thought his nature extended, was so sweeping and whirling him that he
could not see her face distinctly.
When she spoke it was in a voice that took away hope, but gently,
soothing the wound it made. “I’m sorry,” she said, “and yet I’m not.
No woman could help being pleased to hear what you’ve said to me, and
hear it from such a man as you are. Oh, yes!”--this in answer to his
expression--“for I’ve found out what sort of man lives behind your look
of irony and indifference. A so much better man than he lets himself
know--or show. And I understand how differently you’ve been brought up,
how different your system is from ours. But----”
She hesitated, and somehow he felt that he must give her sympathy
instead of asking it.
“You remember, I told you that when I began with the school I had the
right sort of help?”
He looked away from her and it was black before him for an instant.
“That fairish chap with the eyes--Mr. Worthington?” he asked, cutting
his words off sharp.
She nodded, her cheeks bright. “I simply couldn’t help it,” she said.
“He _was_ what I longed to be. And he didn’t preach the things I
believed in--he just lived them.”
They were silent until they were in the car, then she went on: “I don’t
want you to misunderstand. He has never even looked--what I’d like
him to look--and say. I don’t know whether he cares--probably not.
Sometimes I think he cares only for his work, and----”
“He does care--I saw it,” interrupted Frothingham, and then he was
astonished at himself for being so “ridiculously decent.”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “Thank you for saying so.” She
looked at him shyly. “You’ll think me queer for telling you about it
when he has said nothing to me.”
[Illustration: “_I take to it like a duck to water_”]
“I understand why you tell me,” Frothingham answered. “It was--like
you.” He smiled faintly, his frequent, self-satirising smile. “Don’t
mind me. I’m used to bad luck. I take to it like a duck to water.”
Nelly’s instinct told her that she had said enough, and they rode in
silence. When she spoke again it was of the dance to which they were
going that night. An hour and a half later as they were separating
for dinner he said earnestly: “Thank you for what you said. And thank
you--even more--for what you didn’t say.”
XX
On the way to Mrs. Grafton’s ball that night he sent Evelyn a cablegram
asking her to cable him £175 he needed to help him to pay Wallingford
and fixing the next day week for his sailing. He might have sailed
three days earlier, but he wished to get her letter and so not carry an
unsatisfied curiosity on a six-days’ voyage.
At the ball everyone was talking of the Frothingham “exposure” and
of Jenny Hooper’s marriage. The “exposure” had appeared in but two
editions of the “yellow” that invented it. “Wick” Barney had seen it
and had lost not a moment in forcing its suppression and a denial
and in warning the other papers. He said nothing to Frothingham, and
Frothingham did not know of it then, or indeed until several years had
passed. But even if it had not been suppressed and had been everywhere
believed, Frothingham’s social position would not have suffered. His
title was genuine and his family and his position at home were of
the best--more, American fashionable society never asks about upper
class foreigners who come to it for no apparent, or, rather, no avowed
purpose. It expects them to be somewhat “queer” in other respects. It
assumes that they will be “queer” in money matters.
Frothingham did, however, hear of Jenny’s marriage--heard of it from
Jenny herself. At the Graftons’ the dressing rooms are at opposite
ends of the hall from which the grand stairway ascends to the drawing
room and the ballroom. It chanced that Jenny and Frothingham came
along this hall from the dressing rooms at the same time and, to the
delight of the few guests and the many servants who witnessed, met at
the foot of the stairway. As Frothingham’s face habitually expressed
nothing beyond a suggestion that he had nothing to express, he and his
eyeglass withstood the shock admirably. Jenny had intended to “cut him
dead” the next time she saw him. But as she tottered suddenly into his
presence on her monstrous tall heels she was not prepared for a course
so foreign to her nature as the cut direct. Before she knew what she
was doing or saying she had smiled and nodded. She instantly shifted
to a frown; but it was too late--Frothingham had spoken, had subdued
her with that “perfectly splendid, so aristocratic” monocle of his.
“What’s the use of throwing a fit over a thing that’s past and done?”
she reflected. “He’s all right in his way. And won’t it give Tom and
everybody a jolt if we enter the ballroom together?”
Frothingham had called her “Miss Hooper.” This gave her the opening.
“Miss Hooper!” she said with her jauntiest air. “That’s ancient
history. I ain’t been called that for ages and ages. Why, I’m an old
married woman--for Chicago.”
“Really,” said he, thinking it “some stupid, silly sell or other.” He
was hardly listening. He was more interested in the rope of pearls and
diamonds that swung from her neck to far below her waist. The pearls
were large and were once perfect; but each pearl had been mutilated by
having a diamond set in it--a very nightmare of sacrifice of beauty and
taste in an effort to make more expensive the most expensive.
