“Don’t you call her ‘that Desternay woman’!”
“I’ll call her what I please! And without asking your permission,
either. And I won’t have my wife playing bridge at what is practically
a gambling house!”
“Nothing of the sort! A party of invited guests, in a private house
is a social affair, and you shall not call it ridiculous names! You
play for far higher stakes at your club than we ever do at Fifi
Desternay’s.”
“That name is enough! Fancy your associating with a woman who calls
herself Fifi!”
“She can’t help her name! It was probably wished on her by her
parents in baptism--”
“It probably was not! She was probably christened Mary Jane!”
“You seem to know a lot about her.”
“I know all I want to; and you have reached the end of your
acquaintance with her and her set. You are not to go there, Eunice, and
that’s all there is about it.”
The Emburys were in Eunice’s bedroom. Sanford was in evening dress and
was about to leave for his club. Eunice, who had dined in a negligée,
was donning an elaborate evening costume. She had dismissed her maid
when Embury came into the room, and was herself adjusting the finishing
touches. Her gown of henna-colored chiffon, with touches of gold
embroidery, was most becoming to her dark beauty, and some fine
ornaments of ancient carved gold gave an Oriental touch to her
appearance. She stood before a long mirror, noting the details of her
gown, and showed an irritating lack of attention to Embury’s last
dictum.
“You heard me, Eunice?” he said, caustically, his hand on the
doorknob.
“Not being deaf, I did,” she returned, without looking toward him.
“And you will obey me?” He turned back, and reaching her side, he
grasped her arm with no uncertain touch. “I demand your obedience!”
“Demands are not always granted!”
She gave him a dazzling smile, but it was defiant rather than friendly.
“I make it a request, then. Will you grant me that?”
“Why should I grant your requests, when you won’t grant mine?”
“Good Lord, Eunice, are you going to harp on that allowance string
again?”
“I am. Why shouldn’t I, when it warps my whole life--”
“Oh, come, cut out the hifalutin’ talk!”
“Well, then, to come down to plain facts, there isn’t a day that
I’m not humiliated and embarrassed by the lack of a little cash.”
“Bad as that?”
“Yes, quite as bad as that! Why, the day we went out to Newark I
didn’t have five cents to buy Aunt Abby a newspaper, and she had to
get along without one!”
“She seemed to live through it.”
“Sanford, you’re unbearable! And to-day, at Mrs. Garland’s, a
woman talked, and then they took up a collection for the ‘Belgian Home
Fires,’ and I didn’t have a cent to contribute.”
“Who is she? I’ll send a check.”
“A check! You answer everything by a check! Can’t you understand?
Oh, there’s no use explaining; you’re determined you won’t
understand! So, let us drop the subject. Is to-night the club
election?”
“No, to-morrow night. But to-night will probably decide it in my
mind. It practically hinges on the Meredith set--if they can be talked
over--”
“Oh, Sanford, I do hope they can!” Eunice’s eyes sparkled and
she smiled as she put her hands on her husband’s shoulders. “And,
listen, dear, if they are--if you do win the election, won’t you--oh,
San, won’t you give me an allowance?”
“Eunice, you’re enough to drive a man crazy! Will you let up on that
everlasting whine? No, I won’t! Is that plain?”
“Then I shall go and get it for myself!”
“Go to the devil for all I care!”
Sanford flung out of the room, banging the door behind him. Eunice heard
him speaking to Ferdinand, rather shortly, and as he left the apartment,
she knew that he had gone to the club in their motor car, and if she
went out, she would have to call a cab.
She began to take off her gown, half deciding to stay at home. She had
never run counter to Embury’s expressed orders and she hesitated to do
so now.
And yet--the question of money, so summarily dismissed by her husband,
was a very real trouble to her. In her social position, she actually
needed ready cash frequently, and she had determined to get it. Her last
hope of Sanford failed her, when he refused to grant her wish as a sort
of celebration of his election, and she persuaded herself that it was
her right to get some money somehow.
Her proposed method was by no means a certain one, for it was the
hazardous plan of winning at bridge.
Although a first-rate player, Eunice often had streaks of bad luck,
and, too, inexpert partners were a dangerous factor. But, though she
sometimes said that winnings and losings came out about even in the
long run, she had found by keeping careful account, her skill made it
probable for her to win more than she lost, and this reasoning prompted
her to risk high stakes in hope of winning something worth-while.
