"Jenkins?" I cried; in a tone so high that it gave me a headache.
"Didn't I warn you that he was a great liar, Caroline? You mustn't
believe more than ten per cent. of what he says."
"H'm!" growled Caroline, while she glanced idly at the outside of the
envelopes beside her coffee-cup.
"I tell you, Caroline," I went on, feverishly, wondering why I had grown
to hate my wife's voice so quickly, "I tell you, Caroline, that Jenkins
is a waif from the School for Scandal. He was valet to Lord Runabout
before he came over here. Jenkins's standards, I must say, are low. You
know what Runabout is, my dear. Well, Jenkins seems to think that to be
a gentleman one must have Runabout's tastes. I was idly curious at
first to hear what Jenkins had to say. Naturally, he got a wrong
impression, and there you are! Sometimes, Caroline, you'd think, to
hear Jenkins talk to me, that I was a wild blade, a dare-devil rake, of
the latest English pattern. In certain moods, he amuses me; at other
times, I don't listen to him. But I can readily understand, my dear,
what a shock he must have given you. Of course, you couldn't know--I
should have told you more about it in detail--that I'm really a hero to
my valet. It's not a nice kind of hero, of course, but it's the kind
that Jenkins admires. In short, Caroline, dear, while I'm Dr. Jekyll to
the world, I'm Mr. Hyde to my man."
"H'm," came my gruff voice again, and there was a smile on my face that
aroused my anger. During our five years of married life I had never lost
my temper with Caroline. But her present manner, made doubly offensive
by the use of my own body as its medium, filled me with rage.
"By the eternal horn spoon, Caroline, you must drop that!" I cried, in a
shrill treble. "If you say 'h'm' to me again in that cheap actor's
manner--I'll--I'll--"
"Get a divorce, perhaps," suggested Caroline, pleasantly. "Come, come,
Reginald, you've gone far enough. You have no cause for anger--unless,
indeed, your conscience goads you. But I've put up a flag of truce.
Suppose we drop this unpleasant subject for the present." Here she
calmly stuck my letters into a pocket of my coat. "I'll look these over
riding down-town. Just ring for Jones, will you, and ask him if the
coupe is at the door."
"Caroline! Caroline!" I moaned, falling back in my chair, limp and
hopeless, "you must not--you dare not attempt this mad prank! I tell
you, Caroline, that you will regret your foolhardiness to the last day
of your life."
"Listen to me, Reginald," said my wife, standing erect and drawing
herself up to my full height. "Jones will come to you up-stairs for his
orders. Think of it, my dear! You can order whatever you like best for
dinner. The Van Tromps and Edgertons dine with us to-night. Don't
forget that."
I groaned aloud, and felt the tears rushing to Caroline's beautiful
eyes.
"This morning," she went on, seemingly in high spirits, "my new ball
dress should arrive. Mrs. Taunton--you never liked her, Reggie, but
she's really charming--is to lunch with me. Professor Von Gratz will be
here at eleven to hear me play Beethoven's Opus 22. He's apt to be
severe, but don't mind him, my dear. His bark is worse than his bite."
Caroline bent down and touched the bell in front of me.
"Is the coupe ready, Jones?" she asked, as the butler entered.
"Yes, sir."
"Ta-ta, Reggie," cried my wife, in my most playful voice. "I'll call
you by 'phone the moment I reach the office. Hope you'll have a
pleasant day. Ta-ta!"
A moment later, I sat alone in the breakfast-room, gazing down at my
broken coffee-cup and saucer. I regretted their accidental destruction.
It would have pleased me now to smash them by design.
*CHAPTER IV.*
*THE STRENUOUS LIFE.*
No longer memory whispers whence arose
The doom that tore me from my place of pride.
--_Whittier_.
I had had the telephone placed in the library for reasons that need not
be given here, and it was to this room that I betook myself after I had
recovered from Caroline's cruel exit. I realized, in a vague kind of
way, that the library was not my wife's customary haunt after breakfast,
but I lacked the courage to seek a clue to her usual morning habits.
That Suzanne would discover me presently in my hiding-place, I had no
doubt, but I was safe from intrusion for a time, at least, and might
find in solitude a poultice for the blows that this deplorable
day--always to be remembered as Black Wednesday--had already given to
me.
As I seated myself beside a table covered with books and magazines, a
feeling of rebellion, not unmingled with envy, came over me. It was a
clear, bracing, sunny morning, and Caroline, in my outward seeming, was
rolling down-town, rejoicing, doubtless, like a bird that has escaped
unexpectedly from a narrow cage. A new life lay before her. She had
gone forth to see the world, while I, beautiful but despondent, sat
trembling, in momentary dread of discovery by Jones or Suzanne. Menaced
by a ball-dress, a music teacher, Mrs. Taunton and various unknown
household duties, my mind exaggerated the miseries of my situation.
Unworthy passions agitated my throbbing bosom. A longing for vengeance,
a mad desire to make Caroline regret her base desertion of the man whom
she had vowed to love, honor and obey, swept through me. It would go
hard with me, indeed, if some opportunity for punishing my errant spouse
did not present itself during the long day that confronted me.
With great presence of mind, despite my agitation, I had brought
Caroline's mail into the library with me. Should I open it? Why not?
She had carried off my letters with a piratical nonchalance quite
consistent with her present high-handed methods of procedure. It was
only fair that I should dip into her correspondence at my leisure. But
I feared, just now, any further shock to my nerves, and sat motionless,
gazing listlessly at the little pile of notes addressed to Caroline.
Suddenly, a thought came into my mind that sent the blood rushing
through my veins. Was it not more than probable that my library
contained a few volumes dealing with the occult sciences? At all
events, I was sure that I owned several books relating to Oriental
philosophy. Then there was Sir Edwin Arnold's "Light of Asia" at my
disposal, and, if I became impatient of research, I could look up
"Reincarnation," "Transmigration" and kindred topics in the
encyclopaedia.
