Patricia awoke rudely and with an appalling sense that she had made a
shocking fool of herself. Heywood Pennington suddenly vanished out of
her life as completely as though Fifth Avenue had opened and swallowed
him. Very suddenly he had left New York, they said. And upon her
breakfast tray one morning Patricia found the following in a handwriting
unfamiliar and evidently disguised:
March 12, 19--
Mrs. Mortimer Crabb,
Dear Madam:
I have in my possession twenty-one letters and notes written by
you to Mr. Heywood Pennington, formerly of Philadelphia. Kindly
acknowledge receipt of this communication and bring to this
office, in person, on Wednesday of next week, five thousand
dollars in cash or the letters will be mailed to Mr. Crabb.
(Signed) JOHN DOE,
Care of Fairman and Brooke,
No. ---- Liberty Street.
There in her fingers it flaunted its brutality. What could it mean? Her
letters? To Heywood Pennington? Why--they were only notes--harmless
little records of their friendship. What had she said? How had this
odious Doe----?
It was a week since she had seen the prodigal. They had quarreled some
days ago, for Mr. Pennington's lazy humor had turned to a reckless
unconvention which had somewhat startled her. Her secret declaration of
independence had led her a little out of her depth, and she began to
feel more and more like the child with the jam-pot--only the jam-pot
was out of all proportion to real jam-pots and the smears seemed to
defy the most generous use of soap and water. This horrible Doe was the
neighbor's boy who told, and Mortimer Crabb was suddenly invested with
a newly-born parental dignity and wisdom. Mort! It made her shudder to
think of her husband receiving those letters. She knew him so well
and yet she knew him so little. She felt tempted to throw all else
to the winds and make a full confession--of what? of a childish
ingenuousness--which confession would magnify a hundred-fold. What had
she to confess? Meetings in the Park? Her face burned with shame. It
would have seemed less childish if her face had burned with shame at
things a little more tangible. Lunches in out-of-the-way restaurants,
innocent enough in themselves, whose only pleasure was the knowledge
that she took them unpermitted. She knew that she deserved to be stood
in the corner or be sent to bed without her supper, but she quailed at
the thought of meeting her husband's eye. She knew that he could make it
singularly cold and uncompromising.
And the letters. Why hadn't Heywood burned them? And yet why should
he have? Pennington's ideas of a compromising position she realized,
with some bitterness, differed somewhat from hers. And she knew she
_couldn't_ have written anything to regret. She tried to think, and a
phrase here and there recurred to her. Perhaps Mort might know her well
enough to guess how little they meant--but perhaps he didn't. Words
written to another were so desperately easy to misunderstand.
How could these letters have fallen into the hands of a stranger? The
more she thought of it the more impenetrable became the mystery. How
could this villainous Doe have guessed her identity? A few of these
letters were signed merely "Patty," but most of them were not signed at
all. It was dreadful to be insulted with no redress at any hand. Five
thousand dollars! The very insignificance of the figures made her
position worse. Was this the value of her reputation? Truly her
fortunes had sunk to their lowest ebb. She tried to picture John Doe,
a small ferret of a man with heavy eyes, red hair, and a rumpled
shirt-front, sitting in a dingy office up three flights of stairs,
fingering her little scented notes with his soiled fingers. Oh, it was
horrible--horrible! Yet how could she escape? Would she not tarnish her
soul still more by paying the wretched money--Mort's money--in forfeit of
her disobedience to him? Every instinct revolted at the thought. Wouldn't
it be better after all to throw herself upon Mort's mercy? She knew now
how much bigger and better he was than anything else in the world.
She loved him now. She knew it. There wouldn't ever be any more
might-have-beens. She longed to feel his protecting arms about her and
hear his quiet steady voice in her ears, even though it was to scold her
for the mere child that she was. His arms seemed the greater sanctuary
now--now that she was not sure that they ever could be opened to her.
Still clasping the letter she buried her face in the pillows of her couch
and wept. That night she sent down word that she had a headache, but a
night's rest did wonders. A cheerful, smiling person descended on Crabb
in the midst of his morning coffee.
"What! Patty! At the breakfast table? Will the wonders never cease?"
"I didn't come to breakfast, Mort. I wanted to see you before you went
out."
Crabb smiled over the top of his coffee cup.
"What is it, Patty? A hat bill or an opera cloak? I'm prepared. Tell me
the awful worst."
"Don't, Mort--please. I can't bear you facetious. It's--er--about Madame
Jacquard's bill and some others. They've gotten a little large and
she--she wants me to help her out to-day--if I can--if you can--and I
told her I would----"
Crabb was wrapped in contemplation of his muffin. But he allowed his
wife to struggle through to the end. Then he looked up a little
seriously from under heavy brows.
