IV

Harry Spencer had been travelling nearly three years. Naturally, he

found some changes and some new faces at Westfield. Concerning the

former he was becomingly appreciative. He promptly ranged himself on the

side of progress, admired the new club-house and the new establishments

in the neighborhood, and evinced a willingness to take an active part in

the enlarged energies of the club. During his peregrinations in foreign

lands he had visited the St. Andrew's golf links, and he had views

regarding bunkers and other features of the game which he was prepared

to advocate. When he had left home the bicycle was all the rage, and

some portion of his journeyings had been on an up-to-date machine. But

he found now that the fashionable portion of the community had dropped

this craze, and that to ride a "wheel" was beginning to be considered a

bore except as a means of getting from one place to another. The fever

of golf was rampant instead, and had reached the stage where its

votaries were almost delirious in their devotion, notably the people

most unfitted to play the game, and who had taken it up in order to be

in fashion. During the spring and summer following his return the

improved links at Westfield was crowded with players of every grade

whose proficiency was generally in reverse proportion to the number of

clubs they carried.

Soon after the season had fairly opened and the greens were in good

order the lately returned wanderer found himself one morning engaged in

giving a lesson in the royal and ancient game to Miss Peggy Blake, who

had a severe attack of the disease and promised to be a proficient

pupil, for Dobson, the professional at the Hunt Club, had declared that

she had a free swing and could follow through as well as most men. The

trouble at the moment was that, after taking a free swing, she either

failed to hit the ball altogether or hit it off at some distressing

angle. As she explained volubly to everybody, until within a week she

had been making screaming brassie shots which carried a hundred and

fifty yards, but had suddenly lost her game completely. Harry had kindly

offered himself as a coach, a delightful proposition to the blithe young

woman, especially as Dobson was engaged for the time being in

superintending the primary and elephantine efforts of Miss Ella Marbury,

the stout maiden sister of Wagner Marbury, the Western

multi-millionnaire and proprietor of one of the new neighboring palaces

so obnoxious to Mrs. Cunningham. Miss Peggy was more than pleased to

have for an hour or two the uninterrupted companionship of this

good-looking and redoubtable gallant, whose attentions were to be

regarded as a feather in her cap, and who would doubtless be able to

tell her what she was doing wrong.

Hers was one of the new faces, and Harry had given his following to

understand that he admired her spirited and comely personality. "Miss

West Wind" he had christened her genially, and the epithet had spread

with the rumor that he had noticed her. Yet it was tacitly understood

that he had no intention of interfering with the suit of his friend Guy

Perry, who was supposed to be well in the lead of the other pursuers of

the breezy maiden. Yet, though he sought to give the impression that his

favor in this case was merely an artistic tribute and that he still

walked scatheless in the world of women, he was glad of an opportunity

to stroll over the links in her society. She would entertain him.

Besides, she was a fluent talker, and he could count on her retailing

for his edification more or less of the current history of Westfield

written between the lines, which was only to be picked up gradually by

one who had been prevented by absence from personal observation.

It was a very simple matter to detect the trouble with his companion's

stroke.

"You don't keep your eye on the ball, Miss Blake. That's the whole

trouble with you. Anyone can see that."

Peggy looked incredulous. "If there is one special thing more than

another which I try to bear constantly in mind, it is to keep my eye on

the ball. Do I really take it off, Mr. Spencer? Of course you must know.

There are so many other things to remember, but I did think I was

completely disciplined on that point. Watch me now."

Thereupon she proceeded to execute a dashing stroke, her evident

standard being to carry her club through with such velocity as to bring

the head round her left shoulder and cause her to execute a pirouette

like the pictures of the golfing girls in the magazines. The ball flew

off at a tangent and narrowly missed her own caddy.

"How rotten!" she murmured. "I had both my eyes glued on the ball, and

you see what happened. And only a week ago I was driving like a streak."

Her expletive was merely the popular phrase of the day by which golden

youth of both sexes was apt to express even trivial dissatisfaction.

She was a pathetic figure of distress. Her exertions had heightened her

color so that it suggested the poppy rather than the rose, and was not

unlike the hue of her trig golfing garment. She swept back a stray

ringlet which had escaped from under her hat. "You see I have lost my

game utterly, Mr. Spencer."