But what had become of my courage? Great as was my curiosity regarding
the strange psychical displacement that had made me practically a
prisoner in my own home, I feared to take steps that, while they might
increase my erudition, might also deprive me of all hope of the night's
readjustment.
"I'd better leave it alone," I murmured to myself, despondently. "My
very ignorance of this kind of thing may prove to be my salvation in the
end. I'm up against it, there's no doubt of that. And the queer thing
about it all is that I'm not more astonished at what has happened. It
didn't hurt a bit! It was like taking gas. You wake up in a dentist's
chair, and the only tooth you knew you possessed has gone. I wonder, by
the way, if it would pay to consult a doctor--some specialist in nervous
disorders? I could use an assumed name, and-- Bosh! I haven't the
sand to do it. And it might lead to an investigation as to my sanity.
Great guns, girl! You here again?" The last words I spoke aloud,
gazing upward into Suzanne's pale, disturbed face.
"I am so worried about madame," said Suzanne in French, glancing
nervously around the library, as if she sought in my environment an
explanation of her mistress's eccentricity. "Would it not be well for
madame to come up-stairs and try to get a nap?"
"A nap!" I cried, in a vibrant treble. "Not on your life, girl! I'm up
for all day, you may bet on that. Get me the morning papers, Suzanne.
And--wait! Where's Jenkins?"
Suzanne gazed at me in surprise.
"He's eating his breakfast, madame."
"Bring me the papers, and then tell Jenkins to take a day off. Tell him
he may go as far away as Hoboken if he wants to. He needn't return
until to-morrow."
Suzanne glided from my side with a quick, silent movement that reminded
me of a black cat.
A wild, fleeting hope seized me that Jenkins would carry the girl away
with him, but presently Suzanne entered the library again.
"Jenkins sends his thanks to madame, and will take a holiday, after
reporting to monsieur at his office," said my pretty gadfly, glibly,
placing the morning newspapers beside me.
"Confound his impudence!" I exclaimed, and I saw at once that Suzanne
considered me "no better."
"And now, girl, what next? Jones, I suppose."
"Yes, madame. He is awaiting your pleasure outside the door."
At that moment Jones entered the library.
"You called me, madame," he said, pompously, magnificent as a liar.
"Your orders, madame?"
"We have guests for dinner, Jones," I remarked, bravely.
"Yes, madame. How many?"
"Four, Jones. Six at the table, that is. Cocktails to start with,
Jones, and serve my best wines--freely, do you understand? I want you
to give us a dinner to-night, Jones, that'll--make a new man of me," I
murmured under my breath.
"Yes, madame," said the butler, respectfully, but I certainly caught a
gleam of delight in his heavy eyes. "You give me _carte blanche_,
madame?"
"Throw everything wide open, and let 'er go, Jones," I cried, with
enthusiasm. Caroline should see that I know how "to provide."
Jones bowed, more, I believe, to conceal his astonishment than for mere
ceremony, and turned to leave the room.
"Jones," I called, before he had disappeared, "if you talk to Jenkins
before he leaves the house I shall discharge you."
The butler turned, with a flush in his face, and gave me a haughty
stare. Then he said, recovering his machine-made humility:
"Yes, madame. Your orders shall be obeyed." With that he was gone.
"Go to the 'phone, Suzanne," I said at once, "and call up 502, Rector.
When you've got 'em, let me know."
Suzanne was too nervous to accomplish this task, and I was forced to go
to her assistance.
"Hello!" I heard Caroline's voice crying presently, and it warned me to
be careful.
Standing at a 'phone it was hard for me to remember that I was far from
being quite myself.
"Who's this?" came to my ears from 502, Rector.
"Has--ah--Mr. Stevens reached the office yet?" I asked.
"We expect him every moment. He's late this morning," came the answer
in a man's voice, (I had grown very sensitive to sex in voices.) "Who is
this?"
"I am--ah--Mrs. Stevens." Suddenly, I realized that I was talking to
Morse, my head-clerk. How he happened to be in my inner office puzzled
me. "Anything new this morning, Morse?" I inquired, impulsively. There
was a sound that can be described as an electric gurgle at his end of
the line.
"Hello," he cried, above a buzzing of the wires that might have been
caused by his astonishment. "Are you still there, Mrs. Stevens?"
"Well, rather," I said to myself. Then aloud: "Will you kindly call me
up--ah--Mr. Morse, the moment Mr. Stevens arrives?"
"On the instant, Mrs. Stevens," said Morse, deferentially.
Curiosity overcame my discretion.
"How did the market open, Mr. Morse?" I asked, recklessly.
Again that electric gurgle escaped from my startled clerk.
"It seems to be very feverish, madame," answered Morse, evidently
recovering his equanimity.
"Naturally!" I exclaimed, feelingly, but I doubt that Morse caught the
word.
"Is that all, Mrs. Stevens?" he asked, presently.
"That'll do for the present--ah--Mr. Morse," I said, reluctantly.
"Good-bye!"
I returned to my seat beside the reading-table and found Suzanne gazing
at me with soft, sympathetic eyes.
"If I had but dared to tell him to unload," I mused aloud, but went no
further, for the French girl's glance had become an interrogation-mark.
"Tell monsieur to unload?" murmured Suzanne, who sometimes spoke English
when she especially craved my confidence. "But--_mon Dieu!_--monsieur
is not--what you say, madame, loaded?"
I broke into a silvery, high-pitched laugh that annoyed me, exceedingly.
But it was not unpleasant to realize that the girl knew that Mr. Stevens
was a gentleman. I felt grateful to Suzanne for her good opinion. A
moment later, the telephone rang, sharply.
"There's Caroline," I said to myself; but I was quickly undeceived when
I had placed the receiver to my ear.
