French's visit to New York was not the result of any weakening
resolution in regard to his neighbor's wife; the object was business.
His property was chiefly in real estate, and the distinguished law
firm who managed his affairs had summoned him to confer with a tenant
who was desirous of becoming a purchaser. Being in the same town with
Deena, he decided that he could not well avoid visiting her, to say
nothing of Ben. It was his misfortune that every meeting made his
self-discipline harder, for, if they lived, he had got to see her
under still more trying circumstances--reunited with a husband who
misunderstood her.
These thoughts passed through his mind the morning after their
encounter at the opera, as he finished his breakfast at the Savoy. He
had an appointment at his lawyers' at ten o'clock, and at the
Minthrops' for luncheon at half-past one. The first, if properly
conducted, might result in a largely increased income; the second in
self-repression and a heartache; and yet his one idea was to dispatch
the business, so that no precious moments of Deena's society should be
lost to him.
He was hurrying out of the hotel to go downtown, when a telegram was
put into his hand. For the detached bachelor such messages have little
interest. Stephen opened this one as casually as most people open an
advertisement--may the foul fiend fly away with those curses of our
daily mail!--and read:
BUENOS AYRES, Jan. 30.
PEDRO LOPEZ to the HON'BLE PROFESSOR FRENCH, Harmouth
University.
_Tintoretto_ on its way home. Ponsonby missing.
Stephen read the dispatch several times before he quite understood its
significance. Pedro Lopez was his South American friend, who had set
on foot the Fuegian expedition and applied to Harmouth for a botanist;
the _Tintoretto_ was the vessel furnished by the Argentine Government.
The cable message had gone to Harmouth and been repeated to New York,
probably by Stephen's butler.
The first effect of evil tidings is apt to be superficial. We receive
a mental impression rather than a shock to the heart. We are for the
moment spectators of our own misfortunes, as if the blow had produced
a paralysis to the feelings, leaving the intellect clear.
Stephen went back to his own room conscious of no emotion except
intense curiosity as to what had become of Simeon, though, perhaps,
far back in his mind anxiety was settling down to its work of torture.
He flung himself into a chair near the window which overlooked the
entrance to the park and let his eyes gaze blankly at the busy scene.
It had snowed during the night, and sleighs were dashing in and out
under the leafless arches of the trees. Bells were tinkling, gay
plumes of horsehair floating from the front of the Russian sleighs and
the turrets of the horses' harness, men and women wrapped in costly
furs were being whirled along, laughing and chatting, through the
crisp morning air.
Stephen didn't know he was receiving an impression--he thought his
mind was at a standstill, but whenever in the future that terrible day
came back to his memory, he always saw a picture, as it were, of the
brilliant procession dashing into the city's playground, while Saint
Gaudens' statue of Sherman stood watching, grim and cold, with the
snow on his mantle and his Victory in a winding sheet.
It was not very long before French was able to pull himself together
and to face the situation. What did it mean? Had Simeon lost himself
in the Patagonian wilds or was he drowned? French felt that he
couldn't carry such an uncertain report to Deena, the strain upon her
would be too great. It was horrible to have to tell her at all, but he
must try to make the news definite--not vague. Gradually he thought
out a course of action; he would telegraph to Lopez to send him a
detailed account, cabling the answer at his expense, and until this
reply came he thought himself justified in concealing the news. Lopez
was in constant communication with the expedition, and the letter
which had announced Ponsonby's disappearance must have gone into
particulars.
After dispatching this cable he kept his appointment in Wall Street,
transacting the business with the dull precision of a person in a
hypnotic sleep, and then presented himself at the Minthrops' a few
minutes before the lunch hour. He had not been prepared to find Deena
installed as hostess, and her manner of greeting him and presiding at
the lunch table was so assured, so different from the timid
hospitality she was wont to offer under Simeon's roof, that her whole
personality seemed changed. She more than ever satisfied his admiring
affection, but she was so unlike the Mrs. Ponsonby of Harmouth that he
felt like confiding to this gracious, sympathetic woman the tragedy
that threatened her other self.
Early in the day, before that woeful message came, he had counted the
minutes he could spend with her, and now he was timing his visit so as
to curtail it to the least possible duration, and taxing his ingenuity
as to how best to avoid seeing her alone. It was Saturday, and he
trusted to the half holiday for the protection of Ben's presence; his
depression of spirits would be less noticeable in general
conversation.
He arrived on the stroke of the hour set for lunch, and to his chagrin
was shown to the library, where Deena was sitting alone. His trouble
deepened, for, after motioning him to a chair beside her, she resumed
her embroidery and said, with a quizzical expression:
"You were in the midst of Simeon's last letter when we parted last
evening, Mr. French; please go on with it. You may remember you left
my unfortunate husband pledged to become a horseman."
Stephen could not respond to her merry mood; his anxiety was to steer
the conversation away from Simeon, and he had run against a snag at
the start.
"At all events, I left him safely surrounded by friends," he
said--more in answer to his own feelings than her banter.