Harry laughed. "You were looking at me out of the corners of your eyes

that time. Lower your lids until you exaggerate the modest maiden and

don't move your head." It was a half-deferential, half-sardonic voice

with a caressing touch, indicating temporary devotion to the

subject-matter in hand which was flattering. "Swing more easily," he

added, "and don't try to rival the Gibson girl until you recover

confidence." Then he corrected slightly her stance and the position of

her hands--all with a deft yet bantering grace of manner which soothed

and attracted her. He went through the correct motions of the stroke for

her enlightenment, and as he stood erect and supple Peggy did not

forbear to reflect that he was very handsome. How dark his hair and eyes

were! It was a bold sort of beauty, and, though he wore neither mustache

nor beard, the faintly bluish tinge of his complexion betrayed that, but

for the barber, he would have been what Mrs. Herbert Cole might have

termed an incarnate symphony in black. He appeared harmoniously

muscular. He executed the necessary movements with lithe, nervous

energy, focusing his attention tensely for the brief occasion. The

moment he lowered his club he regained his leisurely and rather indolent

demeanor.

His pupil essayed to follow his instructions. At the third attempt the

ball sailed straight as an arrow to a moderate distance, which comforted

the performer, but she felt too nervously excited to exult. It might be

only an accident.

"Try again," he said confidentially. "You've almost got it."

Once more the ball shot correctly from the club. Harry stooped and

placed another on the tee. Peggy swung, then followed through with a

little of her old elasticity. It flew like a rifle bullet low and long

across the distant bunker.

She rose on the tips of her toes as she followed its entrancing flight.

"I've got back my game," she cried jubilantly. "You've saved my life,

Mr. Spencer." She looked as though she would have been glad, had

convention permitted, to throw her arms around her benefactor's neck.

And to the true golfer it would not seem an exaggerated reward. "I've

been in the slough of despond for nearly a week, and playing worse every

day. Now I'm in the seventh heaven, and it's all your doing."

He acknowledged the exuberant gratitude with a graceful mock heroic bow.

"I shall consider my terms. The charge should be considerable."

Just then by the sheerest chance a white carnation which Peggy was

wearing at her throat became detached from her dress and fell to the

ground. He picked it up, and, holding it before him and looking into her

eyes, said with melodious assurance:

"I will keep this, if I may, as my tuition fee."

Peggy looked embarrassed and let fall her eyes, albeit not easily

disconcerted. The carnation was one from a bunch which Guy Perry had

sent her the day before, and to hand it over seemed almost an act of

treason, though they were not yet actually engaged. Yet she was

conscious that she thought this new acquaintance charming. Silence gives

consent where lovely woman is concerned. At any rate, when she looked up

he was in the act of placing it in his buttonhole. But his fingers had

paused in their work as a consequence of his arrested glance. A feminine

figure outlined on the crest of adjacent rising ground had suddenly

caught his eye. She was addressing her ball for a brassie shot, and as

he gazed it was performed with a sweeping grace of which the lack of

effort was the salient charm.

Peggy, whose eyes had promptly followed the direction of his, vouchsafed

the desired information.

"Mrs. Herbert Maxwell."

"Really!" There was a shade of interest in the monosyllable, as though

the identity of some one whom he had been rather curious to meet had

been revealed to him.

"You haven't met her?"

"Not yet."

"Oh, you'd like her immensely."

The words were uttered with such naive confidence that Harry Spencer

turned away his gaze from the new attraction to survey the old.

"How do you know?" he inquired jauntily.

Peggy spluttered a little at this flank attack. "Oh, well, you know,

she's so awfully clever. She's different. She'd pique your curiosity

anyway," she concluded, recovering her aplomb.

"Am I so difficult to please?" he asked sententiously. He answered the

question himself. "Yes, I admit that I am." His look of admiration,

which Peggy divined was constitutional with him on such occasions, was

best to be met by diversion.

"I shall never be able to play golf as Lydia Maxwell does, and I've been

at it twice as long. She has only played this spring, and Dobson says

that she has a better idea of the game than any other woman. It's just

knack with her, for her balls go farther than mine and yet she makes

scarcely an exertion. You couldn't help admire her in all sorts of ways.

It has been a dreadfully quiet season for her, though, for when her baby

was six weeks old and she had sent out cards for two musical parties in

their new town house, her husband's mother, old Mrs. Maxwell, died

suddenly, and she had to go into mourning. So they went to Southern

California for February and March, and moved down here as soon as they

returned. She took lessons in golf at Los Angeles, and she beat me four

up the first time we played, even though I supposed I could give her

half a stroke."

While he listened to this monologue, Spencer followed the progress of

the subject of it. She was playing with pretty Mrs. Baxter, but, though

her opponent was an ordinarily graceful woman, there was a deft harmony

in her movements which made Mrs. Baxter appear an unfinished person by

comparison.