"Is that you, Caroline?" I heard a voice saying. "This is Louise. What
have you decided to do about those lectures on Buddhism? Will you join
the class, my dear?"
"Not in a thousand years!" I fairly shrieked through the 'phone.
"Good-bye!"
"More trouble, madame?" asked Suzanne, as I tottered back to my chair.
"I am so sorry. Really, I think madame should come up-stairs with me and
lie down. I will bathe madame's head, and she may drop off for a time."
"Suzanne," I said, solemnly, making a strong effort of will and
controlling my temper nicely--"Suzanne, if you suggest a sleep to me
again to-day I shall be forced to send you to Hoboken to find Jenkins.
What's that? The telephone again? Ah--Mr. Stevens must have reached
his office."
I was right this time. If my memory is not at fault, our conversation
across the wire ran as follows.
"Hello!"
"Hello!"
Silence for a time and a buzzing in my ear.
"Is that you, Caroline?" from my office.
"You know best--ah--Reginald," in the sweetest tones that I could beget
in my wife's voice.
"Hello!"
"Hello!" I returned. "Pleasant ride down--ah--Reginald?"
"Do be serious, will you?" gruffly, from the office.
"Tell Morse to sell L stock and industrials at once. Do you get that?"
"I'll have to use my own judgment in that matter, Caroline." My voice
came to me through the 'phone with its own stubborn note.
"Great Scott!" I cried, realizing that I was absolutely helpless. "Be
careful what you do--ah--Reginald. It's a very treacherous market. For
heaven's sake, sell out at once, will you?"
"I must get to work now, my dear," said my wife, gruffly. "There's a
heavy mail this morning, and several men are waiting to see me. Mr.
Rogers comes in to me at once."
A cold chill ran through me, and Caroline's voice trembled as I cried:
"Don't see Rogers--ah--Reginald! I haven't decided yet what answer to
give the man. Bluff him off, if you've got a spark of sense left in
you. Tell him to call at the office next week."
"Good-bye, Caroline," came my voice to me, remorselessly. "I'll call
you up again later. How's your ball dress? Does it fit you nicely?
Don't over-exert yourself, my dear. You weren't looking well at
breakfast. Ta-ta! See you later."
I heard the uncompromising click of the receiver, and knew that my wife
had returned to my affairs. As I turned my back to the telephone, I
felt that ruin was staring me in the face. If Caroline played ducks and
drakes with my various stocks I stood to lose half my fortune. What a
fool I had been, engaged in a profitable business, to go into
speculation! Had it not been for what may be considered a feeling of
false pride I should have sent Suzanne for a cocktail at once. It
seemed to me that my masculine individuality exhausted Caroline's
nervous energy at a most deplorable rate.
*CHAPTER V.*
*SUZANNE'S BUSY DAY.*
Births have brought us richness and variety, and other births have
brought us richness and variety.--_Walt Whitman_.
Buttons, the hall-boy was accustomed to sit where he could keep one ear
on the 'phone in the library, the other on the bell in the main
entrance, and both of them on the voice of Jones, the butler. The
library stifled me, and the very sight of the telephone threatened me
with nervous prostration.
"Tell Buttons," I said to Suzanne, "to listen to the 'phone, and
if--ah--Mr. Stevens calls me up again, to let me know of it at once.
Then come to me up-stairs. And, Suzanne, say to Buttons that if--what
was her name?--ah, yes, Louise--rings me up again to tell her I've got
an attack of neuralgia in my--ah--astral body, and that I'm writing to
Buddha to ask for his advice in the matter. That'll shut her off for
all day, I imagine."
"_Oui_, madame," murmured Suzanne, wearily. She was beginning to feel
the effects of a great nervous strain. As I reached the door of the
library, the effort to carry myself like a lady overcame my momentary
infusion of energy.
"Suzanne," I said, "it might be well for you to bring some cracked ice
with you. Ask Jones for it. Tell him I have a headache, if he glares
at you."
As I mounted the stairs slowly, wondering how women manage to hold their
skirts so that their limbs move freely, a feeling of relief came over
me. It was pleasant to get away from the floor over which Jones, the
phlegmatic and tyrannical, presided. I had lost all fear of Suzanne,
but the butler chilled my blood. If Caroline and I failed to obtain a
psychical exchange to-night Jones must leave the house to-morrow.
Suddenly, I stood motionless in the upper hallway and laughed aloud,
nervously. What would Jones think could he learn that he had become
unwittingly a horror in livery to a lost soul? The absurdity of the
reflection brought a ray of sunshine to my darkened spirit, and I
entered Caroline's morning-room in a cheerful mood.
"Pardon me, Mrs. Stevens, but I was told to wait for you here."
A pretty girl confronted me, standing guard over a large pasteboard box
that she had placed upon a chair.
"You--ah--have something for me?" I asked, coldly. I was beginning to
wonder where Caroline's leisure came in.
"Your new ball-dress, Mrs. Stevens. You promised to try it on this
morning, you remember."
"Very well! Leave it, then. I'll get into it later on. I've no doubt
it'll fit me like a glove."
The girl stared at me for a moment, then recovered herself and said:
"Madame Bonari will be displeased with me, Mrs. Stevens, if I do not
return to her with the report that you find the dress satisfactory. I
may await your pleasure, may I not? Madame Bonari would discharge me if
I went back to her now."
"Let me see the dress, girl," I muttered, reluctantly. To don a
ball-dress in full daylight to save a poor maiden from losing her
situation was for me to make a greater sacrifice than this dressmaker's
apprentice could realize.
The girl opened the box, and I gazed, awestruck, at a garment that
filled me with a strange kind of terror. There was not a great deal of
it. It was not its size that frightened me; it was the shape of the
thing that was startling.
"That'll do, girl," I exclaimed, somewhat hysterically.
"Tell--ah--Madame Bonari that this--ah--polonaise is a howling success.
I can see at a glance that it was made for me," and added, under my
breath, "to pay for."
