_To_
L. G. S. O.
[Illustration: "'DID YOU PUT _HIM_ IN THAT FRAME?'"]
I
For years--the best years of her life, for that matter, as she often
reflected in lonely moments--Miriam Challoner had been trying to prove
to her own satisfaction that her husband was no worse than the majority
of young men married to rich women, but she could never find the
arguments whereby she might arrive at the desired conclusion. It is not
to be wondered at, then, that eventually there came a day when the
information was brought to her that even in the gay and
ultra-fashionable world in which they moved people spoke of him as "that
mad Challoner," and were saying that he was going a pace that was
rapidly carrying him far beyond the horizon of anything like
respectability--going to the dogs, in truth, as fast as her money could
take him there.
Now Miriam Challoner was not one of those women who deceive themselves,
if not their friends, when they say that if ever they hear of their
husbands doing such-and-such-a-thing they know perfectly well what they
will do. It is true that, like them, she did nothing; nevertheless, she
could not be persuaded to discuss with any one the humiliating position
in which her husband had placed her.
In a way, this attitude of hers was unfortunate, for it was more or less
responsible for the note of melancholy cadence which crept into her
mind. And so it was that before very long she was dimly conscious of an
emotion quite unlike anything that she had hitherto experienced: all the
bitterness in her heart had given way to a sickening sensation that she,
as well as as he, had been tried in the matrimonial furnace and found
wanting. Somehow, she had fallen grievously in her own estimation!
And society's estimation? Illusions in that direction were hardly
possible; there, too, doubtless she would incur the loss of a certain
amount of consideration. And even the non-possession of a highly
imaginative temperament did not prevent her from fancying the expressive
shrugs, and "Oh, of course his wife is to blame," which, for the sake of
an inference that is obvious, would be voiced by more than one
impeccable dame of her acquaintance--as often as not superbly gullible
souls, whose eloquence increases in direct proportion to the world's
lack of belief in the fidelity of their liege lords.
Nor were comments of that kind the worst that she might expect! For, as
a penalty for belonging to a set which, to a greater degree, perhaps,
than any other, recognises the possibility of an up-to-date couple
having a mutually implied understanding that neither shall object to the
discreet--and more or less temporary--faithlessness of the other--she
knew that it would be well-nigh miraculous if some kindly disposed
persons did not go still further for an explanation of his conduct, and
point to her and her husband as a conspicuous example of such a precious
pair. But though her whole being rebelled at the mere thought that there
could be people who would regard her in such a light, she could not
bring herself to take decisive action of any kind. There was nothing
that could be said, she told herself, nothing that could be done--since
a most conscientious and pitiless self-analysis had failed to reveal any
wifely shortcoming--except to have faith that there were some of her
sex--not many, it is true, but still a few friends--who would continue
to believe her incapable of doing any of the things that so many others
did, for whom there was far less excuse than there would be for her.
But whatever were the opinions of the women, there was no disposition on
the part of the men to hold her in any way responsible for his
behaviour. Far from it. And in a favourite corner of an exclusive club,
when the names of fair ladies--mostly of the stage--were bandied about
as figuring in young Challoner's escapades, old cronies of his father,
between sips of their Scotch and sodas, were wont to boil over with
contemptuous indignation and explosively give thanks to the gods for
willing that their lovable, old-time friend should not live to see the
confirmation of his fears. And how well they recalled those fears!
For notwithstanding his very moderate circumstances, the elder Challoner
had been that rarest of mortals--a man blissfully content with his lot
in life, and, one who seldom missed an opportunity to deplore the
insatiable craze of the rich for more riches, forever protesting that
blatant commercialism, haste and artificiality were the gods of the
present day; and no picture in their gallery of lasting impressions
stood out more vividly than the one in which, surrounded by a group of
young fellows, who had "got him going," as they phrased it, he was
declaiming against--what was merely his pet hobby in another form--the
egregious folly of poor young men seeking riches through marriage.
"... and I, young gentlemen," he would conclude with great earnestness,
"will always maintain that such a union will make a man lose all
incentive to work out what the good Lord has put in him."