"They say the real secret is that she has an artistic temperament." The

speech was Peggy's by way of reading his thoughts and providing a

condensed and comprehensive key.

"And her husband--what is he like? You know he has come to the surface

during my absence."

"He hasn't it at all--I mean an artistic temperament. But he's an

awfully good sort--awfully; a true sport, and kind as can be." Peggy's

vocabulary of enthusiasm, though fundamentally native, sometimes made

reprisals on the kindred jargon of Great Britain.

"I see. And you infer that I have an artistic temperament?" A tendency

toward challenging unexpectedness was one of Spencer's prime

manifestations with women.

Peggy looked embarrassed. She had not bargained for such an unequivocal

piece of teasing. She put up her hand to her head to secure her escaping

comb. "I don't know you very well, of course, but I had supposed so. Yet

I'm not clever, and I dote on Lydia," she added archly.

Harry Spencer did not have to go out of his way for an opportunity to

satisfy his curiosity by personal acquaintance with Mrs. Herbert

Maxwell. When he and his fair partner had finished the last hole and

approached the piazza of the new club-house, they found her sitting

there--one of a group of both sexes waiting for luncheon. Peggy,

radiant and prodigal of superlatives, proclaimed to one after another

that her game had come back. Wasn't it perfectly glorious?--the

loveliest thing which had ever happened. And Mr. Spencer had detected at

once what was wrong. "Just think of it, I was pressing and took my eye

off the ball," she kept reiterating, "and I never knew it. Wasn't it

dear of him?"

One of the most characteristic features of golf is that it is not an

altruistic pastime. Everyone is feverishly absorbed by the state of his

own game, and does not care at heart a picayune for his neighbor's. At

the moment of Peggy's vociferous advent the assembled company were

talking in pairs, and each member of each pair was endeavoring to excite

the interest of his or her partner in the dialogue by glowing or

dejected narration of why his or her score was lower or higher than the

speaker's average. In some cases both were talking at once and neither

listened. Oftener, perhaps, each had asserted an innings, and the

strongest or most persistent lungs held the mastery. Miss Marbury, who

under the tutelage of Dobson had done the longest hole in 12 and the

eighteen holes in 132--five better than ever before--was bubbling over

with ecstasy and soliciting congratulations. Douglas Hale, who had

failed by one stroke to surpass his previous record of 82, was telling

hoarsely and pathetically to everyone whom he could buttonhole how it

happened.

"At the fourteenth hole I was on the green in two and took seven for the

hole. Seven! Just think of that, seven! Five strokes on the green." As

he uttered the words with excruciating precision, he would hold up the

five fingers of his hand and shake them at his auditor. It was an

experience which would last him all day and as far into the evening as

he could find new listeners, especially if he could endeavor to take the

edge off his disappointment by Scotch and soda.

Consequently, though everybody heard that Miss Peggy Blake had recovered

her game, and her breezy invasion caused a stir, the fact that she had

done so was of interest only because of the means by which this had been

brought to pass. It was Harry Spencer, not she, who became the cynosure

of numerous feminine eyes. If he had put Peggy onto her game, why not

them onto theirs? Peggy, mistaking the reason for the pause in the

general chatter for interest in her improvement, proceeded to rehearse

gleefully the details of her triumph for the benefit of the company.

But Douglas Hale, in no mood to be side-tracked by any such

interruption, stepped forward, and hooking his arm in Harry Spencer's,

led him apart with a mysterious "A word with you, old man."

Having thus enforced an audience, he held forth in the low tone

appropriate to an interesting confidence. "Just now I was 58 at the end

of the thirteenth hole, and was on the green of the fourteenth in two,

and I took seven for the hole. Five puts on the green! Think of that,

five!" he whispered hoarsely, and shook his five fingers in Harry's

face. "Seven for the hole. And I finished in 82. Tied my own record.

Wasn't that the meanest streak of luck a man ever had? Five puts, and

two of them rimmed the cup."

His victim listened indulgently. The firm grip on his arm precluded

escape.

"You must learn to put, my dear fellow."

"That's the most sickening part of it. I made every other put. Let me

tell you--you remember the slope of the fourteenth green? Well, I----"

Realizing what he was in for, Harry took advantage of a momentary pause

on the part of his torturer for the purpose of lighting a cigarette. His

observing eyes had noticed that Mrs. Maxwell was standing apart from the

other women who were within range of Miss Blake's jubilant reiteration.

He wrenched himself free from Douglas's clutch.

"It was a case of downright hard luck, and now, in return for my

heart-felt sympathy and for listening to your tale of woe, introduce me

to Mrs. Herbert Maxwell."