Fifi Desternay was a recent acquaintance of hers, and not a member
of the set Eunice looked upon as her own. But the gatherings at the
Desternay house were gay and pleasant, a bit Bohemian, yet exclusive
too, and Eunice had already spent several enjoyable afternoons there.
She had never been in the evening, for Embury wouldn’t go, and had
refused to let her go without him. Nor did she want to, for it was not
Eunice’s way to go out alone at night.
But she was desperate and, moreover, she was exceedingly angry. Sanford
was unjust and unkind. Also, he had been cross and ugly, and had left
her in anger, a thing that had never happened before.
And she wanted some money at once. A sale of laces was to be held next
day at a friend’s home, and she wanted to go there, properly prepared
to purchase some bits if she chose to.
Her cheeks flushed as she remembered Mason Elliott’s offer to give
or lend her money, but she smiled gently, as she remembered the true
friendliness of the man, and his high-mindedness, which took all sting
from his offer.
As she brooded, her anger became more fierce, and finally, with a toss
of her head, she rose from the chair, rang for the maid, and proceeded
to finish her toilette.
“Lend me some money, will you, Aunt Abby?” she asked, as, all ready
to go, she stepped into the livingroom.
She had no hesitancy in making this appeal. If she won, she would repay
on her return. If she lost, Aunt Abby was a good-natured waiter, and she
knew Eunice would pay later.
“Bridge?” said the old lady, smiling at the lovely picture Eunice
made, in her low gown and her billowy satin wrap. “I thought Sanford
took the car.”
“He did. I’m going in a taxi. What a duck you are to let me have
this,” as she spoke she stuffed the bills in her soft gold mesh-bag.
“Don’t sit up, dear, I’ll be out till all hours.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the end of the rainbow--where there’s a pot of gold! You
read your spook books, and then go to bed and dream of ghosts and
specters!”
Eunice kissed her lightly, and gathering up her floating draperies, went
out of the room with the faithful and efficient Ferdinand.
On his way to the club, Embury pursued that pleasing occupation known as
nursing his wrath. He was sorry he had left Eunice in anger--he realized
it was the first time that had ever happened--and he was tempted to go
back, or, at least to telephone back, that he was sorry. But that would
do little good, he knew, unless he also said he was willing to accede to
her request for an allowance, and that he was as sternly set against as
ever.
He couldn’t quite have told himself why he was so positive in this
matter, but it was largely owing to an instinctive sense of the fitness
of having a wife dependent on her husband for all things. Moreover,
it seemed to him that unlimited charge accounts betokened a greater
generosity than an allowance, and he felt an aggrieved irritation at
Eunice’s seeming ingratitude.
The matter of her wanting “chicken-feed” now and then seemed to him
too petty to be worthy of serious consideration. He really believed that
he gave her money whenever she asked for it, and was all unaware how
hard he made it for her to ask.
The more he thought about it, the more he saw Eunice in the wrong, and
himself an injured, unappreciated benefactor.
He adored his wife, but this peculiarity of hers must be put an end
to somehow. Her temper, too, was becoming worse instead of better; her
outbreaks were more frequent, more furious, and he had less power to
quell them than formerly.
Clearly, he concluded, Eunice must be taught a lesson, and this occasion
must be made a test case. He had left her angrily, and it might turn out
that it was the best thing he could have done. Poor girl, she doubtless
was sorry enough by now; crying, probably. His heart softened as he
conjured up the picture of his wife alone, and in tears, but he reasoned
that it would do her good, and he would give her a new jewel to make up
for it, after the trouble was all over.
So he went on to the club, and dove into the great business of the last
possible chance of electioneering.
Though friendly through all this campaign, the strain was beginning to
tell on the two candidates, and both Embury and Hendricks found it a
little difficult to keep up their good feeling.
“But,” they both reasoned, “as soon as the election is over,
we’ll be all right again. We’re both too good sports to hold rancor,
or to feel any jealousy.”
And this was true. Men of the world, men of well-balanced minds, clever,
logical and just, they were fighting hard, each for his own side, but
once the matter was decided, they would be again the same old friends.
However, Embury was just as well pleased to learn that Hendricks was
out of town. He had gone to Boston on an important business matter, and
though it was not so stated, Embury was pretty sure that the important
business was closely connected with the coming election.