In thinking over any disaster, the mind loves to dwell on the peaceful
moments that preceded it. Stephen found comfort in recalling the gay
tone of Simeon's letter, his delight in his coming adventure, and the
good feeling that evidently existed between him and the ship's
company.
Deena took exception to his remark.
"You have strange ideas of safety!" she laughed. "Not content with
mounting a confirmed pedestrian on a wild horse of the Pampas, you
must needs turn him loose among a horde of savages. The hunt had not
taken place when he wrote, had it? It is a pity, for I should like
Simeon safely back on shipboard without the loss of spectacles or
dignity."
She would like Simeon back! What wouldn't French give to know her
husband was still alive!
The butler announced lunch, and Ben came dashing downstairs, delighted
to see Stephen and full of excuses at having lingered in his wife's
room. He said Polly was feeling rather poorly, and Stephen was glad to
see a look of anxiety cross Deena's face; he rightly judged her
thoughts had been diverted from Patagonia to Polly's sofa, and he
breathed once more.
What a pleasant luncheon it was, in spite of the lurking dread. Deena
was wearing the old blue dress he had recommended to her the night
before. It could not be from coquetry--she was above coquetry--but
perhaps she had put it on to recall associations; to remind him of the
close bonds of friendship that existed between them in those pleasant
autumn days that followed Simeon's departure. Stephen was not very
learned in the make of women's frocks, but he understood color and
could appreciate how that steely-blue made her complexion glow warm as
ivory and her hair like copper.
They were pretending to quarrel over a dish of salted almonds; Deena
declared that French was getting the lion's share, and finally covered
the little silver basket that held them with her hand. On the third
finger flashed old Mrs. Ponsonby's diamond in its antiquated silver
setting, and below it was her wedding ring, the narrow band that
symbolized her bondage to Simeon. For the first time since French had
received the cable, its possible significance to him took possession
of his mind, and he flushed a dull red and fell into a reverie.
In all probability there was no longer any barrier between him and the
woman he loved; nothing to prevent his striving to win her, but the
period of her mourning--the respect she owed to the memory of a
husband who was the palest shadow of a lover, and not even the ghost
of a companion. He wondered whether she had ever guessed his
feelings--feelings which he had subdued and held under with all the
strength of his nature, partly through fear of forfeiting her
friendship and partly because her charm was in the simplicity of her
goodness. If love had once been named between them, Deena would have
been other than herself.
Her voice roused him. She was excusing herself in order to go to her
sister, and leave him and Ben to smoke. He held the door open for her
to pass with a profound sense of relief--no suspicion of his awful
secret had been betrayed. But oh! the comfort of talking it over with
Ben, of sharing the burden with another! They discussed the meager
announcement till they had exhausted every probability and found
nothing to hope and everything to fear.
"I hope to Heaven he is dead!" cried Ben. "Imagine a man physically
weak, like Ponsonby, enduring slow starvation in the damp and chill of
the Patagonian seacoast. It will be a positive relief if we hear he
fell overboard."
"Anything is better than uncertainty," said Stephen, and the speech
must have been from the new point of view, the hope of Deena's
freedom, for the next moment he was conscious of a wave of shame.
"I ought to get an answer from Lopez before night," he added, rising
to go; "and as soon as I hear I will return and let you know."
Ben followed him to the front door, whispering like a conspirator and
glancing furtively up the stairs. There was a childish streak in the
boy's nature that gloried in a confidence; the joy of the secret
nearly made up for the sorrow of the fact. But secrets and sorrows
were soon put out of his head, for a crucial moment had come to the
young Minthrops--one we anticipate and are never quite prepared for.
As he ran upstairs, after seeing Stephen off, he met Deena, evidently
looking for him.
"Oh, Ben," she said, "Polly is ill, and I have telephoned for----"
But she got no further, for her big brother-in-law turned white as a
frightened girl, and when he tried to speak no sound came from his
lips.
"Goose!" said Deena, laying an affectionate hand on his shoulder.
"Shall I get a glass of brandy? Do you suppose no one has ever met
with this experience before?"
Ben recovered himself with a fit of irritation, which seems the
corollary to being frightened.
"Brandy!" he repeated. "Why in thunder should I want brandy? Really,
Deena, for a sensible woman, you are given at times to saying the most
foolish things I ever heard."
* * * * *
In the meanwhile, as the afternoon was still early, French was anxious
to find some occupation that might distract his thoughts. He decided
to visit his aunt, whose conversation was usually startling enough to
hold the attention of her hearers in any stress of agitation, and then
when he was halfway up her steps repented the intention, on the ground
that he needed soothing rather than stimulating; but his retreat was
cut off by the good lady coming out of her door and discovering him,
and, as she was about to walk round the block for exercise before
taking her afternoon drive, she promptly claimed his company for both
occasions. The wind blew her dress up to her ankles as she reached the
sidewalk, displaying a pair of pointed-toed, high-heeled boots that
perforce made walking--even round the block--a torturing task. But
Mrs. Star was a brave woman, and walking a matter of conscience, so
she tottered along beside her nephew, occasionally laying a hand on
his arm when a bit of icy pavement made her footing more than usually
uncertain.
