Waterman, yawning behind his paper, "how would you like to take this trip twice a day?"
"I'd rather die a natural death and be done with it, if I did not have a private opinion that Hades is a suburban town, where the Devil tortures his victims by making them bolt breakfast in two minutes and run to catch a train, only to be brought back again after dark just in time to sleep and take the next train in the morning."
"That's the joy of living in the country," replied Waterman. "However, I can tell you how to pass the time to-day."
"How?" asked Duncan.
"Go back and talk to the Simpson girls. I saw them getting into the last car, and I think they are going out to Osgood's, too."
"None of that for me."
"Better send Rennsler to look after them," suggested Waterman; "I think I can recommend him as a safe and suitable chaperon."
"What's that?" said Van Vort, glancing over his paper at the sound of his name.
"We think you had better go back and talk to the charming Miss Simpson," said Duncan.
"Which? The one with freckles, or the one who squints."
"Both," replied Waterman.
"From such a fate, good Lord deliver us," answered Van Vort contritely.
"Your prayer is answered," said Duncan, "for here we are at the getting-off place. I never remember the name of it, so I always book through to Morristown, and look out for that red barn over there."
The engine slackened its pace while the four friends hurriedly gathered their things together and walked toward the car door. When the train stopped they passed out and alighted on the deserted platform of a small country station. The village consisted of three or four houses and a barn, and the station was merely a covered shed and platform, without the usual complement of station-master, baggageman, etc. It was of so little importance that trains did not stop there except by signal or request, and the Osgoods made use of it merely because it was nearer their place than was Morristown. On this occasion, however, there was no one there to meet the travelers, and it seemed to them that they had been forgotten. The train had pulled out immediately, and they were left to their own resources in a small, New Jersey hamlet, four miles from their destination. There was no one in sight except the Simpson girls, who had alighted at the other end of the platform, and the four men felt it their duty to wander toward them and proffer such civilities as the occasion demanded.
"We had no idea you were on the train," said Duncan, as they reached the place where the girls were standing. "I suppose you are bound for the Osgoods?"
"Yes," replied the elder Miss Simpson, "but we seem to be stranded here. What shall we do?"
"Wait until we are rescued," said Van Vort. "I don't believe Osgood is cruel enough to leave us here long."
"No, by Jove! for there are his leaders," interposed Waterman, as a team of chestnuts and a smart char-à-bancs, driven by Harry Osgood himself, with his wife on the box seat, swept rapidly around the corner of Duncan's red barn. There were two girls sitting behind the Osgoods, whom they recognized as Miss Warner and Miss Reine Merrit,—two of their set,—and the men had just time to take off their hats before the trap was driven up beside the platform.
"Been waiting long?" called Osgood, as he pulled up his team. "My near leader picked up a stone, and I have the stage timed so close that any delay makes me late."
"It will teach you to take more time, Harry," said his wife, as, without accepting the proffered aid of a servant, she jumped to the ground. "How do you do, everybody," she continued, when she lighted on the platform. "Why, Duncan Grahame! Where in heaven's name did you come from?"
"From London, to see you, but I don't seem to be expected," replied Duncan.
"I forgot to tell Helen I had asked you, but it's all right," called Harry Osgood from his high seat.
"Of course it is," replied his wife, "but I wish you wouldn't shock me so again. I thought I had seen a ghost."
"Never mind ghosts, but get the people up," said her husband.
Harry Osgood's char-à-bancs was a vehicle he had had constructed for use over the rough country roads. It was built somewhat like the two boots of a drag put together without the body, and had seats for ten persons, besides the servants, placed in three rows, and all facing forward, while its lightness rendered it very convenient for the purpose for which it was designed. The servants stowed the luggage away and Mrs. Osgood assigned places to the party. The elder Miss Simpson was given the box seat, the next was occupied by Reine Merrit, Waterman, Howard-Jones, and the younger Miss Simpson, while Miss Warner, Van Vort, Duncan and Helen Osgood mounted to the remaining one.
