After this first success, Patricia was filled with the spirit of
altruism, and winter and summer went out upon the highways and byways
seeking the raw material for her fateful loom. She was Puck, Portia and
Patricia all rolled into one. There were Stephen Ventnor and Jack
Masters, whom she still saw occasionally, but they only sighed and even
refused to dine at the Castle of Enchantment. She thought sometimes of
Heywood Pennington, too, and often found herself wondering how the world
was faring with him, hoping that some day chance would throw him in her
way. The old romance was dead, of course. But what an opportunity for
regeneration!
Meantime she had much to do in keeping up her establishment, many
friends to make in New York, many social duties to perform. She spent
much time with her husband over the plans of the country place he was
building on Long Island, which was to be ready for occupancy late in the
following spring. Mortimer Crabb had formed a habit of going down town
for a part of every day at least, and if he really did no work he
created an impression of stability which was rather surprising to those
who had known him longest. The Crabbs were desirable acquaintances in
the married set, and before two years had passed, Patricia made for
herself an enviable reputation as a hostess and dinner guest, to say
nothing of that of a model wife. Not a cloud larger than a speck had
risen upon the matrimonial horizon and their little bark sailed steadily
forward propelled by the mildest of breezes upon an ocean that was all
made up of ripples and sunshine. Mortimer Crabb loved abundantly, and
Patricia was contented to watch him worship, while she shaped the course
to her liking.
There were still times, however, when she sat and watched the flames of
the library fire while she stirred up the embers of romance. Few women
who have been adored as Patricia had been are willing too abruptly to
shut the door upon the memory of the might-have-beens. The coquette in
her was dying hard--as it sometimes does in childless women. She still
liked the attentions to which she had been accustomed, and her husband
saw that she was constantly amused--provided with clever men from his
clubs as dance partners for the Philadelphia girls who visited them.
Stephen Ventnor, who was selling bonds down-town, had been persuaded at
last to forget his troubles and now came frequently to dinner. There was
nothing Patricia wanted, it seemed, except something to want.
One day, quite by chance, she met another one of the might-have-beens
upon the street. She did not know him at first, for he now wore a small
moustache and the years had not passed as lightly over his head as they
had over hers. She felt her way barred by a tall figure, and before she
knew it, was shaking hands with Heywood Pennington.
"Patty," he was saying, "don't you know me? Does four years make such a
difference?" A warm tint rose and spread unbidden from Patricia's neck
to temples. It angered her that she could not control it, but she smiled
at him and said that she was glad to see him.
Together they walked up the Avenue, and, as they went, she questioned
and he told her his story. No recriminations passed. He made it plain to
her that he was too glad to see her for that. He was in business, he
said vaguely, and in the future was to make New York his home. So, when
she took leave of him, Patricia asked the prodigal to call. It will be
apparent to anyone that there was nothing else to do.
Mortimer Crabb received the information at the dinner table that night
with a changeless expression.
"I'm sure if you want Mr. Pennington here, he'll be welcome," he said
with a slow smile. "He's a very, very old friend of yours, isn't he,
Patty?"
"Oh, yes--since school days," she said, quietly. And she blushed again,
but if Crabb noticed, it was not apparent, for he immediately busied
himself with his soup.
"He used to be such a nice boy," said Patricia. "But I'm afraid he got
pretty wild and----"
"Yes," put in her husband, a little dryly. "I've heard something about
him."
She glanced at him quickly, but he did not look up and she went on:
"I thought it would be nice if we could do a little something for him,
give him a lift, introduce him to some influential people----"
"Make an opportunity for him, in short," said Crabb.
"Er--yes. He has had a pretty hard time, I think."
"I shouldn't be surprised," said Crabb, "most people do."
Patricia foresaw an opportunity such as she had never had before, and a
hundred plans at once flashed into her pretty head for the prodigal's
regeneration. First, of course, she must kill the fatted calf, and she
therefore planned at once a dinner party, at which Mr. Pennington should
meet some of her intimate friends, Dicky Bowles and his wife, the
Burnetts, who were on from Washington, the Charlie Chisolms and her
sister Penelope. For reasons of her own Stephen Ventnor was not invited.
Patricia presided skilfully with an air of matronly benevolence not to be
denied and dextrously diverted the conversation into channels strictly
impersonal. So that after dinner, while Charlie Chisolm was still talking
rifle-bores with Mortimer, Patricia and Heywood Pennington went into the
conservatory to see the new orchids.
That was the first of many dinners. Patricia invited all the eligible
girls of her acquaintance, one after another, and sat them next to Mr.
