The second cable from Lopez arrived soon after dinner; it brought
small comfort. Its nineteen words told the story but too conclusively.
Strayed from party while hunting. Weather turned foggy. Search
parties persevered for two weeks. Hope abandoned. Expedition
homeward bound.
There was no further excuse for concealment; indeed, it was French's
plain duty to tell Deena what might be told by the newspapers if he
delayed.
It was just nine o'clock, and he walked rapidly to the Minthrops' and
rang the bell. Outside an electric cab was waiting, its great lamps
casting pathways of light across street and sidewalk. The motorman was
inside; an indication that long waiting had driven him to shelter,
though the circumstance had no significance to Stephen.
The bell was answered by the butler, who looked portentous and stood
resolutely in the doorway.
"Not at 'ome, sir," he said, in response to Stephen's request to see
Mrs. Ponsonby.
"Then I must see Mr. Minthrop," French insisted.
The man hesitated and then relaxed his wooden expression.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. French. I did not recognize you, sir. The
truth is, we're a bit h'upset h'inside. Mrs. Minthrop is tuk ill,
sir--very sudden--and we're expecting the good word every minute. I
shall tell Mr. Minthrop you called."
Stephen nodded and turned away--the fates had ordained that he was to
carry his secret till the morning. It had been a harassing burden in
the daylight hours, but during the night it became maddening; it
seemed beyond his resolution to tell Deena that the pleasure trip he
had set on foot for her husband's advantage had ended in death.
As early as he thought permissible, the next morning, he presented
himself at Ben's door--this time gaining, a cheerful admission--and
was shown to the library on the second floor. There he found the young
father, radiantly happy, and so self-centered that he had entirely
forgotten the misfortune overhanging his sister-in-law.
"Come and see my son," he said, proudly, and in spite of an expression
of reluctance on the part of French to intrude into the upper regions
of the house, he pushed him ahead of him up the next flight of stairs
and knocked softly at the door of a back bedroom.
Deena's voice bade them enter, and French was ushered into a large
room fitted out as a nursery, with the newest appliances for baby
comfort. There was a bassinette so be-muslined and be-ribboned and
be-laced that it looked like a ball dress standing by itself in the
middle of the floor; and a bathtub that looked like a hammock; and a
weighing machine; and a chart for recording the daily weight; and a
large table with a glass top; and a basket containing all the articles
for the Lilliputian toilet; while near the fender some doll-like
clothes were airing.
Deena was sitting in a low rocking-chair near the fire with her nephew
in her arms. She welcomed her visitors with a smile, and turned down a
corner of the baby's blanket to display his puckered ugliness to
Stephen. She was looking happy, tender, proud, maternally beautiful.
"Hasn't he a beautifully shaped head?" she demanded, passing her hand
tenderly over the furry down that served him for hair. "And look at
his ears and his hands--was there ever anything so exquisite?"
It was French's first introduction to a young human, and he found it
slightly repulsive, but Deena, in her Madonna-like sweetness, made his
heart swell.
"He is part of an exquisite picture," he answered.
Ben, who had been for a moment with Polly, now came into the room with
his usual noisy bustle, and Deena got up and, surrendering the baby to
the nurse, led the way downstairs.
At the library door Stephen paused to whisper to Ben:
"Stay with me while I tell her," in tones of abject fright; but Ben
shook his head.
"Look here, old man," he said, in mild remonstrance, "if you had had a
baby last night, you wouldn't be casting about for fresh trouble
to-day--now, would you?"
Stephen gave him an indignant glance, and, following Deena, he shut
the library door. He did it in so pronounced a way that she looked up
surprised, and was even more at a loss to account for the gravity of
his expression; she wondered whether he had thought her rude yesterday
when she had disappeared from the table at lunch and had never
returned, but it was not like French to be touchy.
"I left you very unceremoniously yesterday," she began, "but the nurse
appeared for a moment at the door, and I did not want to alarm Ben.
You were not offended?"
