Above the murmur of talk of his guests, Lorimer's voice rose, high and
clear, merry as the voice of a happy child.
"It's a great night for you, Arlt, the night of your life. Ladies and
ge'men, le's drink to Mr. Arlt."
"You've done it once, Lorimer," Thayer interposed. "Arlt will be getting
more than is good for him."
"And so will you," he might have added; but there seemed to him a
certain impossibility in imposing a check upon a man in his own house
and in the presence of his own guests.
Lorimer laughed out blithely.
"Ne' mind. Arlt can stand it; his head is level. B'sides, las' time, I
drank to Arlt the composer. This time, it's to Arlt the accompanist. He
hasn' any business to play a double role, if he can' stan' the double
applause. To the success of Mr. Otto Arlt!"
Thayer raised his glass and set it down again, untasted. As he glanced
across at Arlt with an explanatory smile, he caught the eyes of Beatrix
fixed upon him imploringly. It was evident that she was putting her hope
in him to end the scene; but for the once Thayer was ready to confess
himself beaten. The house and the champagne both were Lorimer's. Under
these conditions, he was powerless to act. Moreover, he felt a sudden
impatience with Beatrix for allowing the champagne in her own home, when
she had learned from months of bitter experience that a single glass
could render Lorimer totally untrustworthy. If this were the measure of
her influence for good, she might as well have married Lorimer in the
first place, without insisting upon those long months of probation. As
he had watched the progress of that merry supper in Arlt's honor, Thayer
had been distressed about Lorimer and about the scene which must
inevitably follow; but his distress had been as nothing in comparison
with his disappointment in Beatrix.
In reality, Beatrix had had no responsibility in the matter.
"I don't see any need of our having champagne, Sidney," she had said, on
the morning that they had first discussed the detail of the supper.
Lorimer had been in one of his old-time moods. Now he laughed a little.
"What a Puritan you are, Beatrix!" he said, as he bent caressingly over
her shoulder to read the completed list of guests.
"Not a Puritan," she urged; "but I would rather not have the champagne,
Sidney. It isn't at all necessary; we can get on perfectly well without
it."
"And a good deal better with it," he retorted, laughing. "Well, never
mind it now, dear girl. But what about a florist?"
And Beatrix, delighted at her easy victory, had allowed herself to be
led off into a consideration of the decorations for the table. She could
not be expected to foresee that, in giving the final orders for the
supper, Lorimer would include a generous allowance of champagne. Neither
could she have foreseen that one of the invitations would find its way
into the hands of Lloyd Avalons. Confronted suddenly by both the
champagne and Lloyd Avalons, Beatrix had faltered only for a moment.
Then she had rallied to meet the inevitable crisis so swiftly that no
one but Bobby Dane at her elbow had been aware of her momentary
weakness. Thayer had been at the other end of the room, and had missed
the instant of hesitation. By the time he had discovered the situation,
Beatrix had forced herself to meet it as a matter of course. She
faltered a second time, however, as she met the questioning glance which
Thayer gave her. She had learned to care for his good opinion; she knew
that now she was in danger of forfeiting it. Nevertheless, her loyalty
to her husband was paramount. Never by a spoken word had she implied to
Thayer that Lorimer was falling below her ideals. To-night, hurt as she
was by his deception, anxious as she was in regard to the outcome of the
episode, nevertheless she remained true to her usual careful reticence.
To a woman of Beatrix Lorimer's temper it was easier to bear unjust
blame than to demand just pity. And yet, as she recognized that the
facts were apparently all against her, she could not help hoping that
Thayer would suspend judgment until he had talked with Bobby Dane. Bobby
had seen the memoranda for the supper, and had advised her in regard to
some of the details. Not only was he the one person besides herself and
Lorimer who knew the whole truth; but he could invariably be relied upon
to tell the truth in its entirety.
As Lorimer had said, it was a great night for Arlt. His work had scored
a complete success, and he had been called twice before the audience to
receive in person his applause. Something in the simple overture had
caught the fancy of the orchestra, and they had played it with an
enthusiasm, had interpreted it with a dainty accuracy to Arlt's own mood
which would have won prompt recognition for a work of far less merit.