Pennington in an apparent endeavor to supply the deficiency she had
caused in that gentleman's affections. But new orchids came continually
to the conservatory, and Patricia was not loath to show them. Then
followed rides in the motor car when Crabb was down-town, and shopping
expeditions when Crabb was at the club, for which Patricia chose Heywood
Pennington as her escort, and whatever Mortimer Crabb thought of it all,
he said little and looked less.
But if her husband had been willing to worship blindly before he and
Patricia had been engaged, marriage had cleared away some of the nebulae.
He had learned to look upon his wife as a dear, capricious being, and
with the abounding faith and confidence of amply proportioned men he
was willing to believe that Patricia, like Caesar's wife, was above
suspicion. He was quite sure that she was foolish. But Patty's little
finger foolish was more important to Mortimer than a whole Minerva.
Mr. Pennington's ways were not Crabb's ways, however, and the husband
learned one day, quite by chance, of an incident that had happened in
New York which confirmed a previous impression. He went home a little
sombre, for that very night Mr. Pennington was to dine again at his
house.
After dinner Patricia and Pennington vanished as usual into the
conservatory and were seen no more until it was time for Patricia's
guests to go. The husband lingered moodily by the fire after the door
had closed upon the last one, who happened to be the might-have-been.
"Patty," he began, "don't you think it a little--er--inhospitable----"
"Oh, Mort," Patricia broke in, "don't be tiresome."
But Mortimer Crabb had taken out his watch and was examining it with a
judicial air.
"Do you know," he said, calmly, "that you've been out there since ten? I
don't think it's quite decent."
It was the first time her husband had used exactly this tone, and
Patricia looked at him curiously, then pouted and laughed.
"Jealous!" she laughed, and blowing him a kiss flew upstairs, leaving
her husband still looking into the fire. But he did not smile as he
usually did when this was her mood, and in her last backward glance
Patricia did not fail to notice it. Instead of following her, Mortimer
Crabb lit a cigar and went over to his study. Perhaps he should have
spoken more severely to Patricia before this. He had been on the point
of it a dozen times. Gossip had dealt with Pennington none too kindly,
but Crabb didn't believe in gossip and he did believe in his wife.
He finished his cigar and then lit another while he tried to think the
matter out, until, at last, Patricia, a pretty vision in braids and
lace, came pattering down. He heard the footfalls and felt the soft
hands upon his shoulders, but did not turn his head. He knew what was to
come and had not the humor or the art to compromise. Patricia, with
quick divination, took her hands away and went around by the fire where
she could look at her husband.
"Well," she said, half defiantly. Crabb replied without raising his eyes
from the fire.
"Patty," he said quietly, "you mustn't ask Mr. Pennington to the house."
Patricia looked at him as though she had not heard aright. But she did
not speak.
"You must know," he went on, "that I've been thinking about you and Mr.
Pennington for some time, but I haven't spoken so plainly before. You
mustn't be seen with Mr. Pennington again."
He rose and knocked his cigar ashes into the chimney and then turned to
face his wife. Patricia's foot was tapping rapidly upon the fender while
her figure presented the picture of injured dignity.
"It is preposterous--impossible," she gasped. "I'm going to ride with
him to-morrow afternoon."
And then after a pause in which she eagerly scanned her husband's face,
she broke forth into a nervous laugh: "Upon my word, Mort, I believe you
_are_ jealous."
"Perhaps I am," said Crabb, slowly, "but I'm in earnest, too. Do what I
ask, Patricia. Don't ride to-morrow----"
"And if I should refuse----"
Crabb shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away.
"It would be too bad," he said, "that's all."
"But how can you do such a thing," she cried, "without a reason--without
any excuse? Why, Heywood has been here every day for----" and then broke
off in confusion.
Crabb smiled rather grimly, but he generously passed the opportunity by.
"Every reason that I wish--every excuse that I need. Isn't that enough?"
"No, it isn't--I refuse to believe anything about him." Crabb looked at
his wife sombrely.
"Then we'd better say no more. Your attitude makes it impossible for me
to argue the question. Good-night." He opened the door and stood waiting
for her to go out. She hesitated a moment and then swept by him, her
very ruffles breathing rebellion.
The next morning he kissed her good-bye when she was reading her mail.
"You'll write him, Patty, won't you?" he said, as he went out.
"Yes--yes," she answered, quickly, "I will--I'll write him."
Patricia did write to him. But it was not at all the sort of a letter
that Crabb would have cared to see.
Dear Heywood [it ran], something has happened, so can't ride
to-day. Meet me near the arch in Washington Square at three.
Until then--
As ever,
P.