Again she read it, grasping little by little its whole import: all
that it meant--all that it would mean to her.
"Is he crazy?" she asked herself. "Does he suppose I intend to be
dragged up there?"
It was open defiance on his part; he had done this thing without
consulting her and without her consent. It was preposterous and
insulting in its brusqueness. He evidently intended to change her
life--she, who loathed camp life more than anything in the world was
to be forced to live in one all summer instead of reigning at Newport.
She understood now his open defiance in leaving for the woods with
Holcomb, and yet this last decision was far graver to her than his
taking a dozen vacations. Still deeper in her heart there lurked the
thought of being separated from the man who understood her. The young
doctor's summer practice in Newport would no longer be a labour of
love. It really meant exile to them both.
At one o'clock she lunched with Margaret, hardly opening her lips
through it all. She did not mention her husband's note--that she would
reserve for the doctor. Between them she felt sure there could be
arranged a way out of the situation. Again she devoured his note.
Yes--"at five." The intervening hours seemed interminable.
That these same hours were anything but irksome to Sperry would have
been apparent to anyone who watched his use of them. The day, like
other days during office hours, had seen a line of coupes waiting
outside his door. Within had assembled a score of rich patients
waiting their turn while they read the illustrated papers in strained
silence--papers they had already seen. There was, of course, no
conversation. A nervous cough now and then from some pretty widow,
overheated in her sables, would break the awkward silence, or perhaps
the voice of some wealthy little girl of five asking impossible
explanations of her maid. During these hours the mere opening of the
doctor's sanctum door was sufficient to instantly raise the hopes and
the eyes of the unfortunates.
For during these office hours Dr. Sperry had a habit of opening
the door of this private sanctum sharply, and standing there for an
instant, erect and faultlessly dressed, looking over the waiting ones;
then, with a friendly nod, he would recognize, perhaps the widow--and
the door closed again on the less fortunate.
It was, of course, more than possible that the young woman was ill
over her dressmaker's bill, rather than suffering from a weak heart or
an opera cold. Sperry's ear, however, generally detected the cold.
It was not his policy to say unpleasant things--especially to young
widows who had recently inherited the goods and chattels of their
hard-working husbands.
"Ill!--nonsense, my dear lady; you look as fresh as a rose," he would
begin in his fascinating voice--"a slight cold, but nothing serious, I
assure you. You women are never blessed with prudence," etc., etc.
To another: "Nervous prostration, my dear madame! Fudge--all
imagination! Silly, really silly. You caught cold, of course, coming
out of the heated theatre. Get a good rest, my dear Mrs. Jack--I want
you to stay at least a month at Palm Beach, and no late suppers,
and no champagne. No--not a drop," he adds severely. Then softening,
"Well, then, half a glass. There, I've been generous, haven't I?"
etc., etc., and so the day passed.
On this particular day it was four o'clock before he had dismissed the
last of his patients. Then he turned to his nurse with an impatient
tone, as he searched hurriedly among the papers on his desk:
"Find out what day I set for young Mrs. Van Ripley's operation."
"Tuesday, sir," answered the nurse.
"Then make it Thursday, and tell James to pack up my big valise and
see that my golf things are in it and aboard the 9.18 in the morning."
"Yes, sir," answered the girl, dipping her plump hands in a pink
solution.
All this time Alice had been haunted by the crawling hands of the
clock. Luxurious as was her house of marble, it was a dreary domain
at best to-day, as she sat in the small square room that lay hidden
beyond the conservatory of cool palms and exotic plants screening one
end of the dining room--a room her very own, and one to which only
the chosen few were ever admitted; a jewel box of a room indeed, whose
walls, ceiling and furniture were in richly carved teak. A corner, by
the way, in which one could receive an old friend and be undisturbed.
There was about it, too, a certain feeling of snug secrecy which
appealed to her, particularly the low lounge before the Moorish
fireplace of carved alabaster, which was well provided with soft
pillows richly covered with rare embroideries. To-day none of these
luxuries appealed to the woman seated among the cushions, gazing
nervously at the fire. What absorbed her were the hands of the clock,
crawling slowly toward five.