"Let em go," shouted Osgood as he shoved the brake back. The grooms jumped from the horses heads, the wheelers sprang into their collars, and the trap rolled away from the station. "Oakhurst," the Osgood place, was a short four miles distant, and the road, a fairly good one for America, ran, for the most part, through a forest of maples, broken here and there by the country seat of some New Yorker, or an occasional farm. The country was quite rolling, and the road, running as it did over a succession of small hills, made the driving a delight to Harry Osgood. He was a coachman who had learned his trade in England, and having been a subscriber to theGuildford Coachfor two seasons, he was able to "sit his bench" like a veteran, and work his team with the smartness of one who has done "out of London roading"; but, with all his experience he was not a careful workman. He invariably made the four miles, from the station to his house, a galloping stage, and it was his pride to do the distance just under the twenty minutes; so, as soon as he turned the corner by the red barn, he sprang his team into a gallop, and they scarcely trotted another step of the way. Up hill and down the horses scampered, while the trap rocked like a ship at sea, now to this side and now to that, and when rounding the corners it often seemed as though the vehicle would certainly be turned over and the entire party landed in a hopeless muddle in the ditch; but nothing worse than a few feminine screams occurred until they reached the place where the road entered the Morristown turnpike.
Here Osgood espied another team coming up the main road, and as both traps were about an equal distance from the fork, he considered it a glorious chance for a race; so, giving his horses their heads, he urged them into a run. The driver of the other four, as ready for sport as Osgood, did the same, and the two traps came furiously on to where the roads met. The men cheered while the women held on to their seats, trembling with fright; and as the two traps came together at the fork, the other coachman tried to crowd in front of Osgood by taking some of the latter's road. There was no time to pull up, and seeing that his only safety from a wicked upset was to beat his rival, Osgood called on his horses for an extra spurt. The leaders were neck and neck, and the stranger had crowded him so far toward the edge of the road that he felt his hind wheel slipping down the embankment. The women shut their eyes and screamed while the men prepared to jump, but Osgood, acting with presence of mind, hit his rival's off-wheeler across the head with his whip, and "toweled" his own wheelers a good stinging cut across the shoulders. The wheel horse of the other trap, frightened at this sudden attack, jumped toward the pole, and, with his weight, swayed the vehicle toward the near side of the road, while Osgood's own wheelers sprang forward under the lashing and drew the trap onto the road before it had time to upset. Osgood darted ahead of his rival, and the party breathed freer as all visions of broken limbs and mangled bodies vanished from their frightened minds.
"Well done, old man," called Howard-Jones, who was himself a coaching man. "I like sport, but such a lubberly bit of work as that ought not to go unpunished."
"A man who will do a trick like that ought not to be trusted with a donkey," replied Osgood, as he pulled his team together after the excitement of the spurt.
"That's the trouble, nowadays," continued Howard-Jones. "After a lesson or two in the park, at team work, chaps set up as experienced coachmen."
"Who is the duffer, anyway?" called Duncan from behind.
"Jack Ashton. You know him, don't you?" replied Howard-Jones. "He has the place just beyond Harry's."
"I ought to," said Duncan. "He was in my class at college. I didn't recognize him, though."
"Do you always forget your friends so easily?" said Helen Osgood with an ironical sparkle in her blue-black eyes.
"Sometimes I try to," Duncan answered.
"Are you always successful?" she asked.
"No, Helen," he whispered, "not always."
The trap had reached the stone gateway of the Osgood place. As they turned in, a call was sounded on the horn to announce their coming to the servants, and, after passing the lodge, they could see the low, white country house, with rambling wings and numerous stables and outhouses in the rear, standing on a rise of ground at the end of the winding road. The place had been in the Osgood family for more than a hundred years. The oak-covered grounds about the house, and the green, rolling lawn in front, were typical of an English park; but the old wooden, colonial house, with its rambling additions and green blinds, its stately veranda and Doric columned portico, was American, of a type fast disappearing before the modern house decorator with his tints andbibelots.
The trap dashed up to the door, a knot of servants appeared, the grooms placed the ladder against the steps, and the guests alighted and were conducted to their apartments, where, for the next hour, the house party was occupied in the task of dressing for dinner.