Puffing at his half-lighted cigarette, Douglas Hale reached out to

recover his lost grip. "Wait a minute. You haven't heard half. I will

show you just how it happened."

Spencer intercepted the reaching fingers and grabbed the offender's

wrist, and said, with jocund firmness, "I don't care a tinker's dam how

it happened, Douglas, and I tell you you can't put. Introduce me to Mrs.

Maxwell."

This quip caused the egotist to draw himself up stiffly. He was proof

against hints and ordinary recalcitration, but such an unmistakable

rebuff was not to be ignored; that is, he could not with proper

self-respect continue the harangue on which he was bent.

"Of course if you don't care to hear how it happened, I won't tell

you." So saying, Douglas suffered himself to be conveyed the necessary

few steps, and performed the ceremony of introduction.

Lydia let her eyes rest with keen but interested scrutiny on this

new-comer. He was a boon at the moment, for she had taken the gauge of

everybody at Westfield, and was conscious that neither her heart nor her

brain was satisfied. She craved novelty and true aesthetic appreciation.

Did anyone really understand her? Not even Fannie Cole, who came the

nearest to divining her hatred of the commonplace and her dread of being

bored. But Fannie, though discerning, chose to remain a slave to the

canons of conformity. That morning, in her looking-glass she had asked

herself the question, "Why did I ever marry Herbert Maxwell?" But she

had asked it with no malice aforethought, merely as one who, with

leisure to take account of stock, foots up his assets and puts the

question, "Am I solvent?" The interrogation was simply searching and

contemplative. The answer had been prompt, and in a measure assuring.

"Because it gave me everything I need." Yet, somehow, there remained a

cloud upon her spirit. Was this all? Did life offer nothing further?

"We make a fuss and circumstance about our sports," she said.

"They do creak."

It was agreeable to be comprehended so promptly. "It isn't sport for

sport's sake, but for the sake of the cups and because it's the thing."

"And above all to beat the other fellow. That's the national creed. It's

so in everything--competition. We are brought up from childhood to

consider that winning is the thing which counts. We must win at any cost

at foot-ball or trade, in affairs or in love."

She made one of her little pauses. Decidedly he was a kindred spirit and

to be cultivated. "I am an exotic then."

"How so?"

"Competition--the national creed--does not interest me."

"Because you win so easily. I watched you play this morning. You will

have no rival of your own sex here."

She ignored the tribute; she knew that already; it was the thesis which

interested her.

"It bores me--winning, I mean. Golf, for the time being, is a delight."

He gave her a pirate glance, as though to search her soul, and uttered

one of his bold sallies:

"That is, your doll is stuffed with----"

She checked him, shaking her head. "Oh, no. That is, I think not. I have

never cut her open. I had in mind something quite different." Her dainty

face grew pensive as she sought the exact phrase to interpret her

psychology. "I have never had to struggle for anything. It has always

come to me."

"Exactly." His note of emphasis reminded her that her words were, after

all, merely an indirect echo of his diagnosis. "But your time is sure to

come," he asserted confidently.

The smile of incredulity which curved her lips betrayed entertainment

also. "In what field?" she inquired.

Spencer shrugged his shoulders. "I am a student of character, not a

soothsayer."

"And then?" she queried.

"You will be like the rest of us--only more so. You could not bear to

lose at any cost."

What might have seemed effrontery in some men was but a piquant

challenge in his mouth, so speciously was it uttered. Lydia was not

unaccustomed to men whose current coin was sardonic sallies, as witness

the veteran Gerald Marcy. But this was something different. Her soul had

been suddenly pitchforked by a professor of anatomy and held up under

her nose with the caveat that she was ignorant of the mainsprings of her

own behavior. It was impudence, but novel, and she forgave it with the

reflection that he would live to eat his gratuitous deductions, which

would be the neatest form of vengeance.

[Illustration: The smile of incredulity which curved her lips betrayed

entertainment also.]

V

Before many weeks had elapsed it began to be whispered at Westfield that

Harry Spencer and Mrs. Herbert Maxwell were seeing more or less of each

other. They appeared together not infrequently on the golf links; it was

known that he was giving her lessons at her own house in bridge whist,

the new game of cards; they had been met walking in the lanes; and--most

significant item, which caused the colony to prick up its ears and ask,

"What does this mean?"--two youthful anglers had encountered them

strolling in the lonely woods skirting distant Duck Pond. This last

discovery, which was early in September, led to the conclusion that,

under cover of her mourning, Lydia must have been seeing more of him

than anyone had imagined. Yet, even then, though alert brains indulged

in knowing innuendoes, Mrs. Cole's epigrammatic estimate of the matter

was generally accepted as sound:

"A woman in mourning for her mother-in-law requires diversion."