The girl stood rooted to the spot, gazing at me in mingled sorrow and
amazement.
"But oh, Mrs. Stevens," she cried, the tears coming into her eyes, "you
will not dismiss me this way? I will lose my place if you do!"
I sank into a chair, torn by conflicting emotions, as a novelist would
say of his distraught heroine.
"Do you want me to climb into that thing, here and now?" I gasped.
"If madame will be so kind," murmured the girl, imploringly.
With joy, I now heard the tinkling of cracked ice against cut-glass.
Suzanne, to my great relief, entered the room.
"Suzanne," I said, courageously, "I will trouble you to tog me out in
this--ah--silk remnant. Have you got a kodak, girl?" I asked, playfully,
turning toward the astonished young dressmaker. "You're not a yellow
reporter?"
"Oh, Mrs. Stevens!" cried the girl, deprecatingly, glancing
interrogatively at Suzanne. Perhaps the cracked ice and my eccentric
manner had aroused suspicions in her mind.
A moment later, I found myself in Caroline's dressing-room alone with
Suzanne, who had recovered her spirits in the delight that her present
task engendered.
"Madame's neck and arms are so beautiful!" she murmured in French,
pulling the skirt of the ball-dress, a dainty affair made of mauve silk,
with a darker shade of velvet for trimmings, into position. "Ah, such a
wonderful hang! It is worthy of Paris, madame."
"Don't stop to talk, Suzanne," I grumbled. "This is indecent exposure of
mistaken identity, and I can't stand much of it; so keep moving, will
you?"
"The corsage is a marvel, madame!" exclaimed Suzanne, ecstatically.
"It is, girl," I muttered, glancing at myself in a mirror. "It feels
like a cross between a modern life-preserver and a mediaeval
breast-plate. Don't lace the thing so tight, Suzanne. I've got to talk
now and then!"
Suzanne was too busy to listen to my somewhat delirious comments.
"It is a miracle!" she cried in French. "Madame is a purple dream, is
she not?"
"Madame will be a black-and-blue what-is-it before you know it," I
moaned. "Does that girl outside there expect to have a look
at--ah--this ridiculous costume?" I asked, testily.
"Madame is so strange to-day," murmured Suzanne, wearily. "You are free
to go now, madame."
"I clutched at the train that anchored me to my place of torture, and
moved clumsily toward the room in which the young dressmaker awaited me.
"Ah!" cried the girl, as I broke upon her vision, a creature of beauty,
but very far from graceful. "Madame Bonari will be overjoyed. The dress
is perfection, is it not, Mrs. Stevens? I've never seen such a fit."
"It feels like a fit," I remarked, pantingly. "Suzanne," I called out,
desperately, "slip a few cogs in front here, will you? This is only a
rehearsal, you know. If I must suffocate at the ball I'll school myself
for the occasion. But I refuse to be a pressed flower this morning.
Thanks, that's better. It's like a quick recovery from pneumonia. You
may go, girl. Give my compliments to Madame--ah--Bonari, and tell her
I'm on the road to recovery. Good morning!"
Suzanne and I were alone.
"A cocktail, girl. Quick, now! Do you think I wanted that ice as a
musical instrument? If I ever needed a stimulant, Suzanne, I need one
now. Make the dose stiff, Suzanne, for I'm not as young as I was. Do
you hear me? Hurry!"
A rap at the door checked Suzanne in full career. We heard the strident
voice of Buttons in the hallway.
"Open the door, Suzanne," I cried, nervously, bracing myself for another
buffet from fate.
"Mr. Stevens is asking for Mrs. Stevens on the 'phone," I heard Buttons
say to Suzanne. "He seems to be in a hurry, too."
Suzanne hastened back to me.
"I know the worst, girl! Say nothing!" I exclaimed, petulantly. "I
must go down-stairs in this infernal ball-dress," and the ordeal before
me filled me with consternation. If Jones should find me skulking
around his domain in a decollete dress at this time of day the glance of
his arrogant eyes would terrify me. But there wasn't time for
reflection, nor, alas! for a cocktail. Caroline was calling vainly to
me with my voice through an unresponsive telephone. I must go to her at
once. Doubtless, she craved immediate advice regarding the manipulation
of my margins. Why, oh! why, had I jeopardized my fortune for the sake
of quick returns, when my legitimate business was sufficient for my
needs?
"I fly, Suzanne!" I cried, as I stumbled toward the hall. "If anybody
calls to ask if I'm engaged for the next dance, tell 'em my card is
full." Suzanne smiled. "And I wish I was!" I muttered to myself,
desperately, as I looked down the staircase and wondered if it would be
well to use my mauve train as a toboggan.
How I managed to reach the telephone, I cannot say. In the lower hall,
I caught a glimpse of Jones's self-made face, and just saved myself from
coming a cropper. To acquire a firm seat in a ball-dress requires
practice.
"Hello!" I shouted, desperately, through the 'phone. "Is that
you--ah--Reginald?"
"Jenkins is here." I heard my voice saying at the other end of the
line. "What'll I do with him?"
"Send him to--ah--Hoboken, will you?" I returned, in a shrill falsetto.
"But you have the better of it, my dear. He's not a marker to Jones.
What have you done with the specialties?"
"Buying! buying! buying!" cried Caroline, in a triumphant basso that
froze my blood. "Rogers gave me an inside tip, as he calls it. It was
awfully nice of him, wasn't it?"
"Damn Rogers!" I exclaimed.
"Good-bye!" cried Caroline, with righteous indignation, and my attempt
to call her back was futile.
My heart was heavy as I made my way, slowly and clumsily, from the
library. Buttons, as bad luck would have it, had just opened the front
door to a black-eyed, long-haired little man, who carried a roll of
music under his arm. As I hesitated, hoping to make good my retreat to
the library, Professor Von Gratz--as he proved to be--hurried toward me.