Harry Osgood was a man whose life was devoted to sport, and as he had inherited a large fortune, he was able to indulge his tastes to the fullest extent. Some one of his friends had said facetiously, that he was fond of horses, hounds, and his wife, in the order named, and no one who knew him well would deny that more of his life was spent in his stables and kennels than in his home. He had passed many years in England, and most of his time there was spent in a hard riding country, where everyone, including the parson, followed the hounds. To Osgood, therefore, there was no sport like hunting, and no music like the inspiriting cry of the pack. He had been brought up on the "pigskin" and felt a supreme contempt for many of the men about New York who went in for sport, not for the love of it, but as a pose which enabled them to wear the pink and talk the slang of the shires. He had seen so many chaps of that description come an ignominious "cropper" at the first fence, that he paid little attention to the talk of the clubs, and never passed his opinion on a would-be sportsman until he saw him in the hunting field. In his opinion it took something more than a pink coat to make a hunting man, so he endeavored to collect around him, in New Jersey, a few of as hard riders as ever followed hounds.
The Essex Hunt had become famous for its long runs, and as few men not born to the saddle cared to risk their necks over the rolling country about Morristown, this hunt was decidedly unpopular with the drawing-room sportsmen. However, if the field was small at the meet, it diminished little at the finish. For years Harry Osgood had been M. F. M. of the Essex Hunt, and the pack could not have been in better hands, as he had a capital huntsman of long experience with the Quorn Hunt, and he devoted his own time, during the hunting season, entirely to the sport. Osgood had this peculiarity, however, he must have sport all the year round; so he was as much at home on the box seat, or at the tiller, as in the saddle. There is a popular impression that a man cannot be both a horseman and a sailor, but Harry Osgood had often refuted it. In the summer months, when there was no hunting, and it was too hot for driving, he went to sea, and his schooner, "Persephone," was one of the crack flyers of the N. Y. Y. C. fleet, while her owner was a qualified navigator who had taken an English Board of Trade yachtsman's certificate.
It is, therefore, not surprising that Helen Osgood entered little into her husband's life, for, except when frost was in the ground, he had no time to devote to his wife. Helen, however, heartily approved of his neglect, and, except for the fact that he compelled her to reside so much of the time in the country, was perfectly satisfied with her husband. She always managed to have at least one amusing man in the house who did not go in for hunting, and as she never interfered with Harry's sport, theirs was aménagewhere husband and wife were both contented and amused. The world had been surprised at Harry Osgood's marriage, but probably no one was more astonished than himself. A country house, a rare day's sport, a good dinner, a cozy corner, a pair of bewitching blue-black eyes, a hasty word, and his fate was sealed before he had had time fully to realize the situation; but, having been "landed," as he expressed it, he made up his mind to bear it like a man and make the best of a hasty bargain. The marriage was, however, no surprise to Helen. She had carefully arranged it in her mind several months before, and Harry Osgood's proposal was but the consummation of her plans. He was precisely the kind of man that she considered an attractive, poor girl ought to marry, and women like Helen seem to possess a faculty for adjusting their lives according to their desires. She was the only woman whom Duncan Grahame had ever asked to be his wife, and perhaps for the reason that she had refused him, she continued to occupy the most central cell of his somewhat honeycombed heart. She had declined to marry Duncan because, at that time, he was poor, and she knew that he possessed too quick a perception, and too arbitrary a disposition, to be a suitable husband for a woman of her ambitions. She had, however, since her marriage, granted Duncan the privileges of a somewhat equivocal friendship, which, owing to a general misconception of Helen Osgood's character, the world often misapprehended. Her acquaintances fancied her unhappy in her home life, but she was perfectly contented. Her friends believed she was a woman of strong feelings and sympathies, but she was subtle and calculating. The world thought her friendship for Duncan must be of a serious nature, while, in reality, it was scarcely more than apasse temps. Though not harassed by any scruples, she was too cold really to love, and too clever actually to compromise herself. But she was, however, sufficiently selfish to receive without giving, and sufficiently vain to enjoy the continued admiration of so scarred and complex a heart as Duncan's. She had been gifted with a peculiar insight into human character, and having studied the nature of man as a scientist might that of a mollusk, she felt that she understood every masculine vagary. Prompted mostly by curiosity, she singled out Duncan as the specimen best calculated to demand the full exercise of her powers. If she had, at times, permitted certain familiarities which the world might not entirely approve, she had been careful to define the boundaries beyond which they must not pass; and the fact that his actions were governed in a manner so contrary to his wishes kept Duncan in a continuous state of irritation, and served at the same time to produce a continuity of affection quite unusual in his other experiences.