It seemed probable that Lydia was amusing herself, and that Harry

Spencer was playing the tame cat for their mutual edification. The

possibility that he had been caught at last and that she was luring him

on that she might lead him like a bear with a ring through his nose, and

thus avenge her sex for his past indifference, was regarded as unlikely

but delightful. That Lydia was enamored of her admirer, and that they

both cared, was not seriously entertained until many circumstances

seemed to point to such a deduction. Westfield was not wholly without

experience in intimacies between husbands or wives and a third party.

But only rarely had there been fire as well as smoke in these cases. And

even then there had never been up to this time an open scandal. Matters

had been patched up or the veil of diplomatic convention had been drawn

so skilfully over them that most people were left in the dark as to the

real truth. Almost invariably the intimacies in question reminded one of

the antics of horses with too high action who had all the show but

little of the quality of runaways; and the preferences manifested were

not always inconsistent with conjugal devotion. Consequently, everyone

took for granted that this was only another "fake" instance of family

disarrangement, entered on to pass the time and to provide that

appearance of evil which the American woman seems to find a satisfying

substitute for the real article. As Mrs. Cole once remarked in defending

the propensity to Gerald Marcy, if one's vanity is flattered, why should

one go farther?

The buzz of curiosity was stimulated during the ensuing autumn by a

variety of fresh and compromising rumors. Consequently, when at a

golfing luncheon party given at the club by Mrs. Gordon Wallace in

October, Mrs. Baxter, whose blue eyes always suggested innocence, asked

in her demure way what the latest news was from "The Knoll," every

tongue had something new to impart. The most sensational as well as the

latest piece of information was provided by Mrs. Cunningham, who

repeated it with the air of one whose faith had at last received a

serious shock.

"She sat with him on the piazza at 'The Knoll' until three o'clock

night before last. Her husband came home at eleven and requested her to

go to bed, but there they stayed without him. I call that pretty bad,

even if she is Lydia. I wonder how long Herbert Maxwell will permit this

sort of thing to go on. Even the worm will turn."

There was an eloquent silence, which was broken by a repetition of Mrs.

Cole's whitewashing epigram as to Lydia's need of diversion. Its

cleverness and value as a generalization caused a ripple of amusement,

but it fell flat as a specific. Old Mrs. Maxwell had been dead many

months, yet matters were more disconcerting than ever. Stout Miss

Marbury's question was regarded as much more to the point:

"Who saw them, Mrs. Cunningham?"

May Cunningham would have preferred to remain silent on this score, but

she perceived that the authenticity of her story was dependent on direct

testimony. It was a luncheon of eight. She glanced around the table in

an appealing manner as much as to say, "This really is not to be spoken

of," and said laconically, "There was another couple present." Then, as

though she feared on second thought that the wrong persons might be

fixed on, she continued: "Neither of them were married. They are

supposed to be engaged, and Lydia acted as their chaperone on the piazza

while they took a moonlight ride together."

"Who can they have been?" murmured some one sweetly, and there was a

general giggle.

"You wormed it out of me," said Mrs. Cunningham doggedly. "You demanded

my credentials. But it doesn't matter about those two, of course, for

they're in love."

"How about the others?" ventured Mrs. Baxter.

"Truly, Rachel, you shock me," answered Mrs. Cunningham sternly. "It's

no joking matter. It's a very serious situation for this colony, in my

opinion. People who don't know us do not think any too well of us

already because some of us smoke cigarettes and go in for hunting and an

open-air life instead of trying to reform somebody. But this will give

the gossips a real handle. Besides, it's disreputable."

"But I really wished to know," murmured Mrs. Baxter. "Does either of

them care? And if so, which?"

"My own belief," interjected Mrs. Cole, "as I said just now, is that

there's nothing in it--nothing serious. Lydia is simply catering to her

├Žsthetic side, and everyone knows Harry Spencer. It seems to me

personally that she has gone too far, but that is a question of taste,

and, provided her husband doesn't complain, why need we?" Thereupon she

popped into her mouth a luscious-looking coffee cream confection and

munched it ruminantly.

"It has become a question of morals," asserted Mrs. Cunningham. "If

their relations are what we don't believe them to be, it's a disgrace to

Westfield. If they are simply amusing themselves, it's heartless, and I

know what I would do if I were Herbert Maxwell."