If he was amazed at my costume, he managed to control his mobile face
and musical voice.
"Oh, madame, I am zo glad to zee you are eager for de lezzon!" he
exclaimed, bowing almost down to his knees. "Ve vill haf grade muzic,
nicht war? You vill blay de vonderful Opuz 22! Beethoven, de giant
among de pygmies, vill open de gates of baradize to us. It vill be
beautiful. You are ready, madame?"
My bosom rose and fell with a conflict of emotions. I felt an almost
irresistible longing to throw this detestable little foreigner out of
the house. The sudden realization that my biceps, etc., were at my
office cooled my ardor for action, and I said, presently, marveling at
my own ingenuity:
"I regret to say--ah--Professor, that my doctor has put me upon a very
slim musical diet. He says that--ah--Beethoven is ruining my nerves.
But if you want to sing 'Danny Deever,' come into the music-room. I
think I could manage to knock out the accompaniment."
Von Gratz stared at me in most apparent agitation, pulling at his horrid
little black goatee with his left hand.
"I vill pid you gute morgen, madame," he gasped, bowing again. "Ven you
are much petter you vill zend for me, nicht war? Gute morgen!"
The gates of paradise were not to be opened to the professor this
morning. On the contrary, Buttons, to my great relief, shut the front
door behind the hurrying figure of the master-pianist, whose farewell
glance of mingled astonishment and anger haunted me as I mounted the
stairs.
"Suzanne!" I gasped, as I tottered into the room in which the girl
awaited my return. "Suzanne, unbuckle this chain-armor, will you? It's
breaking my heart. That's better, Suzanne. Oh, yes, I'm going to a
ball, all right. Or, rather, you're going to bring me one at once."
*CHAPTER VI.*
*VERSES AND VIOLETS.*
Oh, my brothers blooming yonder, unto Him the ancient pray
That the hour of my transplanting He will not for long delay.
--_From the Persian_.
Relieved of Caroline's new ball-dress and having swallowed a cocktail, I
was horrified to find a feeling of almost irresistible drowsiness
stealing over me.
"Suzanne," I cried, "it is imperative that you keep me awake--even if is
becomes necessary for you to do the skirt-dance to drive sleep from my
eyelids. Not that I approved of these Oriental vagaries. Far from it,
Suzanne. Though I may at present come under that head myself--but
_n'importe_! You might assert, plausibly enough, that all this is
Occidental. In a certain sense, I suppose that it is. But--Great
Scott!"
I sank back in an easy-chair, startled by my own flippancy. The
uncanny, inexplicable change that had made me what I was must not be
revealed to Suzanne! Was it not enough that I had already driven my
maid to the very verge of hysteria? And here I sat, talking recklessly
to keep awake, and wearing my secret on my sleeve. Should Suzanne learn
the truth from my punning tongue, her mind might become unhinged. In
that case, another sudden transposition of identities might take place!
Frightful possibility! I must not yield to the inclination creeping over
me to indulge in a short nap. Perhaps Caroline's mail would revive me!
And just here I found myself confronted by a difficult problem in
ethics. Despite the fact that my wife, with a heartless disregard of my
wishes in the matter, had seized my letters, captured my business
office, and assumed the full possession of all my business affairs,
great and small, I could not forget that I still remained a gentleman.
That Caroline had taken advantage of a psychical mischance to lay bare
my inner life before her prying gaze could not excuse my surrender to a
not unfounded but, perhaps, unwholesome curiosity.
"Suzanne," I said presently, and the girl stole softly to my side. "You
spoke of a letter that you had received for me. It is--ah--from--ah?"
"Yes, madame," answered Suzanne, eagerly, but somewhat irrelevantly.
"Here it is, madame. It is from him, I feel sure."
I gazed at the envelope with Caroline's brilliant eyes, but I was not
thankful for my temporary perfection of face and form. It came to me
grimly that beauty may be a nuisance, or even a curse. I lacked the
courage to open this note--an unconventional, perhaps lawless, tribute
to my my wife's powers of fascination. There was an air of Spanish or
Italian intrigue about the whole affair that shocked me. My
imagination, which had developed wonderfully since early morning,
likened myself and Suzanne to Juliet and her nurse.
"O, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou, Romeo?" I exclaimed, somewhat
wildly. Suzanne drew back from me nervously.
"Will you not read the note, madame?"
"Anon, good nurse! But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee--"
"_Mon Dieu!_" gasped Suzanne, gazing at me, awe-struck. But I was
pitiless.
"Suzanne," I said, firmly, glancing at the note in my hand, the
chirography upon which seemed to be familiar, "Suzanne, I am very
beautiful, am I not?"
"_Oui_, madame," assented Suzanne, enthusiastically.
"And I love my husband dearly, do I not?"
"Devotedly, madame."
"Then, surely, Suzanne, I should not receive this epistle. What did I
do with his--ah--former notes?"
I had made a most egregious blunder. An expression of amazement came
into the French maid's mobile face.
"But, madame, this is the first one, is it not? I know of no others,
madame."
There was a gleam of suspicion in the girl's eyes. It was evident that,
for a moment, she suspected my dear Caroline of a lack of
straight-forwardness. Impulsively I tore Romeo's note into a dozen
fragments.
"There, Suzanne." I cried, in a triumphant treble, "my _alibi_ is
perfect. Who wrote this note I do not know. What he had to say I do
not care. If you can get word to him, girl, tell him that if he comes
prowling around my balcony again I'll have--ah--Reginald pull his nose
for him. _A bas_ Romeo!"
"But, madame," murmured Suzanne, evidently pained by my flippant
fickleness and fickle flippancy, "monsieur, the writer of the note,
dines here to-night, you know."