For nearly four years this peculiar friendship, so galling to Duncan, so gratifying to Helen, had continued intermittently; and though many ruptures had occurred, they had all ended in Duncan's suing for peace. The long continuance of so unnatural a relation was rendered possible only by the fact that Helen Osgood had, so far, been incapable of experiencing the feelings of other women, and seeing no reason to transgress where there was no temptation, she contented herself with inspiring a love where others excited a passing fancy. Other women might amuse Duncan, but she would control him; other women might love him, but she would study him; other women might lose him, but she would remain his master. That was her analysis of the affair, and, so far, she felt that it had been correct. It is true she had not seen Duncan since the quarrel in January, and she knew that he must, in the meantime, have been intimate with other women; but she felt confident that he would come back to her and plead again for the love she had so often refused him. She did not believe that Duncan's passion was of a lofty nature. On the contrary, she doubted his sincerity just as she doubted the sincerity of every man of the world. She knew perfectly well the view of life held by the men about her, and she often said that were she a man she would be a freebooter too, and capture the hearts that came in her way. She thought that if a woman was weak enough to be trapped into taking a false step, she got her deserts. She, for one, would go armed, not because her conscience troubled her, but because she did not consider the game worth the risk.
The unexpected return of Duncan had been somewhat of a surprise to Helen; but, in order to impress upon him that it was a matter of indifference to her, she avoided him as much as possible during the evening of his arrival at Oakhurst. The house party spent the evening playing pool in the billiard-room, and in that atmosphere of whiskey, soda, and smoke, where the conversation was hilarious and general, and often interspersed with familiar repartee and laughter, it was not difficult for Helen to keep Duncan at a convenient distance, while, however much he might chafe under the restraint, he was unable to free himself from his unpleasant position. There is nothing so exasperating to a man of Duncan's disposition and experience as to feel that he is being made a fool of by a woman. Though nothing had been said, Duncan realized the galling fact that Helen Osgood was playing with him. After the women had gone to bed he sat in the smoking-room, sulking over his "night-cap," and though Osgood and Howard-Jones carried on a heated discussion about the merits of perch bits, he paid not the slightest attention to what was being said. Waterman and Van Vort occasionally tried to chaff him, but he was so snappish in his manner that they wisely decided to let him alone. Meanwhile Duncan was thinking of the time, at Newport, when, jogging home after a day with the hounds, he had asked Helen Osgood to marry him. He had felt confident that she would do so, but instead, he got laughed at for his sincerity, and he had been laughed at ever since. He had often brought himself to the point of believing that he did not care for her, but the next time he was brought under her subtle influence he was compelled to acknowledge that he was still under her spell. Other women had surrendered to him with a facility that destroyed the pleasure of an exciting contest, but other women were not Helen Osgood.
The next morning none of the house party put in an appearance before eleven o'clock, and it was not until luncheon that they all met together. Some of the men had, it is true, been out to the kennels, and Osgood and Howard-Jones had taken out a tandem—much to the horror of neighboring Sabbath-keepers—but Mrs. Osgood and the girls managed to keep secluded until the luncheon-hour. Dinner was the only formal meal at Oakhurst, and there was a freedom about the life that made it very attractive to the men. Any sort of lounging costume was permissible during the daytime, and the guests straggled in at luncheon without regard for promptness. No one waited for the others, and the last to come was the last to be served. The conversation was chiefly about horses and dogs, with social gossip for a relish, but no topic more intellectual than the last French novel or the latest comedy at Daly's was permissible. In fact, any one bold enough to inaugurate a literary or political discussion would have been greeted with a stare of mingled pity and astonishment. If any of the guests were acquainted with matters literary or artistic, they were usually discreet enough to remain silent out of deference to the host; but on one occasion a school friend of Helen's, from Boston, hearing some remarks about the last story of Bourget, took the opportunity to start a discussion upon the poetic psychology of Sully-Prudhomme, which was greeted in a manner that made the poor girl fancy she had said something very indiscreet. At the first favorable opportunity, however, Helen reassured her, but advised her not to talk about books, if she wanted to get on with the Essex Hunt.
