Sheila Robinson, the nervous wreck, lay on a couch in her boudoir, and
from time to time she wept. She was a handsome woman, a fine woman,
tall, regally formed, with long, languid blue eyes and a superb crown of
red hair. She was not unaware of her natural advantages, yet compliments
almost always made her weep.
“If you could have seen me before I married Lucian Robinson!” was what
she usually said.
She had just said this now, to Miss La Chêne, and Miss La Chêne had
answered instantly:
“Oh, any one could _see_ how much you’ve suffered!”
Considering the age and inexperience of the girl, this reply showed
talent; but what had the poor little thing, only eighteen and all alone
in the world, to depend upon except her own native wit? She had made a
determined effort to please Sheila Robinson, and she had succeeded at
the very first interview. Mrs. Robinson had been much gratified by her
wide-eyed interest and fervent sympathy.
For a whole week Miss La Chêne had not failed once. She had been
earnestly attentive, obliging, polite, and amusing. She had been,
without complaint, a servant in the morning, a dear and intimate friend
in the afternoon, and completely forgotten in the evening. Everything
had gone very nicely indeed.
But a week of calm was about as much as Mrs. Robinson’s nerves could
endure. Her husband was away on a business trip, and his daily letters
upset her horribly. She could, she assured Miss La Chêne, read between
the lines. She was wonderfully clever about this, though she modestly
said that it was all intuition.
For instance, if a letter was dated the 12th, this remarkable woman knew
at once that it had really been written on the 5th, and given to some
complaisant friend to mail. If Lucian said that business was bad, it was
because he wished to lavish his money elsewhere. If he said that
business was good, it was because he was disgracefully happy.
Altogether Mrs. Robinson was so barbarously ill-used and deceived by her
husband that she no longer cared what happened to her. The hotel suite
which she occupied became the scene of a lamentable martyrdom. She
trifled with her life. When she lay in bed, she observed to Miss La
Chêne that the doctor had positively ordered her to go out and divert
her mind. When she passed a hectic day away from home, she would
frequently remind Miss La Chêne, with a brave, scornful smile, that the
doctor had forbidden any excitement. Every meal, every cup of coffee,
every cigarette, was a reckless defiance of the doctor’s orders; but, as
she said, what did it all matter? Perhaps it would be better if she were
dead, and the heartless Lucian free to marry again.
“If I should _not be here_ when he comes back,” she said to Miss La
Chêne, in a low, thrilling voice, “tell him that I forgive--everything!”
Nevertheless, it seemed that she wished to know definitely what there
was to be forgiven, for on this particular morning she said she had a
“strange, psychic feeling that something was wrong,” and she desired to
verify the suspicion. She read her husband’s letter over and over.
“My dear!” she said, with dangerous calmness. “He says he is at a hotel
in Washington, but I do not believe him! Something tells me he is not in
Washington at all!”
Miss La Chêne looked appalled.
“Please,” Mrs. Robinson went on, “get the hotel on the long distance for
me, my dear. I must know!”
This the willing companion did. Mrs. Robinson took up the receiver and
requested to speak to Mr. Robinson. There was a pause. Then a pleasant
feminine voice answered her:
“Mr. Robinson is out, but this is Mrs. Robinson speaking. May I--”
It was terrible! In vain did Miss La Chêne point out that Robinson was
not a very unusual name, and that there might well be a Mrs. Robinson in
that hotel totally unknown to Mr. Lucian Robinson.
“Don’t go on!” cried Mrs. Robinson. “I knew it--I knew it all the time!
My heart told me!”
She began at once to prepare for her departure. In every crisis she was
wont to fly to some one who could “understand,” and it was now the turn
of her sister, Mrs. Milner, to perform this office for her. She was
going away. She cared not where she went, in her anguish, but she
thought that Miss La Chêne might as well buy her a ticket for Greenwich
and look up a train and order a taxi.
“I must go at once,” she said, “while I have the strength. My dear, do I
look too terrible?”
“Well,” replied Miss La Chêne, “of course, any one could see how much
you were suffering.”
Mrs. Robinson cast a glance at the mirror. With her handsome face pale
with grief and Rachel powder, her eyes somber with pain and mascara, her
regal form dressed all in black, she did indeed look tragic.
“What does it all matter?” she demanded. “You’ll stay here and look
after the packing, won’t you, my dear? And my jewels--” This was too
much for her. “My jewels!” she said wildly. “Almost all of them were
given to me by him, in those days when he still loved me. Take them
away! Never let me see them again--never! But be sure to get a receipt
from the safe-deposit, my dearest child, and remember that the bank
closes at three o’clock.”
She gave the jewel case to Miss La Chêne and turned with a shudder,
covering her eyes with her hand.
“Take the five o’clock train, my dear,” she said. “I’ll see that you’re
met at the station. Good-by! Good-by!”
“_Au revoir!_” said Miss La Chêne, with fervor.
Directly she was left alone, Miss La Chêne, with remarkable skill and
energy, set about the business of packing. She did the job well--as,
indeed, she did almost everything she undertook.
In a way she enjoyed the task, but in another way it was unspeakably
painful. She adored handling these satin, silk, lace, chiffon, batiste,
and georgette garments of Mrs. Robinson’s, these perfumes, powders,
rouges, creams, and lotions, these hats, shoes, slippers, gloves, and
scarfs. She could thoroughly appreciate the somewhat flamboyant tastes
of the unhappy lady; but oh, how she coveted! Actually tears came into
her eyes--tears of fearful envy.
She was an honest and sturdy little soul, however, and she tried to
console herself with the reflection that, if she continued to be honest,
industrious, and virtuous, she might some day have all that Mrs.
Robinson had, and more. Even in boarding school she had known that she
was going to marry a millionaire, and now she was so situated that she
might meet one at almost any minute. Who could tell what might not
happen at the house of this sister in Greenwich?
So she did her work; and when it was done, and the trunks had gone off,
she sat down to rest for a little. It was at this minute, when her busy
little hands were idle, that temptation assailed her. She wondered what
Mrs. Robinson had in her jewel case. She discovered that the key was in
the lock. She did not see what harm it could possibly do just to look at
the jewels; and then she did not see what harm it could possibly do just
to try on a few of them.
She tucked in her blouse, so as to leave her slender neck and shoulders
bare. She took the net off her smooth, neat coiffure, and produced a
fascinating effect of wildness by a few deft touches. Cosmetics she
needed not, for her eyes were starry, her cheeks flushed with delight.
She slipped two or three rings on her fingers and a broad gold bracelet
on one childish arm. She put on a long rope of pearls, and clasped about
her throat a short necklace of emeralds.
Then she found a jeweled butterfly, the use of which she didn’t
comprehend, but she fastened it in her hair, just above her eyebrows;
and she stared and stared at her image in the mirror, enthralled by the
magical glimmer of the jewels. She was altogether the most amazingly
lovely little creature, and the man standing in the doorway behind her
was very properly overwhelmed. He never forgot that first glimpse of
Miss La Chêne.
“I--I--I--” he stammered.
She spun around, as white as a ghost. He was a slender, well dressed
man, with a thin, harassed face, pleasant brown eyes, and hair a little
gray. He was greatly embarrassed, and she was terrified; and that made
conversation difficult.