"The deuce he does, girl!" I cried, impulsively, making as if to pull my
beard, and bruising my spirit against new conditions. "Who are our
guests? Edgerton and his wife. It can't be Edgerton. He's not a
blooming idjit. Van Tromp? Dear little Van Tromp! It must be Van
Tromp. Oh, Van Tromp, Van Tromp, wherefore art thou, Romeo? Van
Tromp's the man, eh, Suzanne?"
Caroline's maid was red and tearful.
"Madame is so strange this morning," she complained. "It was Mr. Van
Tromp's man who brought the note, madame."
My soul waxed gay in Caroline's bosom. I warbled a snatch of song from
Gounod's "Faust."
"Suzanne," I cried, "gather up the fragments of Romeo's _billet-doux_.
Possibly his note is not what I supposed it was. I'll read what the
dear little boy has to say. Thank you, Suzanne. I think I can put
these pieces together in a way to extract the full flavor of Van Romeo's
sweet message. What saith the youth? Ha! I have it.
"'MY DEAR MRS. STEVENS: Is it presumption upon my part to believe that
you meant what you said to me at the Cromptons' dance? At all events, I
have had the audacity to cherish your words in my heart of hearts. I am
sending you a few violets to-day. If you do me the honor of wearing
them at dinner to-night, I shall know that there was a basis of
earnestness underneath the words that were as honey to my soul.'
"Listen to that, Suzanne," I cried, hysterically. "Is it not worthy of a
young poet? I wonder what the dev--what Caro--ah--I said to
this--ah--Romeo? Here's richness, Suzanne! I'll wear his flowers--with
a string to 'em, eh? We'll have a merry dinner, Suzanne! I told Jones
to throw everything wide open. I'll include young Van Tromp in the
order. He shall be my special care, Suzanne. Van Tromp's mine oyster!
What think you, Suzanne? Should I not quaff a toast to the success of
my little game?"
"Madame, I do not understand," murmured the girl, in French. "Madame is
feverish. Let me bathe madame's head, and she may get a quieting nap.
If you could lose yourself only for an instant, madame!"
"Great Jupiter, Suzanne, will you get that idea out of your head? I
don't want to lose myself. On the contrary--but--_n'importe_, as we say
when we're feverish. You'll find some cigarettes in the bedroom, girl.
Bring 'em to me at once. Don't stare at me that way! If I don't smoke
I'll drink another cocktail, and then what'll happen?"
Suzanne shuddered and hurried away. Presently I was blowing smoke into
the air, much to my own satisfaction and to Suzanne's ill-disguised
amazement.
"Tobacco is quieting, Suzanne; soothing, cheerful. It stimulates hope
and calms the perturbed soul. Damn it! what's that? Somebody's
knocking, Suzanne. See who it is. If it's anyone for me, tell them
that I won't draw cards this morning, but may take a hand later on.
Don't stand staring at me, girl! Put a stop to that rapping at once."
"_Mon Dieu!_" groaned Suzanne, as she crossed the room. How much longer
she could stand the strain of my eccentricities was becoming
problematical. Presently she returned to me, carrying a box of flowers.
"Romeo's violets," I murmured, rapturously. "Tell me, nurse, did Juliet
mean what she said to Romeo? Well, rather! I'll wear thy flowers,
little boy! What's this? Another note, smothered in violets. Listen,
Suzanne! Romeo has dropped into poetry. Listen:
"'Go, purple blossoms, the glory of Spring,
Gladden her eyes with thy velvety hue;
What are the words of the song that I sing?
They came to my heart as the dew came to you.
"'My love is a flower, my song is its scent;
Let it speak to her soul in the violet's breath!
And my spirit with thee, by a miracle blent,
Shall drink deep of life, of love unto death.'
"Take these away, Suzanne! Take them away!" I cried, in a panic.
"Haven't I had enough of this theosophical, transmigration idiocy for
one day? Take them away! 'By a miracle blent!' Confound the boy! if I
got into that little Van Tromp's body through these infernal flowers I
could never hold up my head again. What's that, Suzanne? Yes, keep them
fresh. Give them water. But don't let me get near them again until I've
got my courage back. Perhaps I'll dare to wear them to-night. I can't
say yet."
I needed rest. Reclining in my chair, I idly watched Suzanne as she
moved restlessly about the room trying to quiet her excitement by
action.
"Suzanne," I cried, softening toward the maid, "don't look so sad. All
will come right in the end. Brace up, girl. 'While there's life
there's hope.'"
"Do I look sad, madame? I am very sorry. I will try to be more
cheerful, for madame's sake. But if madame could put herself into my
place for a moment--"
"There you go again, Suzanne," I exclaimed, testily. "We'll change the
subject, girl. What next?"
"I think it might be well for madame to dress for luncheon," suggested
Suzanne, nervously. It was evident that she had begun to lose
confidence in my intervals of calm.
"Let me think, Suzanne. Somebody lunches with me. Who is it? Oh, yes,
Mrs. Taunton. And now I think of it, Suzanne, Mrs. Taunton is little Van
Tromp's sister. That's the reason I never liked her, I suppose."
"But madame and Mrs. Taunton seem to be such good friends," remarked
Suzanne, in French, moving about in a way that filled me with
foreboding. It was evident that she contemplated changing my costume at
once.
"Appearances are often deceptive, Suzanne," I remarked, feelingly,
lighting a fresh cigarette, somewhat clumsily. "What are you up to now,
girl?"
"Madame must look her best at luncheon," remarked Suzanne,
professionally. "Mrs. Taunton has such exquisite taste."
I was not pleased at Suzanne's remark. Mrs. Taunton, an avowed admirer
of Caroline, had never disguised the fact that she considered me a
nonentity. But fate had vouchsafed to me a great opportunity for
proving to Mrs. Taunton that I was not altogether insignificant.
Disguised in Caroline's outward seeming I might readily avenge myself
for Mrs. Taunton's persistent indifference to my good points. Little
Van Tromp had placed a double-edged weapon in my hand.