In his own endeavor to secure votes, Embury was not above playing the,
to him, unusual game of being all things to all men.
And this brought him into cordial conversation with one of the younger
club members, who was of the type he generally went out of his way to
avoid.
“Try to put yourself in our place, Mr. Embury,” the cub was saying.
“We want this club to be up-to-date and beyond. Conservatism is all
very well, and we all practiced it ‘for the duration,’ but now the
war’s over, let’s have some fun, say we!”
“I know, Billy, but there is a certain standard to be maintained--”
“We, the people of the United States--and tiddle tya--tya--tya! Why,
everybody’s doing it! The women--bless ‘em!--too. I just left your
wife at a table with my wife, and the pile of chips between ‘em would
make some men’s card-rooms hide their diminished walls!”
“That so? You saw my wife this evening? Where?”
“As if you didn’t know! But, good heavens! perhaps you didn’t!
Have I been indiscreet?”
“Not at all. At Mrs. Desternay’s, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but you gave me a jolt. I was afraid I’d peached.”
“Not at all. They’re friends.”
“Well, between you and me, they oughtn’t to be. I let Gladys go,
under protest--I left her there myself--but it’s never again for her!
I shall tell her so to-night.”
Embury changed the subject and by using all his self-control gave no
hint of his wrath. So Eunice had gone after all! After his expressly
forbidding it! It was almost unbelievable!
And within an hour of his receiving information, Sanford Embury, in his
own car, stopped at the Desternay house.
Smiling and debonair as he entered the drawingroom, he greeted the
hostess and asked for his wife.
“Oh, don’t disturb her, dear Mr. Embury,” begged the vivacious
Fifi; “she’s out for blood! She’s in the den, with three of our
wizards and the sky’s their limit!”
“Tut, tut! What naughtiness!” Embury’s manner was just the right
degree of playful reproach, and his fine poise and distinguished air
attracted attention from many of the players.
The rooms were filled, without being crowded, and a swift mental
stock-taking of the appointments and atmosphere convinced the newcomer
that his preconception of the place was about right.
“I must take her away before she cleans out the bunch,” he laughed,
and made progress toward the ‘den.’
“Here you are,” he said lightly, as he came upon Eunice, with
another woman and two men, all of whom were silently concentrating on
what was quite evidently a stiff game.
“Yes, here I am,” she returned; “don’t speak please, until I
finish this hand.”
Eunice was playing the hand, and though her face paled, and a spot of
bright color appeared on either cheek she did not lose her head, and
carried the hand through to a successful conclusion.
“Game and rubber!” she cried, triumphantly, and the vanquished pair
nodded regretfully.
“And the last game, please, for my wife,” Embury said, in calm,
courteous tones. “You can get a substitute, of course. Come,
Eunice!”
There was something icy in his tones that made Eunice shiver, though it
was not noticeable to strangers, and she rose, smiling, with a few gay
words of apology.
“Perfectly awful of me to leave, when I’m winning,” she said,
“but there are times, you know, when one remembers the ‘obey’
plank in the matrimonial platform! Dear Fifi, forgive me--”
She moved about gracefully, saying a word or two of farewell, and then
disappeared to get her wrap, with as little disturbance as possible of
the other players.
“You naughty man!” and Mrs. Desternay shook her finger at Embury;
“if you weren’t so good-looking I should put you in my black
books!”
“That would at least keep me in your memory,” he returned, but his
smile was now quite evidently a forced one.
And his words of farewell were few, as he led Eunice from the house and
down to the car.
He handed her in, and then sat beside her, as the chauffeur turned
homeward.
Not a word was spoken by either of them during the whole ride.
Several times Eunice decided to break the silence, but concluded not to.
She was both angry and frightened, but the anger predominated.
Embury sat motionless, his face pale and stern, and when they arrived at
their own house, he assisted her from the car, quite as usual, dismissed
the chauffeur, with a word of orders for the next day, and then the pair
went into the house.
Ferdinand met them at their door, and performed his efficient and
accustomed services.
And then, after a glance at her husband, Eunice went into her own room
and closed the door.
Embury smoked a cigarette or two, and at last went to his room.
Ferdinand attended him, and the concerned expression on the old
servant’s face showed, though he tried to repress it, an anxiety as to
the very evident trouble that was brewing.