“Yes, indeed--truly. I’m Mrs.----” She stopped short and gave him a
look of horror.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Frothingham with satiric sympathy. “Have you
forgotten his name, or did you forget to ask it?”
“No--but I never _thought_ of it before--thought how it sounds. My,
but it’s awful! I’d never in the world have married him if I’d have
pronounced it beforehand. Mrs. _Burster_! Ain’t that horrible?”
Frothingham had lifted “ain’t” from the slough of doubtful grammar to
the pinnacle of fashion in fashionable Chicago.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled, still imagining she was jesting. “It
might be worse, mightn’t it, now?”
At this seeming impertinence her eyes flashed. “Yes--it might. It might
be Bursted--or ‘Busted’--mightn’t it?” Then, seeing that her “shot” at
his financial condition as described in the newspaper she had read and
believed apparently did not touch him, she relented and was in a good
humour again. “I’ve been engaged to Tom for a year or so on and off,”
she went on. “When I woke up this morning it came into my head to marry
him. And I did it while your lawyer and papa were squabbling.” She said
this so convincingly that she herself began to feel that it was “as
good as true.”
The news that she and Frothingham were advancing together preceded
them to the ballroom, but had not spread far enough from its doors to
impair the sensation made by their entrance with every appearance of
friendliness. And the much discussed mystery of that day’s doings is
here solved for the first time.
The next afternoon Frothingham and Wickham drove up to Barney’s door
as Nelly and Worthington were arriving on foot. One glance at their
faces and he knew that they understood each the other now. “All I
accomplished,” he said to himself mournfully, “was to force the fellow
to play his hand. What ripping luck I do bring--other people!” He
paused only long enough to make his passing on seem natural. Presently
she followed him to the library, where he was standing on the rug
before the closed fireplace with a cigarette drooping dejectedly from
the corner of his mouth. She moved restlessly about the room, evidently
seeking a way to begin telling him something.
“I saw it in your face--at the door,” he said, in answer to an
appealing glance from her.
She put her hand on his arm and her eyes were wistful. “I know you
did, and I hoped--I thought--I saw in your face that you were generous
enough to be glad I’m happy.”
“No, I can’t say that you did. The most I can do is to bear it--without
the grin.” He seated himself on the edge of the big table and smoked
and looked at her reflectively. “I say,” he began at last, “do you see
how it’s possible to be in love with two at the same time?”
She nodded, smiling a little. “Yes--I--I think--if I hadn’t met someone
first--I should have been in love with--someone else.”
“That’s something,” he said in his satirical drawl. But he kept
his eyes down and his eyelids were trembling. “Do you know,” he
went on after a pause full of cigarette smoke, “I’ve been thinking
about--caring for two people and that sort of thing. I don’t mind
saying to you--you’ll understand, I’m sure--there’s a girl over on the
other side----”
“I’m _so_ glad!” she exclaimed--and then she wasn’t.
“I care for her--in a different way, but it’s quite a real way. And
when I go back home, it may be--you know what I wish to say. I’m
telling you because I don’t wish you to think I’m disloyal to you”--his
expression was half-satirical, half-mournful--“or to her either.”
“I appreciate your telling me,” she said. “But I’d have understood, if
you hadn’t. I believe I recognise a _man_ when I see him, and--you know
that’s what I think you.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I dare say I’m much like other people. I
show everyone the side that matches the side they show me.”
After a moment he went to her and lifted her hand and kissed it. She
stood and turned her face, sweet and friendly, up to him. “I’d rather
you’d kiss _me_,” she said.
He winced and paled and let go her hand. “No, thanks,” he replied. “If
you don’t mind, I’d rather not.”
With this Mr. Barney bustled into the room--no one had ever seen him
make a slow movement of any kind. At sight of them standing thus
suspiciously, he halted and, as they flushed and moved apart, he
laughed in such a way that Nelly felt impelled to explain:
“I was talking to Lord Frothingham of my engagement, and he was
congratulating me.”
“_Bless_ my soul!” ejaculated Barney. “This _is_ news!”
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you, father. It’s Mr. Worthington.”
Barney seemed depressed. “Well--I guess he’s all right,” he said
slowly. “I’ve got nothing against him. But----”
“And,” interrupted Nelly, afraid of her father’s frankness, “he was
telling me of his engagement.”
Barney looked at Frothingham sharply. “American?” he asked, showing
that he wouldn’t like it if he got an affirmative answer.
“No--a neighbour of ours in England,” replied Frothingham.
“Delighted to hear it. You ought to have been married and settled long
ago. I still think you’d have done better to sell your farm over there
and settle down here in Chicago.” Barney would have scorned to apply
such words as estate and plantation to a farm--though he did call his
shop an “Emporium.”