* * * * *
He did not keep her waiting. He was ahead of time, in fact--Blakeman
leading him obsequiously through the fragrant conservatory.
"Ah--it is you, doctor!" she exclaimed in feigned surprise as the
butler started to withdraw.
"Yes," he laughed; "I do hope I'm not disturbing you, dear lady. I was
passing and dropped in."
Alice put forth her hand to him frankly and received the warm pressure
of his own. They waited until the sound of Blakeman's footsteps died
away in the conservatory.
"He's gone," she whispered nervously.
"What has happened?" asked the doctor with sudden apprehension.
"Everything," she replied womanlike, raising her eyes slowly to his
own. Impulsively he placed both hands on her shoulders.
"You are nervous," he said, his gaze riveted upon her parted lips. He
felt her arms grow tense--she threw back her head stiffly and for a
moment closed her eyes as if in pain.
"Don't!" she murmured--"we must be good friends--_good_ friends--do
you understand?"
"Forgive me," was his tactful reply. He led her to the corner of the
lounge and with fresh courage covered her hand firmly with his own.
"See--I am sensible," he smiled--"we understand each other, I think.
Tell me what has happened."
"Sam," she murmured faintly, freeing her hand--"Sam has dared to treat
me like--like a child."
"You! I don't believe it--you? Nonsense, dear friend."
"You must help me," she returned in a vain effort to keep back the
tears.
"Has he been brutal to you?--jealous?--impossible!" and a certain
query gleamed in his eyes.
"Yes, brutal enough. I never believed him capable of it."
"I believe you, but it seems strange--psychologically impossible.
Why, he's not that kind of a man."
Alice slipped her hand beneath a cushion, drew forth her husband's
note and gave it to him.
"Read that," she said, gazing doggedly into the fire, her chin in her
hands.
"'I may pass the summer in the woods'"--he read. "'Make no
arrangements--' Well, what of it?" This came with a breath of relief.
Alice raised her head wearily.
"It means that my life will be different--a country boarding house
or a camp up in those wretched woods, I suppose--an _existence_"--she
went on, her voice regaining its old dominant note--"not life!"
"And no more Newport for either of us," he muttered half audibly to
himself with a tone of regret.
Alice looked up at him, her white hands clenched.
"I won't have it!" she exclaimed hotly; "I simply won't have it. I
should die in a place like that. Buried," she went on bitterly, "among
a lot of country bumpkins! Sam's a fool!"
"And you believe him to be in earnest?" he asked at length. She made
no reply; her flushed cheeks again sunk in her jewelled hands. "Do
you, seriously?" he demanded with sudden fear.
"Yes--very much in earnest--that's the worst of it," she returned,
with set, trembling lips.
For some moments he watched her in silence, she breathing in nervous
gasps, her slippered feet pressed hard in the soft rug. A sudden
desire rushed through him to take her in his arms, yet he dared not
risk it.
"Come," he said, at last, "let us reason this thing out. We're neither
of us fools. Besides, it does not seem possible he will dare carry out
anything in life without your consent."
"I don't know," she answered slowly. "I never believed him capable
of going to the woods--but he did. And I must say, frankly, I never
believed him capable of this."
"You and he have had a quarrel--am I not right?"
She shrugged her shoulders in reply.
"Perhaps," she confessed--"but he has never understood me--he is
incapable of understanding any woman."
"Quite true," he replied lightly, in his best worldly voice; "quite
true. Few men, my dear child, ever understand the women they marry.
You might have been free to-day--free, and happier, had you--"
He sprang to his feet, bending over her--clasping her hands clenched
in her lap. Slowly he sought her lips.
"Don't," she breathed--"don't--I beg of you. You must not--you _shall_
not! You know we have discussed all that before."
"Forgive me," said he, straightening and regaining his seat. The ice
had been thinner than he supposed, and he was too much of an expert
to risk breaking through. "But why are you so cold to me?" he asked
gloomily, with a sullen glance; "you, whose whole nature is the
reverse? Do you know you are gloriously beautiful--you, whom I
have always regarded as a woman of the world, seem to have suddenly
developed the conscience of a schoolgirl."