On the present occasion the conversation was confined to the stables, and after luncheon the house party sought amusement for the afternoon. Osgood suggested a drive, so a team was put to the drag, and the afternoon, until tea-time, was spent behind three chestnuts and a piebald "tooled" by the host.
Meanwhile Duncan chafed under the discipline to which he felt he was being carefully subjected, but it was not until after an elaborately prepared dinner, served by the late butler of His Grace, the Duke of Northampton, and two footmen, that he was permitted a word alone with Helen. The other guests had gone into the drawing-room, at Helen's suggestion, to listen to Van Vort's latest comic song, and feeling that they would be off her hands for a while, she detained Duncan in the passage-way leading to the library. Between the two doors was a broad lounge, which had been placed there to offer an opportunity for a quiet talk, and Helen took the initiative by seating herself and motioning Duncan to a place beside her. He sat down sulkily, and remained silent for a while, trying to drive off the peculiarly helpless feeling which a man invariably experiences in the presence of a woman whose personality is stronger than his own. Duncan plunged his hands into his pockets and sank into a corner of the lounge, mentally deciding that he was an ass, and trying to bring his reason to control his feelings. He looked at Helen a moment, but when he met her glance, he winced and turned his eyes away, and she felt that she had not been wrong in her confidence that he would come back to her unchanged.
"You are solemn enough for acroque-mort," said Helen, after a few moments of silence. "Aren't you going to amuse me?"
"No," grunted Duncan peevishly, "you brought me here."
"I didn't bring you here to sulk. I hope, for your own sake, you haven't been behaving this way for the past six months. I understand you, but strangers might not appreciate such manners." She said this in the indifferent manner she invariably assumed when Duncan indulged in a display of temper, and it was this indifference which always made his outbursts so abortive.
"There is no need to behave so with strangers," he replied, trying to assume a sarcastic manner, and feeling, inwardly, that it was not successful. "They are usually civil to me."
"O, indeed! and pray how do I treat you?"
"Like a dog," he sneered gruffly.
"Like a pet poodle," she replied, "whom I allow to lie about the house in the snuggest corners; like a pet poodle whom I fondle when he is agreeable, and humor when he is snappish; but take care how you behave or I may think you are only a puppy."
Duncan jumped to his feet. "I won't be blackguarded," he muttered angrily.
Helen leaned forward and caught his hand.
"Come, Duncan, dear," she said, drawing him gently toward her, "you must sit down and tell me who it was that commenced this quarrel."
Duncan permitted himself to be drawn to the seat beside her. His heart was consumed with conflicting sentiments, but he felt that the courage which had made the quarrel in January possible was failing, and that he would be compelled to sue for peace. "I am not a child," he said, as though to expostulate against her manner.
"Yes, you are," answered Helen softly, "but a big, lovable child of whom I am very fond."
Duncan looked into her eyes to see if he could read behind her words, but he only felt the deep, mysterious power which had brought him under her influence that day in Newport. Then he had felt a hopeful, honest love, for a moment, but it had been crushed out by her laughter. Before that he had been a thoughtless boy, taking life as only a holiday frolic. Had she given him her love, he felt that to him life would have been different; but that laughter had chilled his heart, and the hopeful, honest love had gone out forever. She had married and he had loved her again, but it was a feeling of a different sort, for the man who speaks of love to a married woman casts out honesty from his heart. He loved her with a heated longing which her coldness fanned. He wanted to possess her for his own, yet felt that he was balked by his stupidity and cowardice. In her presence he was a shrinking child with the yearning of a man. "Helen," he said, after a moment, "I will not be played with; I am too much in earnest."
"You frighten me by your seriousness," she said, with a roguish tone in her voice. "I like you better when you are angry. It suits you."
"I will not be trifled with, Helen," he said; "you have no right to treat me so."
"I have the right of a billigerent," she laughed. "You declared war, you remember."
"Then I sue for peace."
"And I grant it," she replied softly, putting out her hand. "Come, let us be friends."