Little wonder, then, that on the announcement that a marriage had been
"arranged" between Challoner's son and a daughter of a man whose name
the world over was significant of fiscal potency, the day bid fair to be
a memorable one at the club, his contemporaries preparing to make merry
at the old fellow's expense. But in a sense his "showing up" there had
been a disappointment; one look at the face, which showed symptoms of
distress and a desire to be reassured, was sufficient to cause the
banter to die in their hearts before it had reached their lips.
It soon came out that there had been a scene between father and son.
These two, for many years, had been the only members of the family; and
probably better than any one in the world the father had known the son's
weaknesses: hypersensitive to new influences, vanity and inability to
say no; and he had pointed out to him the many disadvantages--dangers to
one of his temperament--which he could see in such an alliance. To the
father's thinking, the boy would have no home--only establishments,
yachts, racing-stables and motor-cars; and he had contended that there
were far more desirable things in life than the possession of
these--from which it can easily be surmised that J. Lawrence Challoner,
senior, was a man little in sympathy with the ideas of modern
fashionable society.
Now to appreciate the mental anguish of another organism--even if that
organism is one's own parent--is never an easy matter; and of all men,
the modern lover is apt to be the last to succumb to an argument that
predicts a blighted future because of an intention to marry an heiress.
And so it was only natural that Lawrence should have regarded his father
as an old fogy, have resented his warnings and have replied that he was
competent to look after his own affairs and that, anyhow, the consent of
the girl's parents had been obtained and no interference was possible.
And with that the father's manner had completely changed: he had wished
the boy the best of luck; sent him away happy. Obviously, all this was
years ago; parents on both sides had passed away; and yet things had
turned out pretty much as the old man had dreaded. Indeed, matters had
come to this pass: how long this indulgent wife would continue to keep
her eyes shut to her husband making ducks and drakes of her fortune, and
why she did it, were questions which interested all who knew this
couple, but which Challoner apparently thought wholly unnecessary to ask
himself.
An automobile--Mrs. Challoner's automobile--was largely instrumental in
bringing matters to a climax. As trouble-makers the "machines" rank
high; in fact, there are moments when it would seem as if the arch-fiend
himself were in them; otherwise, how account for the mysterious
influence that makes people lose command of themselves once they are in
command of them; that leads astray, as some one has said, the great and
the good as well as those of lesser clay; that produces the
extraordinary state of mind that rejoices in riding rough-shod over the
rights and feelings of others; while one and all claim to recognise his
handicraft in the ingenuity which the "machines" display in selecting
the most inopportune times and least accessible places for an exhibition
of their mechanical ailments.
But be that as it may, in this particular instance the devil was not
lurking in, tampering with the improvements and refinements of detail in
the big, red body of Mrs. Challoner's Mastodon model--no, it was not
with the machine that he was concerned, but with the man himself,
befuddling whatever brains he had left; and the devil it was and no
other that incited Challoner to leave a certain establishment,--about
which we shall have something to say later on,--take the wheel from the
chauffeur and embark on a sensational, bacchic career up the Avenue at
an hour when the view of that fashionable thoroughfare through the
silken, shimmery curtains falling over a window in a corner house facing
the Park was too alluring not to be irresistible.
And so it came about that the comments on the passing throng made by two
women, indulging in afternoon tea in Mrs. Challoner's white and gold
drawing-room, were interrupted in a manner that was as unexpected as it
was embarrassing.
"Look, Miriam!" Shirley Bloodgood was saying to her hostess, apropos of
a woman passing by whom they both knew, "did you ever see anything more
atrocious than that gown?"
The other smiled her appreciation; and again the voluble Miss Bloodgood
went on:--
"And do look at the Heath girls in those huge hats--what frights!"
But whatever were her thoughts on the subject, Miriam Challoner did not
answer, for precisely at that moment her attention was attracted by
something strangely familiar in an unusually insolent and insistent
honking of a motor-horn, which was causing a wave of apprehension to
sweep down the long line of vehicles. And a moment later they saw that
chauffeurs were rudely interrupting the purring of automobiles lazing
over their allotted miles; that drivers were swerving their horses into
closer relations with the curb; that hardly had these attained a
position of comparative safety than there flashed by them and fetched up
in front of Mrs. Challoner's house a big machine, which a distinguished
though dissipated looking man had been recklessly forcing with utter
disregard of the right of way, a performance which called forth a volley
of expletives not only from cabbies singularly unappreciative of his
dexterity in executing perilously close shaves, but likewise from angry
pedestrians, who had halted on hearing the groan with which the
machinery protested his sudden braking.