"So do I," exclaimed Mrs. Reynolds, a spirited young matron with the

breath of life in her nostrils, yet, as someone once remarked of her,

notoriously devoted to her lord and master.

"Just what my husband said," added Mrs. Miller, a bride of a year's

standing, which, considering nothing whatever had been said, provoked a

smile and brought a blush to the countenance of the speaker, which

deepened as Mrs. Baxter with her accustomed innocence asked:

"What would you do?"

"Pick out the most seductive-looking woman I could set my eyes on,

Rachel dear, and"--blurted out Mrs. Reynolds pungently. As she paused an

instant seeking her phrase, Mrs. Cunningham interjected:

"Sh! We understand. That might bring her to her senses."

"But Herbert Maxwell never would," said Mrs. Cole, reaching for another

sweetmeat.

"I'm not so sure about that," retorted Mrs. Cunningham. "He's faithful

as a mastiff, but goad him too far and he may prove to be a slumbering

lion, in my opinion."

"That wouldn't suit Lydia at all," responded Mrs. Cole. The thesis

interested her. "She takes for granted, I presume, his unswerving

fidelity. Besides, he would consider it morally wrong. I shall be very

much surprised, my dear, if you are not mistaken."

"I'm not a married woman," suggested Miss Marbury, "but I think he ought

to put a stop in some way or other to the present condition of things,

and that it is his fault if he doesn't."

A murmur of acquiescence showed that this was the general sentiment, at

which point the discussion of the topic was brought to a close by the

hostess's rising from the table--that is, discussion by the party as a

whole. After they had repaired to the general sitting-room--that neutral

apartment in the club which was appropriated to the use of both

sexes--the subject still claimed the attention of the groups into which

the company subdivided itself. Here Mrs. Baxter found an opportunity to

repeat her inquiry whether either, neither, or both cared, which really

was the most interesting uncertainty of the situation, and one which

elicited a variety of opinion. Some, like Mrs. Cole, were still

incredulous, or chose to be, that either of them was in earnest. But

several of the more knowing women wagged their heads in concert with

Mrs. Cunningham, who, seated where her vision could rest on the

full-length portrait of her husband swathed in pink as the first Master

of the Westfield Hounds--one of the new decorative features--repeated

data to the effect that Herbert Maxwell was looking glum and was

drinking a little--much more than ever before in his life.

"Poor fellow!" sighed Miss Marbury, and she added, as though in

self-congratulatory monologue, that there were some compensations in

being single.

"Nothing of the kind; you know nothing about it," said Mrs. Cunningham

tartly. She did not choose to hear the institution of holy matrimony

traduced by a mere spinster; moreover, her nerves were on edge because

of her solicitude lest the most appalling possibility of all were

true--that Lydia really cared. For, granting the hypothesis, what might

not Lydia do? What would Lydia do? And as yet, though conjecture ran

riot and all Westfield was holding its breath, no one could speak with

authority as to what the truth was. Nevertheless, Mrs. Cunningham, as an

observer, was disposed to take a pessimistic view as to what the future

had in store for the colony, the good repute of which was precious to

her. On the other hand, many of the younger spirits among the women were

inclined to regard the mother of the hunt as a croaker, and as they

chatted apart from her on this occasion they cited her late opposition

to the recent innovations at the club as typical of her mental attitude.

"Yet to-day, if a vote were taken whether we should go back to the old

primitive order of things," added Mrs. Miller, "she would be one of the

most strenuous defenders of the extra space and improved service which

we now enjoy. She can't keep her eyes off that portrait of her husband.

Look at her now."

The stricture, so far as it related to Mrs. Cunningham's change of front

regarding the alterations, was just. Yet her frank acceptance and

enjoyment of the more decorative rooms and ampler creature-comforts,

even though they wore a radiance reflected from her husband's

full-length figure, revealed a broad and accommodating mind. There are

some persons who will continue to glorify the superseded past even in

the face of a manifestly more charming present. These are the real old

fogies, and there is no help for us, or them, but to ignore them. But

Mrs. Cunningham was of the sort which, though conservative, is ready to

be convinced even against its will; and, having been convinced, she was

able to draw her husband after her. A week's occupation of the new

quarters having made clear to her that, though more luxurious, they were

vastly more convenient, she had sighed and given in. Now there were no

two more resolute defenders of the results of the radical policy than

she and Andrew. Nevertheless she drew the line there, and still,

suspicious of what others defined as the march of progress, she was

prepared like a faithful sentinel to challenge developments which

aroused her distrust. Because the new club-house was a success, and the

inroad of multi-millionnaires had not been so subversive of the best

interests of the colony as she had feared, there was no occasion to

relax her vigilance. Thus she argued, and hence her genuine and somewhat

foreboding solicitude as to Lydia's behavior.