"Believe me, no," French answered, with a sort of shudder; "for the
first time in my life I was glad to see you go--your presence was
torture to me--I was concealing something from you, Mrs. Ponsonby, and
it has got to get itself told."
While he spoke her expression changed rapidly from amazement to alarm,
and she got up and came close to him--waiting--but without a word.
"Simeon is lost," he said, hoarsely, hurling the bald fact at her
before his courage failed. "I tried to tell you yesterday," he went
on, drawing the cables from his pocket, "but I couldn't; it all seemed
so vague at first, and I ventured to wait until I got more news."
She was standing before him with her hands clasped and her face deadly
pale, but with a calm that frightened him.
"Do you mean lost at sea?" she asked, in a steady voice--toneless but
perfectly clear.
He shook his head.
"No--on land. He was hunting--it must have been the very hunt we were
talking about--and wandered from his party. A fog came on, and they
were unable to find him. Lopez telegraphs that they sent out search
parties for a fortnight, but could find no trace."
He longed for a word from her, but none came.
"At last they abandoned hope," he concluded. "The expedition is now on
its way home."
She had turned her back upon him, and he waited in misery to hear her
sob, to see her shoulders shake with her weeping; but, instead, the
whole figure seemed to stiffen, and, wheeling round, she faced him
with blazing eyes.
"The cowards!" she cried. "To abandon a man to starvation! What are
they made of to do such a barbarous thing!"
"We must not judge them unheard," Stephen ventured. "Their search may
have been exhaustive--they may have risked their own lives gladly--and
you know," he added, gently, "that beyond a certain time it would have
been useless from the standpoint of saving life."
"It was inhuman to sail away and leave him," she went on, beating her
hands together in a sort of rage. "How can you defend them! You, who
sent him off on this horrible journey--how can you sleep in your bed
when you know Simeon in perishing by inches! I should think you would
be on your way now--this moment--to search for him! Oh, do
something--don't just accept it in this awful way. Haven't you any
pity?" Unconsciously she laid her hand on his shoulder, as if she
would push him from the room.
Stephen bore her reproaches with a meekness that exasperated her.
"Are there no cables to Magellan?" she asked. "There must be somebody
there who for money would do your bidding. Don't waste time," she
answered, stamping her foot.
Stephen kept his temper. Perhaps he was shrewd enough to see that it
was pity rather than love that gave the fierceness to her mood. It was
the frenzy of a tender-hearted woman at hearing of an act of cruelty
rather than the agony of one who suffers a personal bereavement.
"Deena," he said, not even knowing he had used her name, "do you
really want me to go on this hopeless errand? Think of its utter
uselessness--the time that has elapsed, the impossibility of
penetrating into such a country in the advancing winter. It is the
first of February, and I could not get there before March; it would be
already their autumn. By this time he has either reached help or he is
beyond it."
At the beginning of his speech Deena's pale face flushed, but as he
went on setting forth the obstacles to his going she seemed to harden
in her scorn.
"Oh, yes," she sneered. "Let him die! It is cold in Patagonia for a
gently nurtured person like Mr. French. Simeon is poor in friends--he
only had one besides his wife, and that one is a fair-weather friend.
But I'll go--I am not afraid of privation. I'll entreat the Argentine
Government for help--I'll make friends with the Indians--I'll----"
"Hush," he said, "you have said enough--I will go."
Having gained her point, she burst into tears.
"I am cruel," she said, "selfishly cruel to you, who have been so good
to me--but whom can I turn to except to you? How can we abandon Simeon
without raising a finger to save him? Say you forgive me."
He held out his hand in mute acquiescence. Her sneers had stung him to
the quick, but her appeal to his manhood for help in her distress
moved him deeply.
"Perhaps," she went on, half to herself, "perhaps if I had been a
better wife--if I had loved him more, I could bear it better--but it
is so pitiful. He has always been alone in life, and now he is dying
alone."
Stephen, who was pacing the floor, tried not to listen. He knew she
was not thinking of him when she was confessing her shortcomings to
her own conscience, but the admission that she felt herself lacking in
love to Simeon filled him with a deep joy. He did not dare to linger.