Duncan took her hand and pressed it to his lips. He looked up into her tantalizing eyes and felt again the warm impulse of the old love burning in his heart. "I cannot be your friend, Helen," he said passionately, "for I love you."
She drew her hand away quickly and patted his cheek disapprovingly, as she might have patted a child's; then with a little, playful laugh, she said: "don't be silly, you know I don't like it."
Man of the world as he was, without scruples and usually reckless, he felt cowed. For a moment he sat moving his hands nervously; then he looked up and asked in a serious tone: "Why didn't you marry me?"
"Because I liked you too well."
"That is no answer."
"Because I wanted to keep your love."
"That is not true."
"Well, because marriage is a business partnership, which, to be successful, requires a person of experience and a person of money. You had too much experience and I had no money,le voila."
"You are a heartless flirt," Duncan said, slowly and earnestly.
"That's what a man always says of a woman when he fails to make her love him."
"You are a heartless flirt, I repeat," he answered. "You stole the best love in my heart; you crushed it and threw it aside like a flower which no longer pleased you."
"Nonsense, Duncan, such poetic similes are ridiculous. Better say that love, to a man, is an apple of Sodom, fair to behold; but when he has it in his grasp it crumbles to sickening ashes."
"You stole my love, Helen; a man never loves but once."
"And in revenge, to use your metaphor, you have plucked and trampled under foot every flower within your reach. I know you, Duncan. It is only because I was stronger than the rest that I still bloom fair in your eyes."
Duncan looked full into Helen's face with an injured expression in his eyes. "Helen," he said finally, "'tis women like you who make us men distrust your sex; who make us what we are."
Helen returned his glance, and replied scornfully: "No; it is men like you who drag us down. We women must go through life armed, like travelers of old, against the attacks of you highwaymen. If we are weak, we are robbed of our best possessions, and left helpless by the way; if we are strong and ward off your attacks, you take your revenge on those who fall into your unscrupulous hands. But that is moralizing, and I am no moralist; I take the world as it is."
"Then why not take the pleasure in it?" said Duncan insinuatingly.
"Because it doesn't amuse me," she answered coldly. "I am not like other women, I suppose; at least, what you call pleasure disgusts me."
"Then why have you let me be your friend so long?"
"Because you amuse me," she replied carelessly. "I like to see you bluster and go away, and then come back to me. Other women pander to you, but I don't; other women love you, but I don't."
As Duncan listened to these words, a blush of anger came to his cheek. He thought of how strong had been his influence over other women, and how weak he had always been in Helen's hands. "After all, love is a game of strength," he mused. He had been no better than a ball to be tossed about at pleasure, but he would throw off the spell of this woman, which had bound him so fast—he who thought he knew the world so well. An expression of firmness came into his face, and he said: "I loved you once, Helen, but I hate you now."
"I am glad," she answered; "now there is a chance that your passion will be returned."
Duncan did not reply. He left his seat beside her and walked slowly into the next room. Helen's eyes followed him. "Silly boy," she thought, "I hope he will hate me; I might love him then."
Long after the lights in the smoking-room had gone out, long after the laughter had ceased, Duncan slowly paced his room. His hands were deep in his pockets and he held a briar pipe between his lips. Occasionally he would take a draw at the pipe, and then watch the blue smoke curl gently upward and fade away in long, thin streaks; but all the time he was thinking over the part Helen Osgood had played in his life. "She is right," he said, half aloud; "I do bluster and go away, and come back to her, and I will do it again. No, by Jove! I won't. A man can't forget that he has been played fast and loose with, and I would not be a man if I went back to that woman. I hate her. I hate her," he repeated. "She might have made a different man of me. I was young and might have taken life better, but she laughed me into the selfish brute I am. O, well," he sighed, as he thought of his past, "I suppose I am no worse than those around me. We all worry over what might have been, but we don't take the pleasure that comes to us. A man's an ass to break his neck for any woman. There are others in the world, good looking ones, too, who will love for the asking." He returned his pipe to its case and closed it with a loud snap. "I have been in the garden before," he continued, "and I will go there again and pluck the flowers that come in my path. I will hold them for a minute; then I will crush them and cast them aside, and I will laugh, too."