The critics were warm in their praises; but the audience, upon whom a
popular success depends far more than upon the professional leaders of
opinion, was in a mood to be expressed by no such temperate phrase. As
he lingered in the Lorimers' box, watching the young German come forward
to the footlights, Thayer was ready to predict a fair measure of lasting
popularity to his friend. The audience was most hospitable to him. It
now remained for the Lorimers' supper to set upon him the seal of social
approval. For Arlt's sake, Thayer devoutly hoped that the supper would
be a success. Under other conditions, he might have had his doubts. This
was the first time he had seen Lorimer for weeks; but the stories which
had drifted to his ears had not been reassuring. In Lorimer's own house,
however, there could be no danger. He felt that he could count upon
Beatrix to forestall that.
In the weeks since they had met, it seemed to him that Beatrix must have
grown more beautiful with each passing day. Beneath the perfect poise
of her manner, he could see an increasing gentleness, a sadness which
was under absolute control. She was as strong as ever, but less
self-reliant. Experience had taught her that she was powerless to fight
alone. In her worst battles, she had learned that she must rely upon
another; and Thayer, as he watched her, rejoiced that that other was
himself. His weeks of separation from her, of enforced forgetfulness,
had taught him a lesson which he had been loath to learn. Rather than be
outside her world, rather than be upon the same footing as all the other
inhabitants of that world, he would gladly endure a strain like that of
the past summer, would accept the place where fate had put him, as the
one man who could make more tolerable her own life with her husband. It
was not a dignified position; yet, for her sake, he believed that he
could fill it in a way which would add dignity to the lives of them
both. At least, he would do the best that was in him. He took no account
of the possibility that, within an hour, he would be balked in his
efforts by certain uninfringible laws of hospitality.
"Moreover," Lorimer went on, still in that unwonted high, clear voice;
"le's drink to Arlt's mother an' sister, Frau Arlt an' Fraulein Katarina
Arlt."
The sudden angry color blazed up in Arlt's cheeks, and he straightened
in his chair. Then he caught Thayer's eye, and with an effort he
controlled himself. The instant's by-play had caused Thayer to lose the
next words of his host; but Lorimer's laugh was ringing out with such
infectious mirth that the guests were laughing with him, although with
obvious reluctance to show their merriment.
Lorimer babbled on discursively.
"I knew 'em well. They were having har' times to get on, an' Arlt here
could n' begin to carry the load. It was killing him, an' so Thayer an'
I--"
"Let the rest go, Lorimer," Thayer broke in hastily, for now two
appealing faces were looking to him for help. "We know all about it."
Lorimer turned to him with an air of grave rebuke.
"You know, Thayer, for you were there. But the res' do' know. How could
they? They were n' there." He paused long enough to empty the glass
before him. Then he braced one hand against the edge of the table and
raised the other, as if to add emphasis to his words. "I was there, an'
you were there, an' Arlt was there. Nobody else was there. If they had
been, they'd know 'bout it, to-night. Plucky fellow, Arlt, an' he
d'serves his success. If 't had n' been for you an' me, Thayer, Arlt
would have gone under, though. No wond' Frau Arlt calls me _Lieb Sohn_.
If it had n' been for me, she would n' have had any _sohn_ 't all. With
me, there's pair of us."
He delivered himself of this long speech with an air of portentous
gravity. Then he turned away from Thayer and smiled benignly up the
table. Side by side at the farther end, Arlt and Beatrix seemed
powerless to take their eyes from his face. Lorimer caught the eye of
Beatrix and instantly his face lighted, as he kissed his hand to her.
"Supper's a gran' success, dear girl," he called gayly. "Ought to be,
cost 'nough, an' has been no end trouble; but it pays. People will know
wha' we think of Arlt now. He's geniush, 'n no mishtake; are n' you,
Arlt?"
"Bobby," Sally whispered; "I must go away, I can't bear this for another
minute."
Bobby nodded comprehendingly.
"Slip out, the next time he begins on Thayer. I think you can do it, and
you oughtn't to stay. I wish the others would go, too."
