Eden had but recently returned to town and the claims of mantua-makers
and milliners were oppressive. They took her time, they came to her in
the morning, and she, with the courtesy of kings, returned the visit in
the afternoon. But to little purpose. They were vexatious people, she
discovered. They deceived her wantonly. They promised and did not
fulfill. The live-long day they had irritated her, they had obtained her
confidence by false pretences, and now, after a round of interviews each
more profitless than the last, on reaching her house the dust of shops
was on her mantle, and she could have gone in a corner and sworn.
Moreover it was late, dinner would presently be served. Arnswald, she
learned, had already arrived, he was in the parlor with her husband, and
as she hurried to her room she told herself that she would have to dress
in haste, an operation which to her was always fertile in annoyance. An
entire hour was never too much. But her maid was agile, dexterous of
hand, and before the clock marked seven she was fully equipped, arrayed
for dinner and the opera as well.
On leaving the room, Eden left her vexation behind her. It had been
fleeting and inoffensive as the anger of a canary. And now, on
descending the stairs, she was in great good spirits again, the crimes
of mantua-makers and milliners were forgotten, and she prepared to meet
her husband and her guest. Half-way on her journey to the drawing-room,
however, she discovered that she was empty-handed; she had omitted to
take a fan and she called to her maid to bring her one. And as she
called the front door-bell rang. She hesitated a second, and called
again. But presumably the maid did not hear. Thereupon Eden re-ascended
the stairs and went back to her room.
The maid was busying herself in a closet and the fan was on the table;
Eden picked it up, and as she did so she noticed that one of the sticks
was broken. It took several minutes to find another which suited her
gown, and when she again descended the stair some little time had
intervened.
On reaching the parlor she drew the portiere aside and peered into the
room. At the furthermost end stood Arnswald, his back turned to her, and
near him in a low arm-chair was her husband. He seemed to be reading
something, and it was evident that her entrance had been unobserved
either by him or by his guest.
For a second's space Eden stood very still. There was much of the child
in her nature, and during that second she meditated on the feasibility
of giving them both some little surprise. Then at once, as though
impelled by invisible springs, she crossed the room very swiftly, very
noiselessly, her fan and the fold of her dress in one hand, the other
free for mischief, and just when she reached the chair in which her
husband sat, she bent over him, from his unwarned fingers she snatched a
note, and with a rippling laugh that was like the shiver of sound on the
strings of a guitar, she waved it exultingly in the air.
Mr. Usselex looked up at once, but he had looked too late; the note had
gone from him. He started, he made a movement to repossess himself of
it, but Eden, with the ripple still in her voice, stepped back, laughed
again, and nodded to Arnswald, who had turned and bowed. "What is it?"
she cried; "what have you two been concocting? No, you don't," she
continued. Her voice was unsteady with merriment, her eyes wickedly
jubilant. Usselex had made another attempt to recapture the letter, and
flaunting it, Tantalus-fashion, above her head, she defied and eluded
him, gliding backwards, her head held like a swan's, a trifle to one
side. "No, you don't," she repeated, and still the laughter rippled from
her.
"Eden!" her husband expostulated, "Eden--"
"You shall not have it, sir; you shall not." And with a pirouette she
fluttered yet further away, the bit of paper held daintily and aloft
between forefinger and thumb. "Tell me this instant what you have been
doing all day. There, you needn't look at Mr. Arnswald. He won't help
you. Will you, Mr. Arnswald? Of course you won't."
Usselex, conscious of the futility of pursuit, made no further effort.
In his face was an anxiety which his fair tormentor did not see. Once he
turned to Arnswald, and Arnswald gave him an answering glance, and once
his lips moved, but whatever he may have intended to say the words must
have stuck in his throat. And Eden, woman-like, seeing that she was no
longer pursued, advanced to a spot just beyond his reach, where she
hovered tauntingly, yet wary of his slightest movement and prepared at
the first suspicion of reprisal to spread her wings in flight.
"And who do you suppose was here at lunch to-day? You must guess or you
shan't have your letter back. I'll give you just one minute. Oh! I saw
Laura Manhattan at Fantasia's. Don't forget that we are to dine with her
to-morrow. She came in to row about a dress. I was rowing, too. You have
no idea what a day I have had. You will have to give Fantasia a talking
to. Look at the frippery I have on. And she promised that I should have
something for to-night. There ought to be some punishment for such
people. Don't you think so, Mr. Arnswald? When people in Wall Street
don't keep their promises, they are put in jail, aren't they? Well, jail
is too good for that horrid old French-woman of a dressmaker, she ought
to have the thumb-screws, the rack, and the hot side of the fagot. I
will never believe her again, no, not even when I know she is telling
the truth. She is the most ornamental liar I ever encountered. It is my
opinion she would rather lie than not. Laura told me--but here, the
minute's up--you must guess, you must guess rightly, and you can only
guess once."
And Eden waved the letter again and laughed in her husband's beard.
The gown which she wore, and which she had characterized as frippery,
was an artful combination of tulle and of silk; it was colorless, yet
silvery, and in it Eden, bare of arm and of neck, looked a water nymph
garmented in sheen and foam. From her hair came an odor of distant
oases. In her eyes were evocations of summer, and beneath them, on her
cheeks and on the lobes of her ears, health had placed its token in
pink. The corners of her mouth were upraised like the ends of the Greek
bow, and now that she was laughing her lips suggested a red fruit cut
in twain. She was the personification of caprice, adorably constructed,
and constructed to be adored. Arnswald evidently found her appearance
alluring, for his eyes followed her every movement.
"Hurry up," she continued, as merrily as before; "the minute's gone."
Usselex may have been annoyed, but he affected to enter into the jest.
"Your father--" he hazarded, and stretched his hand for the note.
But Eden again retreated. "You have lost," she cried; "no one was here."
And finding herself at a safe distance, "I am a better guesser than
you," she added, "I can tell what is in this letter without reading it.
Now answer me, what will you give me if I do? What ought he to give me,
Mr. Arnswald? Prompt him, can't you? I have never seen anyone so
stupid."
"Give it to me, Eden; you shall make your own terms----"
"Ah! you capitulate, do you? It's too late! It's too late!" she repeated
in ringing crescendo. "You ought to have guessed;" and for greater
safety she held the letter behind her. "It's about stocks, Kansas-back
bonds, seven sights offered and nothing bid--I have guessed right, have
I not?"
"Eden--"
"Answer me; I have guessed right, I know I have." And laughing still,
she whisked the letter from behind her and held it to her eyes. "Why,
it's from a woman," she cried. "What is this? 'You have filled my life
with living springs.' Whose life have you filled?"
The merriment had deserted her lips, the color had gone from her cheeks.
The hand which held the letter fell with it to her side. In her face was
the contraction of pain. She looked at her husband. "Whose life is it
that you have filled?" she asked, and her voice, that had rippled with
laughter a moment before, became suddenly chill and subdued.
In the doorway before her the butler appeared in silent announcement
that dinner was served.
Arnswald made a step forward. "The letter is mine, Mrs. Usselex," he
said, "I--"
"Oh," she murmured, with a sigh that might have been accounted one of
relief. "Oh, it is yours, is it?" And eying him inquisitorially for a
second's space, she placed the letter in his hand.
"We may as well go in to dinner," she added at once, and with a glance
at her husband she led the way.