"Suzanne," I said, gazing grimly at the dress that she had laid out for
me, "before you go further with my toilet, I wish you would make a copy
of these verses for me. You write English, do you not?"
Suzanne glanced at me, inquisitively.
"Madame knows well that I do," she remarked, mournfully. But the
trembling of her slender hand as she grasped Van Tromp's screed to do my
bidding augured ill for the copy that she would make of his verses.
*CHAPTER VII.*
*IRRITATION AND CONSOLATION.*
Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of this and that endeavor and dispute;
Better be merry with the fruitful grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter fruit.
--_Omar Khayyam_.
I must get on more rapidly with my narrative. It has been a great
temptation to me to indulge in conjectures and surmises regarding the
soul-displacement that may make my story a presentment worthy of
attentive consideration from the Society for Psychical Research. But
from the outset I have endeavored to resist this inclination and to give
to the reader merely a bald statement of facts in their actual sequence.
It must be apparent by this time, furthermore, that I am not fitted by
education to discuss the uncanny problems begotten by the strange
affliction that had befallen my wife and myself. That I have become
perforce a sadder and wiser man may be true, but, despite my practical
experience of what may be called instability of soul, I am not in any
sense a psychologist. From various points of view; therefore, it seems
best that I should eschew all philosophical or scientific comments on
the curious phenomena with which I have been forced to deal, leaving, as
it were, the circumference of my story to the care of the erudite, and
confining my own endeavors strictly to its diameter.
Behold me, then, fresh from Suzanne's deft hands, confronting Caroline's
bosom friend, Mrs. Taunton, across the luncheon-table. Our
conversation, if my memory is not at fault, ran something as follows:
"You look flushed and excited, Caroline," said Mrs. Taunton, a large,
blond, absurdly haughty woman, strangely unlike little Van Tromp, her
poetical brother. "Something has happened to upset you, my dear?"
"Well, rather!" I could not refrain from exclaiming. What the deuce was
Mrs. Taunton's given name? If I did not recall it soon she would begin
to wonder at Caroline's peculiar bearing. It was not Mrs. Taunton,
however, who was driving me toward hysteria. To find myself again in
the realm over which the phlegmatic but terrifying Jones presided was to
lose confidence in my ability to stem the tide of disaster. Jones was
so conservative! Such a radical change as I had undergone would be even
more incomprehensible to him than it had been to me. I realized vaguely
that I had grown to be supersensitive, and that what I took to be
suspicion in the butler's eyes must be a product of my own overwrought
nerves. But, struggle as I might against the impression, I could not
free myself from the feeling that Jones watched me furtively,
questioningly, as if he had gained possession of a clue to a great
mystery.
"Tell me all about it, Caroline," urged Mrs. Taunton, sweetly. "If you
were not so beautiful, my dear, you would not have so much trouble."
The blood rushed into Caroline's cheeks, and I found myself glaring
angrily at Jones, who was serving croquettes to Mrs. Taunton. The
latter had displayed the most wretched taste in praising my, or rather
Caroline's, appearance before the butler. But Mrs. Taunton evidently
looked upon a servant as a mere automaton, not to be considered even in
heart-to-heart talks with young women. My growing annoyance made itself
manifest in Caroline's voice, as I stammered:
"My--ah--beauty, such as it is, don't you know, is only--ah--skin deep.
But my troubles--ah-- Jones! Don't be so slow! Spend as much time
outside as you can, will you?"
Mrs. Taunton stared at me in amazement, while Jones, showing no signs of
emotion, made a most dignified exit.
"What is the matter with you, Caroline?" asked my _vis-a-vis_,
anxiously. "I never heard you speak like that before."
An explanation seemed to be due to my guest.
"It's curious, don't you know," I began, lamely, trying to recall Mrs.
Taunton's baptismal name, "it's curious--ah--my dear, what an intense
repulsion I feel toward that man Jones. It came upon me suddenly. It's
intermittent, not chronic, I think, but it's all there, and means
business. Did you ever feel that way?"
"Caroline!" gasped Mrs. Taunton, pained surprise resting upon her
patrician face.
"It's beneath me, I acknowledge," I went on, feverishly, making an
effort to eat a croquette between sentences. "A butler's merely a
necessary piece of movable furniture, and should--ah--not arouse a
feeling of antagonism. But Jones has got an eye to--ah--induce
intoxication."
"Caroline," queried Mrs. Taunton, solemnly, "have you--forgive me, my
dear, for the question--have you been taking anything?"
"A fair exchange is no robbery," I remarked, impulsively, in my own
defense, but Mrs. Taunton's face assured me that I had spoken
irrelevantly.
"I should advise a cup of black coffee, Caroline," said my guest, in her
iciest tone.
"We'll wait a bit, if you don't mind," I ventured to suggest. "No
coffee without Jones. I'm not quite up to Jones at this moment--er--my
dear."
Mrs. Taunton held my gaze to hers, and her light-gray eyes chilled me.
It was evident that little Van Tromp's sister had no poetical nonsense
in her make-up. Practical, obstinate, strong-willed she seemed to be,
as she endeavored to solve from Caroline's beautiful eyes the mystery of
my eccentric demeanor.
"Your sudden and inexplicable aversion to your butler, Caroline,"
remarked my guest, presently, apparently desirous of soothing my nerves
by a poultice of gossip, "reminds me of the lecture upon Buddhism that I
heard yesterday morning. An adept from India--Yamama, I think, is his
name--talked to us, you know, about our Western blindness, as he called
it, to the marvels of soul-sensitiveness."
My fork rattled against my plate, and I gazed down in dismay at
Caroline's trembling hand. Mrs. Taunton overlooked my agitation and
continued:
"He was so entertaining! But it's all absurd, of course. Louise told
me that you were going with her to hear him this morning."
"Yes?" I managed to gasp. "She--ah--Louise called me up by the 'phone.
I couldn't get away, you see--ah--my dear."