"You said you would help me," she replied, ignoring his outburst, her
eyes averted as if fearing to meet his gaze.
"Then tell me you trust me," he returned, leaning toward her.
She raised her eyes frankly to his own.
"I do--I do trust you, but I do not trust myself. Now keep your
promise--I insist on it. Believe me, it is better--wiser for us both."
"Come, then," he said, laying his hand tenderly on her shoulder--it
had grown dark in the teakwood room--"let me tell you a story--a fairy
tale."
She looked at him with a mute appeal in her eyes. Then with a half
moan she said: "I don't want any story; I want your help and never so
much as now. Think of something that will help me! Be quick! No more
dreams--our minutes are too valuable; I must send you away at six."
For some minutes he paced the room in silence. Then, as if a new
thought had entered his mind, he stopped and resumed his professional
manner.
"What about Margaret?" he asked quietly. "Is she fond of the woods?"
"Why--she adores them." She had regained her composure now. "The child
was quite mad about that wretched Long Lake. What a summer we had--I
shudder when I think of it!"
"Did it ever occur to you, my dear friend, that Margaret _needed_ the
woods?" His eyes were searching hers now as if he wanted to read her
inmost thought.
"Needed them--in what way?"
"I mean--er--wouldn't it be better for her if she went to them? A
winter at Saranac--or better still, a longer summer at the camp--if
there is to be a camp. In that case her father would not leave her
alone; there would be less chance, too, of his insisting on your being
there--should you refuse. At least that would be a reason for his
spending as much time as possible in camp with Margaret, and you might
run up occasionally. I'm merely speaking in a purely professional way,
of course," he added.
A sudden pallor crept over her face.
"And you really believe Margaret to be delicate?" she asked in a
trembling voice full of sudden apprehension.
Sperry regained his seat, his manner lapsing into one that he assumed
at serious consultations.
"I am a pretty good diagnostician," he went on, satisfied with the
impression he had made. "Don't think me brutal in what I am going to
say, but I've watched that young daughter of yours lately. New York is
not the place for her."
"You don't mean her lungs?" she asked in a barely audible tone.
The doctor nodded.
"Not seriously, of course, my dear friend--really not that sort of
condition at present--only I deem it wisest to take precautions. I'm
afraid if we wait it will--er--be somewhat difficult later.
Margaret must be taken in time; she is just the sort of temperament
tuberculosis gets hold of with annoying rapidity--often sooner than
we who have had plenty of experience with the enemy suspect. I have
always said that the Fenwick child might have been saved had it not
been for the interference of Mrs. Fenwick after the consultation."
"And you are really telling me the truth?" Alice gasped--her lips set,
her breast heaving.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"Unfortunately--yes," was his reply.
Alice straightened to her feet, crossed to the mantel and stood for
some moments with her forehead pressed against the cool edge of the
marble, Sperry watching her in silence.
"Poor Margie!" he heard her say--then she turned to him with a
strange, calm look in her eyes.
"You must go," she said with an effort; "it is late. Blakeman will be
here in a moment to turn on the lights." She stretched forth her hands
to him. For a second he held them warm and trembling in his own, then
Blakeman's rapid step in the conservatory was heard.
"Good-night," he said in a louder tone, as the butler appeared. "I
shall see you at the Van Renssalaer's Thursday--we are to dine at
eight, I believe."
She smiled wearily in assent.
"And remember me to your good husband," he added. "I hope he will have
the best of luck."
"They say hunting is a worse habit to break than bridge," she returned
with a forced little laugh.
Blakeman followed the doctor to the door. Reverently he handed him
his stick, coat and hat--a moment later the heavy steel grille closed
noiselessly.
Blakeman stood grimly looking out of the front window, his jaw set,
his eyes following the doctor until he disappeared within his coupe
and slammed the door shut.
"Damn him!" he said. "If he tells that child that I'll strangle him!"