"I am going," he said, gently. "Good-by, Deena. Will you pray God to
send you back the man who loves you?"
She stood staring at him dumb with misery, but as the door shut
between them a cry of anguish burst from her very soul.
"Come back!" she cried. "Oh, Stephen, come back! I can't bear it! I
can't let you go! Don't you know I love you?--and I have sent you off
to die!"
She knew that he had gone--that her appeal was to the empty air, and
she flung herself on the sofa in a frenzy of sobs. But the cry reached
Stephen in the hall, where he stood battling with himself against his
yearning for one more look, one more word to carry with him, and at
the sound his resolution melted like wax in the flame of his passion.
With a bound he was back in the room, on his knees beside her,
soothing her with tenderest endearments--pouring out the fullness of
his love.
"Must I go, Deena?" he pleaded. "Must I leave you when I know you love
me? And for what?--a search for the dead!"
At his words her conscience woke with a stab of shame.
"Yes, go!" she said. "Go quickly. A moment ago I sent you in the name
of compassion; now I send you in expiation for this one intolerable
glimpse of Heaven."
* * * * *
Stephen, eager to do her bidding, went straight to Mrs. Star's house
to take leave of the only person to whom he owed the obligations of
family affection, and found that redoubtable lady on a sofa in her
dressing room. In answer to his expressions of regret at this
intimation of invalidism, she gave an angry groan.
"Oh, yes!" she said. "Our medical friend has succeeded in providing
another doctor with as pretty a case of water-on-the-knee--to say
nothing of other complications--as he could desire. My only comfort
is, he didn't get the charge himself."
"But you have seen a specialist, surely?" exclaimed French, who feared
her hatred of physicians might have prevented her calling in proper
aid.
"Don't distress yourself," she answered. "McTorture has me fast in his
clutches; and for how long do you suppose? Two months! He will promise
nothing short of two months, and even then objects to my going abroad,
and the yacht ready to start this very week! I am waiting for Bob to
come into lunch, to get him to send for the sailing master and break
the news to him. He'll be a disappointed man!"
"I will take the yacht off your hands," said Stephen, casually.
"You!" she exclaimed. "Are you running away _from_ or _with_ anybody,
that you suddenly annex an ocean steamer? You were prosing only
yesterday afternoon about work and duty, as if nothing could separate
you from Harmouth. Is the attraction going to bolt with you, Stevie?"
Stephen could have killed her as she lay there, allowing her tongue
free play with his most intimate concerns, but the respect due to an
old woman, to say nothing of an aunt, restrained his anger, and he
answered, coldly:
"If you want to get rid of the yacht for the rest of the year, say so.
My friend, Simeon Ponsonby, is lost in the wilderness of Patagonia,
and I am organizing a party to search for him. I shall have to resign
my work at Harmouth, but I feel responsible for poor Ponsonby's fate;
I sent him on the expedition."
"Ah! did you?" she said, laughing wickedly. "Poor Uriah has been
disposed of, and now the lady sends you to look for his bones. Don't
look too hard, Stevie, you might find he wasn't lost, after all!"
"Stop!" cried French, springing to his feet. "How dare you make a jest
of other people's misfortunes? Is there so little decency among your
associates that you no longer recognize it when you see it?"
She had the grace to look ashamed.
"Take the yacht, my dear," she said, kindly, "and if the expense is
too great for your income, you can draw on me for what you like. Can't
you stand a little teasing from your old aunt?"
"I will take the yacht, and pay for it," said French. "As for the
teasing, we seem to have different ideas about what is amusing."
"Then forgive me," she pleaded, and there were tears in her eyes, "and
be careful of yourself, my dear boy, in this dismal expedition. Take
plenty of furs, and beware of the cannibals."
She won a smile from him as he bent over her sofa to kiss her good-by,
but she reserved further comments upon his errantry for Bob.
"Quixotic nonsense!" she declared. "Was there ever a man so wise that
a woman couldn't make a fool of him?"