"It's such utter nonsense, don't you know," went on Mrs. Taunton,
evidently convinced that the worst was over with me. "I made notes,
just for practice. He--the adept, or whatever he was--was a lovely
piece of mahogany, with perfectly stunning eyes. I memorized one of my
notes. The dear little brownie said--just listen to this, Caroline:
'The Hindu conception of reincarnation embraces all existence--gods,
men, animals, plants, minerals. It is believed that everything
migrates, from Buddha down to inert matter. Buddha himself was born an
ascetic eighty-three times, a monarch fifty-eight times, the soul of a
tree forty-three times, and many other times as an ape, deer, lion,
snipe, chicken, eagle, serpent, pig, frog--four hundred times in all!'
Isn't it all perfectly silly? Good gracious, Caroline, what is the
matter with you? Are you faint?"
"Just a bit rocky," I found sufficient nerve to say. "Are you quite
sure--ah--my dear--that he said pigs--and--and--frogs?"
Mrs. Taunton caught her breath, as if she struggled to swallow her
amazement.
"You ought to be in bed, Caroline," she said, severely. "If you could
get to sleep, my dear--"
"_Et tu, Brute!_" I murmured, with sardonic playfulness. "Look
here--ah--my dear! You find a change in your Caroline, eh? You have
suspected me of drinking, and now you imply that I need sleep. I swear
that the next person who hints that I'm not up for all day shall hear
something to--ah--her disadvantage."
Such talk was madness. Mrs. Taunton very naturally resented my childish
ultimatum. She arose from her chair with a cool, calm dignity that
shocked me like a cold shower-bath.
"I regret, Caroline, that I find my patience exhausted," she remarked,
more in sadness than in wrath, transfixing me with her pale-gray eyes.
"I shall leave you now, but not in anger. I can see, plainly enough,
that you are not yourself."
"Don't you dare to say that in public--ah--Mrs. Taunton," I cried,
hotly, fearful that, as it was, Jones might have overheard her remark.
Reason assured me that her words were used figuratively, but the
undeniable fact that she had hit the target and rung the bell drove me
to desperation. Mrs. Taunton gazed at me for a moment in mingled scorn
and astonishment, and then swept from the dining-room with head high in
air and a rustle of skirts that seemed to sweep Caroline into outer
darkness.
The next thing that I remember, as the flamboyant romancers remark, was
an entrance even more theatrical than Mrs. Taunton's exit. Jones,
impressing my errant fancy as Nemesis in the semblance of an imported
butler, strode into the room bearing a tray upon which rested a
coffee-pot, the aroma from which stirred hope in my heart. Much as I
detested Jones, I welcomed the stimulant that he carried toward me. If
Mrs. Taunton's disappearance surprised him, he succeeded in suppressing
any outward exhibition of emotion.
Realizing for the moment that my fear of the man was unreasonable, I
summoned common sense to my aid and said:
"One good bracer deserves another, Jones. Put a stick into my coffee,
will you?"
The butler gave me a furtive glance, a cross between an exclamation and
an interrogation.
"Brandy, madam?" he asked, smoothly.
When he had fortified my coffee with a dash of fine old French cognac, I
looked him straight in the eye.
"Jones," I said, impressively, "Mr. Stevens has complained of you of
late. But I don't want you to lose your place. I shall see to it that
my--ah--husband becomes reconciled to you, but you must obey my
instructions to the letter. To begin with, you are to leave this room
at once, close the door, stand on guard outside and allow no one to
disturb me until I give you word. If you open the door before I call to
you, you leave the house immediately. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, madam," gasped Jones, thrown out of his orbit for once. But he
retained sufficient self-control to make a hurried exit, noisily
shutting the door behind him.
I swallowed my coffee--and cognac--at a gulp, and stumbled toward the
sideboard. After a short search I came upon a box of excellent cigars.
Presently I was seated at the luncheon-table again, sipping a pony of
brandy neat and blowing cigar-smoke into the air. For a glorious
half-hour, I reflected joyously, I could enjoy myself in my own way.
Glancing over my shoulder, I caught sight of my reflection in the
sideboard mirror. Caroline, with a long, black panatella between her
beautiful lips, held a pony of brandy poised in the air, with the other
hand raised to remove the cigar from her mouth. An inexplicable wave of
diabolical exultation swept over me. Bowing to my wife's handsome
image--which cordially returned the salutation--I removed my cigar and
raised the brandy to Caroline's mouth.
"Here's how, my dear!" I cried, gaily. "No heel-taps!"
Caroline's reflection drank the toast, and the warm glow of
good-fellowship that crept through my veins reconciled me for the time
being to my strange, uncanny fate.
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*NEWS FROM CAROLINE.*
Young and enterprising is the West,
Old and meditative is the East.
Turn, O youth! with intellectual zest
Where the sage invites thee to his feast.
--_Milnes_.
On the whole, I enjoyed my cigar. The waters of affliction had rolled
over me and I basked in the sunshine of peaceful comfort for a full
half-hour. Under like conditions, many good fellows of my set would
have toyed too freely with the cognac. But I was cautious and
conservative as regards the liquor. I glanced at Caroline's face, which
wore a humorous smile as it gazed at me from the mirror.
"Spirits," I cried, facetiously, winking at Caroline's reflection, and
receiving a winking response, "spirits are to be handled with care, my
dear. There's no telling what they may do to us."
At first I derived considerable amusement from the grotesque effects
that I could obtain from the juxtaposition of my cigar and Caroline's
delicate face. If it was a kind of sacrilege to sit there and watch the
smoke issuing from my wife's dainty lips, I comforted my better self
with the thought that I was in no way to blame for existing conditions.
If the sideboard's mirror at that moment framed a picture that might
have been taken from the _Police Gazette_, was I not powerless to alter
the decrees of fate? I had come into my wife's butterfly-beauty without
first sloughing off my gross chrysalis-habits.