But though Harry Spencer continued to dog the footsteps of Mrs.

Maxwell, so that he appeared in her society on all occasions, and people

wondered more and more how the husband could permit this triangular

household to continue without open demur, there were no new developments

during the late autumn and winter. Rumors of every description were

rife, but no one of the three interested parties deigned to provide a

solution of the enigma. Maxwell's demeanor on the surface was so far

unruffled that certain observers continued to maintain that his wife's

state of mind was entirely platonic; in other words, that he trusted

Lydia, and, though he might have preferred more of her society, was

willing she should amuse herself in her own way--which was not apt to be

the conventional way. And if he did not object, why should anyone else,

especially as the Maxwells were now in their town house and local

censorship by Westfield was suspended? But the majority shook their

heads, and repeated that though Maxwell held his peace, he was out of

sorts and still drinking more than his wont. Then, just as the community

was getting a little weary of the whole subject because nothing did

happen, the breaking out of the war with Spain drove it out of

everyone's mind.

For the Westfield Hunt Club was up in arms at the first suggestion of

powder. All the small talk that spring bore on the matter of enlisting,

or on the men who had enlisted. Everyone wished to be a rough rider, and

if a commission in that favorite corps had been the certain prerogative

of an offer of service, all the able-bodied bachelors in the colony

would have enrolled themselves. As it was, there were numerous

applicants for this particular aggregation of fighters, but only Kenneth

Post, the master of the hounds, succeeded in joining it. Half a dozen

obtained billets elsewhere: Guy Perry on one of the war vessels

despatched to Cuban waters, young Joe Marbury in another of the

volunteer regiments, and Dick Weston, pretty Mrs. Baxter's brother, on

one of the yachts converted into a coast guard for the protection of our

Atlantic cities against bombardment by the battle-ships of Spain.

Harry Spencer was also one of the half dozen. When he promptly proffered

his services to the Government, it was somehow taken for granted that he

would get a good post; and presently he justified his reputation by

receiving an invitation to join the staff of a brigade on the eve of

embarking for Cuba. No one at Westfield impugned his courage or

questioned his patriotism, but some of the women in discussing the

matter later agreed that he had to go. Mrs. Cole put it in a nutshell

when she said:

"If by any chance Lydia cares for him, she would never have spoken to

him again had he remained at home."

But there were cases, too, of disappointment. Andrew Cunningham, who, in

spite of conjugal bonds, was eager to go to the front, was rejected on

account of his age and weight, much to his chagrin and to the secret

satisfaction of his better-half. Douglas Hale was discarded on the plea

of color-blindness, though, as he pathetically informed his

acquaintance, the doctor who examined him declared that he had never

seen a finer physical specimen in other respects. Hence it will be

perceived that there was a nucleus left for the maintenance of a steady

fire of conversation at the club-house for the benefit of the

stay-at-homes.

At first, in keeping with the course of events, it centred on the

possibilities of the destruction of New York, Boston, or Portland by the

enemy's fleet; and after that bogy was laid, and the phantom fleet

located, it reverted to that ever-fresh topic for controversy, the cause

of the blowing up of the Maine. Then it turned to Manila, and when the

events of that splendid victory had been threshed threadbare, scented

trouble with Germany. The victory at Santiago set every tongue a-wagging

and raised enthusiasm to fever pitch; but presently the struggles of our

poorly rationed troops prompted an inquiry into the merits of General

Shafter as a commander, and one heard the hum of speculation as to what

would have happened if Cervera had not come out when he did.

Some of the members showed themselves positive arsenals of statistics

and secret information from the scene of action. Instead of dwelling on

his misfortunes at golf, Douglas Hale's shibboleth all summer was the

letter which he carried in his pocket from Guy Perry, who had the good

fortune to be in the van of the battle of Santiago. This he read to

every man or woman of his acquaintance who would let him, and cherished

as an historical document which put him in close touch with the

authorities at Washington. Andrew Cunningham tried to make the best of

his disappointment by showing himself an audible authority on the size

and equipment, identity and immediate location of every battle-ship,

cruiser, and torpedo-boat in the navy, and as to our future needs to fit

us to cope with the naval armaments of the other great powers of the

world. As to the women, they were utterly absorbed in making bandages

and comfort bags.