"How I hate the late winter in New York!" she exclaimed, when a few
minutes later they were seated in her sleigh on their way to the park.
"Here we are at the threshold of February, when any self-respecting
climate would be making for spring, and we must count on two months
more of solid discomfort. Ah, well, this year I do not mean to face
it. I have had the yacht put in commission, and she sails next week
for the Mediterranean, where I shall overtake her by one of the German
boats, and do a little cruising along the African coast. Come with me,
Stephen," she said, coaxingly. "Let this silly school-teaching go. You
are a rich man--why under the sun do you want to work? If you are
holding on to Harmouth on account of that pretty Mrs. Ponsonby, it
can't do you much good when she is in New York. Besides," she added,
quite as an afterthought, "it is bad morality, and you ought to be
ashamed of yourself."
He was about to turn and rend her for what he considered an
unpardonable meddling with his affairs, when he saw her eyes fixed on
him with tenderest affection and his anger melted.
"Dear Stevie," she said, "be good-natured and bear an old woman
company--you know you are as dear as my own sons."
She used to call him Stevie when he was a lonely little boy, and she
made her house his home; when all he knew of family life was supplied
by that good-natured, worldly household--the name touched a chord of
memory that softened his irritation.
"I wish I could, Aunt Adelaide," he answered, "but I have managed to
tie myself to my work in a way you cannot understand. You will have to
take Bob as a companion."
Bob was her only unmarried child, wedded only to his clubs and amateur
soldiering, and even less available than Stephen for a cruise.
"Bob!" she said, contemptuously. "He never voluntarily went to a
foreign country except Cuba, and I don't believe he knows on which
side of the Mediterranean Africa lies! I shall find some one who will
be glad to go with me--perhaps your charming friend, Mrs. Ponsonby,
might go. She looks as if she would be a pleasant traveling
companion."
French's heart tightened as he thought of the horror that stood
between Deena and pleasure, and was even debating in his mind whether
it would not be better to tell his aunt the truth, when conversation
was rendered impossible for the moment by the puffing and tooting of a
great automobile advancing toward them down the west drive of the
park--its wheels slipping in a crazy manner, that made the coachman of
Mrs. Star's sleigh give it a wide berth. Just as it got abreast of
them, it became perfectly unmanageable--slewed to the left, made a
semicircle which turned it round, and, catching the back of the sleigh
on its low front, turned the light vehicle over as easily as if it had
been made of pasteboard.
Mrs. Star allowed herself a shrill shriek as the sleigh went over and
then lay quite still in a heap by the side of the road, with Stephen
across her feet. The automobile seemed to have recovered its serenity,
for it now stood still like any well-behaved machine, quiet save for
its noisy breathing, while the sleigh was being bumped, on its side,
far up the road, at the heels of the outraged horses.
French scrambled to his feet and endeavored to help his aunt, who had
raised herself to a sitting posture and was looking white and
disheveled, while she cast furious glances at the motor and its owner.
She took her nephew's hands and attempted to rise, but fell back,
declaring she had broken her knee, as it hurt her excruciatingly when
she tried to move it.
The owner of the auto now came forward in great contrition to offer
help and apologies. He was a physician, he explained, hastening to a
case of great urgency, and he had taken his automobile as the quickest
means of covering the distance, though he had known it at times to
behave badly on slippery and snowy roads.
The admission was a mistake--it put him in the wrong, and Mrs. Star,
who distrusted all modern doctors, felt a consuming rage against this
one in particular.
"You must have a strange estimate of a physician's duty if you feel
justified in risking many lives to save one!" she said, haughtily.
"Not that you are much worse than the fire engines and ambulances. We
ought to add a petition to the litany for safety against our
safeguards, for they kill more than they rescue."
The gentleman bore her sarcasms with becoming humility, and begged to
be allowed to take her home, promising that the machine should execute
no more "_Voyages en zigzag_," and she, ashamed of her temper, forced
herself to decline, with some graciousness, though she made it very
plain that no person on earth could tempt her to get into the
automobile.
"At least let him tell you whether your knee is seriously hurt,"
Stephen whispered, loath to see the medical help departing.
"I'll do nothing of the sort," retorted Mrs. Star. "A nice spectacle
you would make of me by the roadside! Besides, I am not going to allow
my knee to buy him a new automobile. Thank Heaven, I know how to guard
my pocket against the medical profession--I'll not stir from this spot
till he takes himself off."
"Don't be so foolish!" urged French. "If your knee is injured it is a
very serious thing."
"Well, it isn't seriously injured," she said, perversely. "I have
changed my mind, and I mean to have it tied up with witch hazel."
Fortunately her equipage was now seen approaching in the charge of two
park policemen, who had stopped the horses about a mile further on,
righted the sleigh and now brought it back not much the worse for the
misadventure. The coachman and groom were collected from the bushes,
and, as they were quite uninjured, Stephen lifted his aunt into the
back seat and they turned their faces homeward.
However much the rest of the party may have been inconvenienced,
French had certainly attained the object of his solicitude--namely, to
have his thoughts distracted from Simeon Ponsonby.