"Um--er--how much, Patty? A thousand? I think it can be managed----"
"No, Mort," she interrupted, tremulously, "you see I have had to get so
many things of late--we've been going out a great deal you know--a lot
of other things you wouldn't understand."
"Oh! Perhaps I might."
"No--I--I'm afraid I've been rather extravagant this winter. I didn't
tell you but I--I've used up my allowance long--ever so long ago."
Mortimer Crabb's brows were now really menacing.
"It seems to me----" he began. But she interrupted him at once.
"I know I ought to be called a beggar on horseback, because I really
have ridden rather--rather fast this winter----"
"Two thousand?" he questioned.
"No, Mort, you see, it isn't only the dresses and the hats. I'm afraid
I've been losing more than I should have lost at auction."
"Bridge!" he said, pitilessly, "I thought----"
"Yes--bub--bridge."
"I thought my warning might be sufficient. I'm sorry----"
"So am I," she whispered, her head lowered, now thoroughly abased. "I am
not going to play any more."
"How much--three thousand?" he asked again.
"No," she said, desperately, "more. I'm afraid it will take five
thousand dollars to pay everything."
"Phew!" he whistled. "How in the name of all that's expensive----"
"Oh, I don't know----" helplessly, "money adds up so fast--I suppose
that father might help me if you can't--but I didn't want to ask him if
I could help it; you know he----"
"Oh, no," said Crabb, with a sudden move of the hand. "It can be
managed, of course, but I admit I'm surprised--very much surprised that
you haven't thought fit to take me closer into your confidence."
"I'm sorry, Mort," she muttered, humbly. "It won't happen again."
Crabb pushed back his chair and rose. "Oh, well, don't say anything more
about it, Patty. It must be attended to, of course. Just give me a list
of the items and I'll send out the checks."
"But, Mort, I'd like to----"
"I'll just stop in at Madame Jacquard's on the way uptown and----"
Patty started up and then sank back weakly.
"Oh, Mort, dear," she faltered, "it isn't worth while. It would be so
much out of your way----"
"Not a bit," said Crabb, striding cheerfully to the door. "It's only a
step from the subway, and then I can come on up the Avenue----"
But Patricia by this time had fastened tightly upon the lapels of his
coat, and was looking half tearfully up into his face.
"I--I want to see Madame about some things she hasn't sent up yet--I
must go there to-day. I'll--I'll tell her, Mort, and then if you'll
arrange it, I'll just send it to her to-morrow."
Mortimer Crabb looked into the blue eyes that she raised to his and
relented.
"All right," he said, "you shall have your own way." And then, with the
suspicion of a smile, "Shall I make a check to your order?"
"To--to mine, Mort--it always makes me feel more important to pay my
bills myself--and besides--the bub--bridge, you know."
When Patricia heard the front door shut behind her husband, she gave a
great sigh and sank on the divan in a state of utter collapse.
The next day Patricia dressed herself in a plain, dark skirt, a long
grey coat and wore two heavy veils over an unobtrusive sailor hat. In
her hand she clutched a small hand satchel containing the precious check
and the odious letter of John Doe. First she went to the bank and
converted the check into crisp thousand dollar notes. Then walking
rapidly she took the elevated for that unknown region which men call
down-town. There was little difficulty in finding the place. The narrow
doorway she had imagined was wide--even imposing, and an Irish janitor
with a cheerful countenance, was sweeping the pavement and whistling. It
was not in the least Dickens-ish, or Machiavellian. The atmosphere was
that of a very cheerful and modern New York and Patricia's spirits
revived. A cleanly boy in buttons ran the elevator.
But as the elevator shot up, Patty's heart shot down. She had hoped
there would be stairs to climb. The imminence of the visit filled her
with alarm, and before she realized it, she was deposited--a bundle of
quivering nerves, before the very door. Gathering her shattered forces
together, she knocked timorously and entered. It was a cheerful room
with a bright carpet and an outlook over the river. A small boy who sat
inside a wooden railing, sprang up and came forward.
"I wish to see Mr. Doe," stammered Patty, "Mr. John Doe."
"Must be a mistake," said the youth. "This is Fairman & Brookes,
Investments. Nobody that name here, ma'am."
At that moment an elderly man of very proper appearance came forward
from an inner office.
"Mrs. Crabb?" he inquired, politely. "That will do, Dick, you
may go inside," and then rather quizzically: "You wished to see
Mr.--er--Mr.--Doe? Mr. John Doe? I think he was expecting you. If you'll
wait a moment I'll see," and he entered a door which led to another
office.