For a moment that seemed minutes the atmosphere in the drawing-room was
electric, the tension almost unbearable, for it was impossible for
either of the women to doubt that the other saw what she had seen: the
condition that the man was in who had leaped from the car and was now
crossing the sidewalk apparently oblivious to the exclamations of wonder
and lament that he had escaped authoritative vigilance.
Rising quickly, Shirley Bloodgood put out her hand. "Good-bye--thank you
so much, Miriam!" There was an amazement of question in the eyes that
involuntarily sought those of her friend; but her one thought was to
escape what she wisely interpreted as an oncoming scene between husband
and wife.
But though there was a mist before her eyes, a surging in her ears, not
a muscle of Miriam Challoner's face moved; and she permitted the girl
before her to perceive no emotion other than gentle surprise.
"Surely, my dear, you're not going?--What?--So soon?"
Conventional though they were, there could be no mistaking the tone of
sincerity in Mrs. Challoner's words as she took the girl's hand in both
of hers with an affectionate movement. Indeed, for the barest fraction
of a second it almost succeeded in convincing Shirley that the
distressing incident of the motor had entirely escaped her; at any rate,
it augmented the doubt whether the woman before her had even an inkling
of the stories in circulation concerning the doings of her husband. Nor
was such a conclusion at all illogical. Shirley Bloodgood could recall
not a word that Miriam Challoner had ever uttered during all the years
of her married life, nor a look that could be construed as implying a
knowledge of his dissipations; on the contrary, there had been times
when the girl had been so exasperated over the wife's outspoken
admiration for qualities in the man which Shirley knew that he did not
possess, that she had been sorely tempted to enlighten her friend as to
his escapades. But gratifying as was the thought of the wife's possible
ignorance, it by no means lessened the necessity of a hasty departure on
Shirley's part; and somewhat confusedly but affectionately she kissed
her hostess good-bye.
"Oh, my dear Miriam, but I must--your tea is perfectly delicious though.
If only I had time...." Shirley stopped abruptly; her endeavour to
conceal her anxiety to be gone was making her uncertain of her words.
"One's tea, like one's friends, my dear, should be of the best," Miriam
returned with a sweet smile. And apparently thinking of nothing but her
somewhat insipid little compliment, she laughed pleasantly, passed her
arm lovingly round the girl's waist, and accompanied her to the door of
the drawing-room.
Miriam's smile and manner touched Shirley deeply. The inclination to
offer words of comfort was strong in this tall, rangy girl, whose every
movement was as graceful as it was impulsive. How sweet, how easy it
would be, she thought, if Miriam would only give a hint that they would
be welcome. But like many another woman, Miriam Challoner had schooled
herself to face the world with a smile; had learned that to lay bare
one's heart, even to one's friends, is to court surprise, perhaps
ridicule; and that to dissimulate though it kills is to play well one's
part; and she gave no sign.
On reaching the hall below, Shirley was able to see through the open
door Challoner ascending swiftly but uncertainly the grey, stone steps.
With a quick movement she drew to one side while he sullenly pushed by
his wife's young butler, Stevens, and began to stumble up the
soft-carpeted, wide stairway; then, unnoticed and with a sigh of relief,
she fled out into the street.
Left rather abruptly alone, Mrs. Challoner went back into the
drawing-room, and resting her arms on the mantel, bowed her head upon
them and gave way to the misery of her reflections. It was not the first
time, to be sure, that Lawrence had returned in this condition, but
heretofore he had been gracious enough to have had it occur at night;
and she had cherished the belief that she was his only witness. Now,
there was an element connected with his home-coming that was still
harder to bear: the sympathy which pleaded for recognition on the face
of her friend, and which told more plainly than words that she had seen
all, understood all. Presently, lifting her head, she crossed the room
and seated herself; then raising her hands she let them drop
despairingly along the arms of the chair while the unbidden tears
overflowed. In this position she remained until the sound of footsteps
warned her of her husband's approach; then a moment of struggle for
self-control; a brushing away of tears, and finally, rising, she left
her seat for one behind the tea-table. And it was in this unquestioned
point of vantage, apparently cool and collected, in the act of pouring
herself out a cup of tea, that Challoner's gaze first rested upon his
wife as, lurching in his walk but his eyes holding a purpose, he came
into her presence.