But he made no intrusive remark or implication, though a furtive glance
at his master betokened a resentment of his treatment of Eunice, the
idol of Ferdinand’s heart.
Dismissed, he left Embury’s room, and closed the door softly behind
him.
The door between the rooms of Embury and his wife stood a little ajar,
and as his hand fell on it to shut it, he heard a stifled gasp of
“Sanford!”
He looked in, and saw Eunice, in a very white heat of rage. In all their
married life he had never seen her so terribly angry as she looked then.
Speechless from very fury, she stood, with clenched hands, trying to
command her voice.
She looked wonderfully beautiful like some statue of an avenging
angel--he almost fancied he could see a flaming sword!
As he looked, she took a step toward him, her eyes burning with a glance
of hate. Judith might have looked so, or Jael. Not exactly frightened,
but alarmed, lest she might fly into a passion of rage that would
really injure her, Embury closed the door, practically in her very face.
Indeed, practically, he slammed it, with all the audible implication of
which a slammed door is capable.
The next morning Ferdinand waited for the usual summons from Embury’s
bedroom. The tea tray was ready, the toast crisp and hot, but the
summons of the bell was unusually delayed.
When the clock pointed to fifteen minutes past the hour Ferdinand tapped
on Embury’s door. A few moments later he tapped again, rapping louder.
Several such attempts brought no response, and the valet tried the door.
It would not open, so Ferdinand went to Eunice’s door and knocked
there.
Jumping from her bed, and throwing a kimono round her, Eunice opened her
own door.
Ferdinand started at sight of her white face, but recovered himself, and
said, “Mr. Embury, ma’am. He doesn’t answer my knock. Can he be
ill?”
“Oh, I guess not,” Eunice tried to speak casually, but miserably
failed. “Go through that way.” She pointed to the door between her
room and her husband’s.
Ferdinand hesitated. “You open it, Mrs. Embury, please,” he said,
and his voice shook.
“Why, Ferdinand, what do you mean? Open that door!”
“Yes, ma’am,” and turning the knob, Ferdinand entered.
“Why, he’s still asleep!” he exclaimed. “Shall I wake him?”
“Yes--that is--yes, of course! Wake him up, Ferdinand.”
The door on the other side of Eunice’s room opened, and Aunt Abby put
her head in.
“What’s the matter? What’s Ferdinand doing in your room, Eunice?
Are you ill?”
“No, Aunt Abby--” but Eunice got no further. She sank back on her
bed, and buried her face in the pillows.
“Get up, Mr. Embury--it’s late,” Ferdinand was saying, and then he
lightly touched the arm of his master.
“He--he--oh, Miss Eunice! Oh, my God! Why, ma’am--he--he looks to be
dead!”
With a shriek, Eunice raised her head a moment and then flung it down
on the pillows again, crying, “I don’t believe it! You don’t know
what you’re saying! It can’t be so!”
“Yes, I do, ma’am--he’s--why, he’s cold!”
“Let me come in!” ordered Aunt Abby, as Ferdinand tried to bar her
entrance; “let me see, I tell you! Yes, he is dead! Oh, Eunice--now,
Ferdinand, don’t lose your head! Go quickly and telephone for
Doctor--what’s his name? I mean the one in this building--on the
ground floor--Harper--that’s it--Doctor Harper. Go, man, go!”
Ferdinand went, and Aunt Abby leaned over the silent figure.
“What do you suppose ailed him, Eunice? He was perfectly well, when he
went to bed, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” came a muffled reply.
“Get up, Eunice; get up, dear. That doctor will be here in a minute.
Brush up your hair, and fasten your kimono. You won’t have time to
dress. I must put on a cap.”
Aunt Abby flew to her bedroom, and returned quickly, wearing a lace cap
Eunice had given her, and talking as she adjusted it.
“It must be a stroke--and yet, people don’t have strokes at his age.
It can’t be apoplexy--he isn’t that build--and, too, he’s such an
athlete; there’s nothing the matter with him. It can’t be--oh, mercy
gracious! it can’t be--Eunice! Sanford wouldn’t kill himself, would
he?”
“No! no! of course not!”
“Not just now before the election--no, of course he wouldn’t! But it
can’t be--oh, Lord, what can it be?”