"They may follow me. I would break it up, if I dared; but--Bobby, I'm
afraid."
"So am I," Bobby growled through his shut teeth. "Come back in the
morning, Sally. Beatrix may need you. I'd go with you now; but I dare
not leave things."
But Lorimer's eye was upon them.
"Wha' now, Sally?" he asked jovially. "Bobby been making a bad pun, that
you look so savage?"
Sally hesitated. For one instant, she eyed her host as if he had been a
scorpion that had crawled across her path. Then she controlled herself,
and her voice took on its customary mocking drawl.
"No; I only feel savage because I know you must have set the clocks
ahead. Just see! It is high time we all were going home, and you know I
always hate to start."
Lorimer glanced at the clock on the mantel. Then he turned to the man
behind his chair.
"Stop tha' clock!" he commanded. "We can' have anybody talk 'bout going
home yet. Night's only jus' begun, an' there's quarts more champagne.
Beatrix did n' wan' us to have any; but I don' believe in being stingy."
Sally had already risen, and one or two other women, casting furtive,
apologetic glances towards Beatrix, were hurriedly following Sally's
example. In the slight confusion, it seemed to Thayer that his chance
had come, and he took it. Unfortunately, however, for the once he had
reckoned without his man. He had kept careful count of the glasses which
Lorimer had emptied since he had sat down at the table, and he knew that
the danger limit was not far distant. In fact, the danger limit was
already passed. Thayer had had no means of taking into account the
glasses which Lorimer had slyly emptied, during his short absence from
the room before they had gone to the table. The mischief was already
done. The slightest shock which could disturb Lorimer's present mood
would be sufficient to destroy his whole mental balance past any
possibility of restoration. Thayer's error in judgment promptly
furnished the shock.
Lorimer had turned again to the butler at the back of his chair.
"Fill thish up," he demanded, as he pointed to his glass.
With a swift gesture, Thayer caught the man's attention, and shook his
head. The man hesitated, halting between two masters. The one paid him
his wages; the other commanded his entire respect, and it was not easy
for him to choose the one whom he should obey.
"Fill thish up, I shay!" Lorimer's voice was thicker, his accent
imperious.
Swiftly the old butler glanced at Thayer as if for instructions, and
Thayer again shook his head. This time, Lorimer saw the signal. The next
instant, his empty glass was flying straight in the direction of
Thayer's face.
There was a frightened outcry from the women; but Thayer swerved
slightly to one side, and the glass crashed harmlessly against the
mantel. There followed the tinkle of the falling pieces, then a
stillness so profound that from one end to the other of the long room
Lorimer's heavy breathing was distinctly audible. The impending crisis
seemed to paralyze the guests. Those who had risen, stood motionless in
their places; the others made no effort to rise. They remained there
together, silent, passive, tense, with Lorimer facing them all, like a
savage beast at bay.
[Illustration: "Beatrix still sat at the disordered table"]
The interval, seemingly so endless, lasted only for a moment. Then, with
a beast-like snarl, Lorimer sprang up, overturning his chair, and hurled
himself straight upon Thayer. Strong as he was, Thayer tottered before
the blow, for the strength of Lorimer just then was far beyond the
human. Drink-crazed and brutalized, he had the fierce power of a
maddened brute. There was a swift, sharp struggle, broken by strange,
inarticulate cries, making the women hide their faces and cram their
fingers into their ears to shut out sight and sound. Then the struggle
grew still again, and they heard Thayer's steady voice saying,--
"I think he is quiet now. Dane, will you help me to carry him to his
room?"
One by one, the terrified guests slank away. There were no good-nights
scarcely a whispered word in the dressing-rooms upstairs. At length,
they were all gone, and the house was still. The lights from the open
windows glared out across the night, and the rooms inside were heavy
with the fragrance of roses and the smell of champagne. Upstairs in
Lorimer's room, Thayer and Bobby Dane were watching the lethargic sleep
which had fallen upon their host, and counting the moments until Arlt
could bring the doctor back with him. Downstairs, alone in the abandoned
dining-room, Beatrix still sat at the disordered table, with her head
bowed forward upon her clasped hands.