For the next few days there was an atmosphere of gloom and depression
at No.-- Riverside Drive. Below stairs consternation reigned. No one
knew exactly what had occurred, but that the relations between master
and mistress were badly strained was plainly evident. Mrs. Stafford
had driven hurriedly away in a taxicab without saying where she was
going or when she would return, and Mr. Stafford, having locked
himself in his room and denied himself to all callers, was in such an
ugly mood that he was absolutely unapproachable. Never before had Oku
seen his master in such a vicious temper. He had practically kicked
him out when he had politely inquired how many would be home for
dinner, and all that evening he heard him striding restlessly up and
down like a caged lion, raging and fuming, and once it had sounded
suspiciously to Oku as if his master might be weeping.
The little Japanese butler not only felt hurt at such treatment after
fifteen years of faithful service, but he was really concerned at the
protracted and mysterious absence of his dear mistress. In the two
years that Virginia had been at the head of the household she had
endeared herself to all her dependents. Always courteous and
considerate, never unreasonable or exacting, the servants literally
worshipped her and as the days went by without the least sign of her
coming back the general gloom deepened. In the evening, after the
day's work was done, and all hands could sit in the kitchen and take
things easy, the mistress' strange disappearance was the one topic of
conversation. The cook, a stout, apoplectic-looking Irishwoman, spoke
straight up: Her mistress, as nice a lady as she ever worked for, was
smart enough to know her own mind and if she had left her husband
there was a mighty good reason for it. The waitress, indignantly
repudiating the insinuation that she made a practice of listening to
table conversation as she passed the dishes, admitted that, having
been provided by nature with ears, she could not help overhearing
certain things. On the morning of Mrs. Stafford's departure, she had
noticed a decided coolness at the breakfast table, and later when on
going down stairs she had heard loud voices she had stopped to listen
she had distinctly heard her mistress say: "Then I shall leave you!"
This pointed clearly enough to a serious rupture, especially when
Josephine, the French maid, told how, at her mistress' orders, she had
taken from the safe all the boxes of jewelry and piled them up on the
table where they still remained. Her candid opinion was that the
master had been drinking again and that madame, disgusted at his
behavior, had eloped with a tall, handsome stranger who had been seen
loitering around the house. Oku scoffed at all this gossip. It was
clear as daylight, he said. His master was tired of being married so
long to the same woman, and as to madame, she also was weary of being
married to the same man, so each had decided to try a little change,
whereupon Lizzie, the second waitress--a buxom Irish girl who despised
"furriners" in general and Japanese in particular--bid Oku hold his
tongue and not jabber such heathenish nonsense.
But if the situation was productive of much unconscious humor in
servants' hall, it was different upstairs. To Robert Stafford it was
all serious enough, a tragedy which had suddenly blasted his life, and
night after night as he sat alone in the library, making a hollow
pretence at work, forcing his mind on a book or newspaper when really
his thoughts were miles away, he wondered how he could have been such
a fool as to allow his happiness slip through his fingers.
Now that Virginia was really gone, he realized what she had been to
him and what he had lost. At the outset, he had taken it lightly,
resentfully. He schooled himself to appear indifferent, afraid that he
would be surrendering some of his pride if he displayed the slightest
weakness. To himself he argued that if she chose to quarrel with him
and disturb the harmony of their home on such a trivial pretext, he
would be a poor weak fool to permit a woman to bully him and question
rights which were of the very essence of his manhood. If she preferred
to make a fuss and go her own way he could not prevent her. But when
the door had closed behind her, when he saw that she was really in
earnest, that she had been willing to give up all this comfort, all
this luxury, to return to a precarious existence, a life of
humiliation and self-denial, and all this for a mere matter of
principle, he was startled.
The railroad promoter had never troubled to think deeply on matters
outside his material interests. Of religion, he had none, and he
seldom stopped to consider the ethical side of a question. But all at
once, as by a miracle, the scales fell from his eyes. In a sudden
flash of illuminating reason he saw himself as he was--selfish,
cynical, inconsiderate, brutal. He was astounded at finding himself
compelled to admit the truth of these self-made charges. He did not
mean to be all these things. At heart he was a good fellow. It was
simply the fault of his training. He saw now the truth of what in his
egotism and cynicism he had always scoffed at before, that some women
are strong enough morally, brave enough physically to do anything,
make any sacrifice for the sake of right. How unworthy he had proved
himself of such a woman! What respect could she have left for him,
what respect had he left for himself?