Patricia dropped into a chair by the railing completely baffled. This
villainous creature expected her! How could he expect her? It was only
Friday and the appointment was not until the Wednesday of the following
week. She looked at her surroundings, trying to find a flaw in their
prosperous garb of respectability. That such rascality could exist
under the guise of decent business! And the benevolent person who had
carried her name might very properly serve upon the vestry of St. ----'s
church! Truly there were depths of iniquity in this vile community of
business people that her little social plummet could never seek to
sound. The little red-headed man with the ferret eyes had vanished from
her mind. In his place she saw a type even more alarming--the sleek,
well-groomed man with dissipated eyes that she and Mort had often seen
dining at popular restaurants. Her mission would not be as easy to
accomplish as it had seemed. Her speech to the ferret-eyed man which she
had so carefully rehearsed had gone completely from her mind. What she
should say to this other man, whom she both loathed and feared, her
vagrant wits refused to invent. So in spite of a brave poise of the head
she sat in a kind of syncope of dismay, and awaited--she knew not what.
The benevolent vestryman returned smiling.
"Mr. Doe has just come in, Mrs. Crabb. If you'll kindly come this way."
He opened the door and stood aside with an old-world courtliness that
all but disarmed her. He followed her into the inner corridor and opened
another door, smiling the while, and Patricia, trembling from head to
foot, yet resolute, went in, while the elderly person carefully closed
the door behind her. A tall figure in an overcoat and soft hat was
bending over the fireplace upon the opposite side of the room adjusting
a log.
"Mr. Doe?" came in a small, muffled voice from behind Patricia's veil.
The man at the fireplace still poked at the logs and made no move to
take off his hat.
"The brute--the utter brute," thought Patricia--and then aloud, "Mr.
Doe, I believe."
"Yes, madam," said a voice at last. "I'm John Doe--what can I do for
you?"
"I came about the letters--the letters, you know, you wrote me about. I
am prepared to--to redeem them."
"H--m," growled the overcoat. "It's Crabb, isn't it? Mrs. Crabb? I'm
always getting the Cobb and Crabb letters mixed--six of one and half a
dozen of the other----"
"I beg pardon," faltered Patty.
"Cases very similar. Bad man--good woman. Trusting husband--hey? Well,"
he muttered brutally, "did you bring the money?"
"It is here," said Patricia, trembling. "Now the letters--and let me
go."
The man moved slowly toward a desk against the wall with his back still
turned, took out a package, rose and, turning, handed it to Patricia.
Had her gaze not been fixed so eagerly upon the handwriting on the
package she could not have failed to note the smiling gray eyes above
the upturned coat collar.
"Why, it is sealed and addressed to me!" she cried, in surprise. "The
package hasn't even been opened."
"I never said it had," said the man in the overcoat, removing his hat.
"I didn't want to read the stuff, Patty."
The package fell to the floor amid the fluttering bills. Patricia's
knees trembled and she would have fallen had not a pair of strong arms
gone about her and held her up.
"It's only Mort, Patty," said a voice. "Don't you understand? It's all
been a deception and mistake. There isn't any John Doe. It's only your
husband----"
"Oh, how could you, Mort?" sobbed Patricia. "How could you be so
hard--so--so cruel?"
Crabb's answer was to push the veil back from his wife's face and kiss
away her tears. She did not resist now and sank against him with a
restful sigh that told him more than any words could do the full measure
of her penitence. But in a moment she started up pale and wide-eyed.
"But this office--these people--do they know----"
"Bless you, no," laughed Crabb. "Fairman's a sort of business associate
of mine. I only borrowed his private office for an hour or so. He thinks
it is a practical joke. It was--is--a cruel one----"
"But he'll guess----"
"Oh, no, he won't," laughed Crabb.
Patricia's gaze fell quietly upon the floor where the bills and the
package still lay in disordered confusion.
"And the letters--you never even read them?"
"Oh, Patty," said her husband, "I didn't want to read 'em."
"Can you ever forgive me, Mort?" She broke away from him, bent to the
floor, picked up the package, and broke the seal.
"But you _shall_ read them, Mort," she cried, her face flaming, "every
last silly one of them."
But Crabb's hands closed over hers and took the package gently from her.
His only answer was to throw the papers into the fire.
"Oh, Mort," she murmured, horrified, "what have you done--you might
believe _anything_ of me now."
"I shall," he chuckled, "that's your penance."
"Please, Mort--there's time yet--just read a few----"
Crabb poked vigorously at the fire.
"Oh, Mort, it's inhuman! You only knew Heywood Pennington----"
"Sh----" said Crabb, putting his hand over her lips. "No names----"
"But he----"
"No, no." And then, after a pause, "He wasn't even a might-have-been,
Patty." She said no more. They sat hand in hand watching the record of
Patricia's foolishness go up in smoke. And when the last scrap had
vanished, he sprang cheerfully to his feet and picked up the scattered
bills.
"Come, Patty, luncheon! And after that"--Mortimer Crabb stopped again
and blinked quizzically at the fire--"hadn't we better keep your
engagement--with Madame Jacquard?"