Such were the diversions of the spring and early summer. By August the

heroes returned from the front and began to reappear on their native

heath. Other sporting garb gave place to regimental attire, and, to be

in fashion, both men and women wore army slouch hats and suits akin to

khaki. One of the first of the Westfield colony to reach home was Guy

Perry, looking brown as an Indian from his long exposure to the sun

outside the harbor at Santiago. On the day after his return his

engagement to Miss Peggy Blake was formally announced, much to the

delight of everybody, but to no one's surprise--a fact which slightly

dismayed the radiant couple, who were apparently under the delusion that

their tryst had been kept a profound secret. They were certainly an

attractive-looking pair as they dashed about the country on Guy's

dog-cart, proclaiming their good fortune to the world. Peggy's rough

rider hat, perched on the back of her head, suited her style of beauty;

and as they bubbled over with health and happiness, more than one camera

fiend took a shot at them as a charming epitome of the strenuous life.

On the other hand, Kenneth Post returned on a litter, almost a skeleton

from fever; and Gerald Marcy, who against his own doctor's advice had

finally succeeded in getting stalled in camp in Florida, was limping

with rheumatism. Nevertheless, he was able to be about, and, though on

ordinary occasions a socially tactful spirit, he did not attempt to

conceal his pride at being the only one of the middle-aged men who had

succeeded in dodging the authorities and serving his country.

But the hero who brought back the stateliest palm of glory from Cuba was

Harry Spencer, for he had his arm in a sling from a flesh wound caused

by a Spanish bullet at San Juan Hill, and had been subsequently in the

hospital, threatened with blood poisoning. He was emaciated and

interesting-looking, so Mrs. Cole, who had a glimpse of him, declared,

and he went straight to the small cottage at Westfield where he had

spent the previous summer.

Two days subsequent to his return the spirit moved Mrs. Cole to call on

Lydia, and on the afternoon of the day she paid this visit it was

noticed that she sat pensive and silent while the other women at the

club were drinking tea. It was Mrs. Barker who called attention to the

circumstance by asking:

"What are you incubating on, Fannie?"

Mrs. Cole hesitated for a moment, then she said tragically, "I am afraid

she cares for him."

No one had to ask who was meant.

"What did I tell you?" exclaimed Mrs. Cunningham.

"What makes you think so?" asked the practical Miss Marbury.

Fannie Cole shook her head. "Not from anything she said. She didn't

mention the subject. It was from what she didn't say. She made me think

of a pent-up volcano."

Proceeding from the intimate source it did, this testimony, though

metaphorical, was felt to be most interesting.

"And if the volcano bursts, what will become of poor Herbert?" murmured

Mrs. Baxter.

"That's it, of course. Yet it isn't the only thing," responded Mrs.

Cole. "What will become of Lydia? What will become of all three of

them?" The sociological vista which opened before her was evidently so

appalling that she leaned back limply in the straw chair on which she

was sitting. But the attitude was productive of philosophy, for she

suddenly said with the air of one rhapsodizing, but who nevertheless

utters an indictment against Providence:

"If the divinity which shapes our ends really intended Lydia to be

happy, why was Harry Spencer allowed to return when he did?" Warming to

the vividness of her imagination, she continued briskly, "The ideal

course of events would have been this: First, the baby should never have

been born; secondly, Herbert Maxwell should have felt an uncontrollable

patriotic call to go to the war; he should have fought with

distinguished valor and brilliancy--sufficient to inscribe his name on

the pages of history--and he should have been shot dead. That would have

satisfied him. Then would have been the time for Harry Spencer to come

home. With him and Herbert's fortune Lydia might have been radiantly

happy. As it is--" Mrs. Cole paused, palsied by the perplexities of

reality, and unwilling to venture on prophecy.

But Mrs. Baxter saw fit to finish the sentence for her by a not

altogether logical utterance: "As it is, it was Mr. Spencer who went to

the war and has come back alive and a hero. If Lydia liked him before,

it is of course all the harder for her not to like him now."

Mrs. Cunningham uttered a sort of groan. Then she said emphatically,

"There can be but one end to it, in my opinion. Sooner or later she will

leave her husband and run away with him."

There was a general nodding of heads--all but Mrs. Cole's.

"And what will they do with that poor baby?" interjected Miss Marbury.

Fannie Cole sat up by way of protest. "My dears," she said with gasping

alertness, "that would be comparatively normal, and it cannot be the

correct solution. Don't you see it's impossible? Neither of them has

any money. If she would, he wouldn't, and neither of them would." She

looked around the circle with a smile of triumph, knowing that her

stricture was unanswerable.

"I never thought of that," said Mrs. Baxter, voicing the general

perplexity.