And as the days went by without word from her and the full realization
of what he had lost slowly came to him, he thought he would go mad
from anxiety and remorse. He did not know where she had gone and his
pride prevented him from communicating with her sister. James Gillie
had handed in a haughty resignation the day following Virginia's
departure, so there was no way of learning anything from that source,
and the detective he had employed had thus far discovered nothing. She
might be in difficulties, in actual want and would not ask assistance
from sheer pride. The thought was maddening and for days Stafford,
distraught, unable to attend to his affairs, remained in the house,
hoping, half expecting, she would return until the uncertainty and
continual disappointment nearly drove him insane. He could not eat; he
could not sleep. His ears still rang with her reproaches, her stinging
words of bitter denunciation. At night he would wake up suddenly in a
cold sweat imagining he saw her standing at the bed, looking at him
with her large, sorrowful eyes, full of tears and reproach.
If he had never been sure of it before, he knew now that he loved her.
Everything in the house, now she was gone, told him so. As he wandered
aimlessly through the deserted rooms, and his glance fell on the
corners and objects with which she was associated--the deep easy chair
in the library in which she would bury herself for hours with an
interesting book; her baby grand piano, still open with the sheets of
music scattered about; her private chamber with the bed undisturbed,
closets empty, furniture arranged in precise order, and already
beginning to accumulate dust--he realized for the first time all that
she had been to him. He had not married young like most men. She had
come into his life when his habits and opinions were already formed.
For that reason he had treated his wife like a child, to be petted and
indulged, but who at no time must be permitted to assert her
independence or interfere in any way with her husband's mode of
living. But little by little, even without his being conscious of it,
she had taken a larger place in his life. Gradually, she had made
herself necessary to him, to his peace of mind, to his comfort. Not
only did she fill the house with her youthful enthusiasm and girlish
laughter, but when business cares weighed heavy on his shoulders and
he came home tired, glad of someone to whom he could confide his
troubles, he found in her the most sympathetic of listeners. In the
evening she would sit at the piano and play for him his favorite
music. Ah, how divinely she played the Schubert _Serenade_; its
sad, mournful melody was even now ringing in his ears, perfectly
attuned to his present mood. Insensate fool that he had been! He had
enjoyed all this and yet had deemed it of such little value that he
had spurned it and driven it away. This woman, his wife, who had
brought sunshine into his life and home--this loyal, faithful
comrade--he had insulted beyond all forgiveness. When it all came
clear to him, he thought he would go mad.
Ah, if she would only forgive him and come back! His first impulse was
to go after her, humiliate himself, go on his knees if necessary, and
beseech her to return. A dozen times he sat down and wrote her a
letter, but they were never sent. His pride forbade it, and caused him
to go about wearing a mask of indifference which he was far from
feeling. No, he could not go after her. All through his life, he had
prided himself on his strength of will. It was the keystone of his
character, both in his relations with his workmen and also in his
domestic life. If he were to weaken, no matter what the circumstances,
after once taking a determined stand, he would forfeit not only the
world's respect, but his own as well. He was as proud and self-willed
as she. He had told her that he would never go to her unless she sent
for him. If, therefore, she was as proud and determined as he was,
they had said good-bye for ever. They would never see each other
again. If she did not write, it was because she had tired of him and
did not want to come back. Perhaps she had found someone for whom she
cared more, and no doubt one of these days some lawyer would be
serving him with papers in a separation or divorce suit. Thus, his
brain conjuring up all kinds of possibilities, he began to nourish
feelings of anger and resentment. Suppose he had been a little rough
with her, it was far worse for her to abandon him and expose him to
all kinds of slanderous rumors. Thus, steeling his heart, he tried to
forget her.
For a time he went back to his old style of life, leading again that
easy-going, bohemian existence of his bachelor days. He plunged into
gaieties and dissipations of every kind. He gambled freely, drank
heavily and gave midnight champagne suppers enlivened by "appetizing"
vaudeville, to prominent ladies of the demi-monde. Yet even these
excesses could not drown the prickings of conscience. Sometimes, amid
one of these nocturnal debauches, and while the drunken revelry was at
its height, he would suddenly see Virginia's pale, thoughtful face.
Her eyes, dimmed with tears, and full of reproach, would seem to be
gazing at him questioningly, wonderingly, that he should have so
degraded himself. With a cry of disgust, he would spring up from his
chair and go back to his desolate home.
Gradually the strain told upon him. He grew nervous and depressed. His
physician warned him against working too hard.
"It's the grave malady of our time," said the doctor, shaking his
head. "All our successful men fall victims to it. It's this cursed
race to get rich quick."
Stafford shook his head. With a grim smile he said:
"You are mistaken, doctor. My affairs were never in better shape. I'm
ashamed to tell you what ails me. It's a schoolboy's complaint. I'm in
love--for the first time in my life."