* * * * *
Wickham went to New York with Frothingham the next day but one; and
on the day after they arrived they had Honoria, chaperoned by Mrs.
Galloway, at dinner and at theatre, and, because Wickham insisted,
at supper. It was almost two o’clock when they put the two women in
their carriage at the Waldorf and went to bed--Frothingham refused to
sit up listening to Wickham on Honoria. He was surprised that Wickham
had invited her for luncheon the next, or, rather, the same day--was
astonished when he found that she had accepted. His last three days in
America were spent in studying--and encouraging--an infatuation.
The morning of his departure came, and the steamer which he assumed
must be bringing Evelyn’s letter, as it had not arrived on Friday, was
just getting in. He decided that he would not put off his sailing to
get the letter--“Why wait merely to satisfy my curiosity? Evelyn sent
me over here. She knows what she’s about in recalling me.” He left
Hutt at the hotel to stay until the last moment on the chance of the
mail arriving; he and Wickham went down to the pier--Mrs. Galloway and
Honoria and Joe Wallingford and his wife were already there. He had a
few sentences aside with Honoria.
“I’m so glad you introduced Mr. Barney to me,” she said. He trained his
eyeglass upon her mockingly. “Really! How extraordinary! Precisely what
_he_ said on Wednesday.”
“Don’t be a silly ass,” protested Honoria in an unconvincing voice.
“He’s only a big, nice boy. I’m four years older than he. Or, rather,
he’s four years younger than I--I don’t fancy the word old.”
“That’s as it should be. If a young chap _will_ marry, he should be
several years the younger. She’ll keep him straight and bring him up
properly. She’ll be patient with his ignorance and know how to handle
the reins when he frets or frisks. Good business, this you’re planning,
Honoria.”
“Do you think he likes me?”
“_Likes?_ He’s positively drivelling. Look at ’im!”
Honoria’s glance met Wickham’s--he was at the rail, pretending to
listen to Catherine. His “drivelling” expression as he came at the
call in her eyes seemed to please Honoria mightily. With the last
going-ashore gong Hutt came bringing Evelyn’s letter. Frothingham at
once read enough of it to interpret her cablegram:
As you doubtless know, Georgie’s father-in-law died in New York a few
weeks ago. He left them I don’t know how much--something huge. And
George is giving Gwen a dot of three hundred thousand. She was just
here with the news--she came to me the instant she heard it. As she
was leaving she said: “Won’t you give Arthur my love when you write?”
It’s the first time she’s spoken of you to me since you left. And
when I said, “I’ll _cable_ it to him,” she blushed--you should have
seen her, Arthur--and heard her say, “Oh, _thank_ you, dear!”
“Good chap, George,” murmured Frothingham. “The right sort clean
through. He wouldn’t let Gwen and me be cheated as he and Evelyn
were.... Poor Evelyn!... Gwen and me!” He began a sigh that changed
into his faint smile of self-mockery. “Just my beastly, rotten
luck--not to be sure it’s good luck when it finally does come.”
He went to the rail and his glance sought out and rested upon the
little group of his friends on the crowded pier across the widening
gap between Nelly’s land and him. Wickham took Honoria’s blue chiffon
parasol and waved it; Catherine fluttered her handkerchief. He lifted
his hat and bowed. Long after they were lost to him in the merge of the
crowd they could make out his loud light tweeds and scarlet bow, and
once they caught the flash of a ray of sunlight on his eyeglass--like a
characteristic farewell look.
* * * * *
It was five o’clock in a late September afternoon. As usual, on the low
table on the porch viewing the Italian garden at Beauvais Hall was the
big tea tray with its array of antique silver and old porcelain, the
cake and the toast and the slices of bread and butter. Round it were
Evelyn and Gwen and Frothingham--Gwen in a shirtwaist and riding skirt,
Frothingham in the slovenly, baggy flannels of an English gentleman in
the seclusion of his country-seat. No one was speaking and the quiet
was profound. Presently Evelyn rose and went through the open French
window into the drawing room. Gwen was watching Frothingham; he was
watching the peacocks as they strutted with tails spread in splendour.
“I’m always wondering that one of those clever, handsome American women
didn’t steal your heart--if you’ve got one,” said Gwen.
He slowly withdrew his gaze from the peacocks and fixed it upon her
with his monocled expression that might mean everything or nothing. She
chose to read everything into it and flushed with pleasure. And her
left hand, moving nervously among the silver and porcelain, revealed on
its third finger a narrow, gold band.
He drew a long, slow breath of lazy content and drawled:
“You’re so _d----n_ comfortable, Gwen!”
THE END
By James Weber Linn
Author of “The Second Generation”
THE CHAMELEON
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