"Well, Miriam, here I am ... I've come home, you see!" he blurted out in
a don't-care-what-happens sort of manner, and without waiting for an
answer slumped into a chair and added sneeringly: "You're not
over-demonstrative, my dear!"
Mrs. Challoner winced. During the long days and nights of suspense and
wonder as to his whereabouts, she had solaced herself with inventing
plausible excuses for his absence; how useless they were, his looks,
manner, and more than anything else the intonation of his voice now
showed; she dared not trust herself to speak lest she should give way to
foolish invective.
Challoner came to the point at once.
"Miriam, I must have some money!" It was not a request; it was a
command.
Up to this time the young wife had not lifted her eyes from the tea-cup
in her hand. She was a woman with brown eyes and very attractive brown
hair, but upon the face that still should have held the freshness of
youth deep lines were beginning to appear. Pretty she was, in a way,
though she had never been beautiful; and yet there was something that
spelt beauty in the brown eyes which she now fixed upon him.
"For three days you have been away--where have you been?" The necessity
for saying something alone was responsible for the question. Many days
afterward in reviewing the painful scene, she was positive that she had
not inquired nor had he volunteered the information.
"I don't know," he answered dully, half-truthfully. "All I know is that
I landed at Cradlebaugh's." And after a moment, noting the look of
mystification on her face, he snapped out: "Cradlebaugh's gambling
rooms--gambling rooms, there--now you know."
With the last words he rose excitedly, stalked over to a table and smote
it with his clenched hand. "I tell you I must have some money!"
Miriam Challoner would not have been human if again bitter words had not
risen to her lips. But one quick glance at the puffy face, the
red-rimmed eyes was sufficient to warn her of the danger of exciting his
anger while in his present condition; and instead she merely inclined
her head--an action which instantly caused hope to surge into the eyes
of Challoner.
"I want--I must have a thousand dollars." Here again, the attitude was
not that of a suppliant; in the demand was more of the highwayman than
of the beggar.
Mrs. Challoner's dark eyes met those of the man, held them steady; then
she said firmly, decisively:--
"Lawrence, much as it hurts me to refuse you, I feel that I must. It is
for your own good." The soft gown that clung to her figure seemed to
take more rigid lines as she drew herself up and went on with: "I can
give you nothing more--this sort of thing has gone quite far enough."
For an instant Challoner was stunned. His wife had never looked at him
like that; there was something in the catch of her breath, too, as she
ended, that meant denial, he was certain. But he took courage and
renewed his attack; and meeting with no success, he turned to imploring,
begging for the money. Did she not know that he would not ask her if he
did not _have_ to have it? Women never could understand why men had to
have money--she didn't understand. If she would only let him have the
money, he would pledge himself to mend his ways, anything--but he must
have money. When men had to have money, they _had_ to have it--that was
all there was to it. And then a violent irresistible impulse to be
perfectly truthful, to lay bare his mind before her, took hold of him;
and that mind was so warped, his need so desperate, that he came
perilously near to blurting out the real reason why he needed the money.
For an instant he actually thought that his wife would see, understand,
appreciate the reason as some of his male friends doubtless would.
"I'll tell you how it is, Miriam ..." he had begun, and then suddenly
stopped.
What was he about to do! Was there not something queer, something not
exactly right, in his telling Miriam about the other woman? After all,
that was the one thing in his life that he had never told her. She was
welcome to the rest, but that--she mustn't know that; and he ended by
pleading:--
"Surely, Miriam, you're not going to refuse me--come...."
"I am sorry, Lawrence, but I must." There was a sob in the refusal as
she turned away.
And still like a spoiled child the husband would not abandon his plea.
Besides, he had detected the sob. Once more his attitude underwent a
change: he moved toward her, holding out his arms as though to gather
her into them. It was a charm that always worked with Miriam; it would
now, he told himself.
But Challoner was doomed to disappointment. It was the last touch needed
to complete her humiliation; and waving him back, she cried:--
"Laurie, Laurie, anything but that!" There was a flood of tears behind
her look of pain.
"But I must ... Cradlebaugh...." he came to a helpless pause.