THE week passed. No cable came from Mr. Forbes. His wife did
not admit further disquiet. She knew his pride. He would come, but not
with the appearance of hastening to her at the first excuse.
She went out as much as she could--filled every moment. A part of the
trousseau arrived, and there were many things to be bought in London.
She needed all the distraction she could devise. Impatience and
longing, regret and loneliness crouched at the four corners of her
mind, ready to spring the moment her will relaxed. The gloomy skies
contributed their quota. She was home-sick for the blue and white, the
electric atmosphere of New York. Nevertheless, when she was surrounded
by admirers, during the hours wherein she was reminded that her haughty
little head was among the stars, she was content, and had no thought of
retreat.
The letter had left England on a Saturday. She reckoned that her
husband would not receive it until the following Monday week. Making
allowance for all delays, he could take the steamer that left New York
on Wednesday.
On the Wednesday of the week succeeding she remained in her rooms
all day. The time came and passed for the arrival of passengers by
the “Cunard” line; but her husband had a strong preference for the
“American,” and she had made up her mind not to expect him before a
quarter to nine in the evening--a slight break in the _St. Paul’s_
machinery had delayed its arrival several hours.
She was nervous and excited. Augusta left the hotel and declared that
she should not return until the “meeting was quite over.” For the last
week Mrs. Forbes had been haunted by visions of shipwreck, fire at
sea, and sudden death. In these last hours she walked the floor torn
by doubts of another nature. Suppose her husband would not forgive
her, was disgusted, embittered? She had every reason to think that she
had deep and intimate knowledge of him; but she knew that people had
lived together for forty years before some crook of Circumstance had
revealed the dormant but virile poison of their natures. Was bitter
pride her husband’s? For the first time she wished that she had never
seen the Duke of Bosworth--retreated before the ambitions of a lifetime
in detestation and terror. Every part of her concentrated into longing
for the man who had made the happiness of her life. She even wished
passionately that she had never had a daughter to come between them,
and with curious feminism loved the baby that was coming the more.
She went to the mirror and regarded herself anxiously. When in society,
excitement gave her all her old rich vital beauty, but the reaction
left her pale and dull. Would he find her faded? He had worshipped her
beauty, and she would rather have walked out from wealth into poverty
than have discovered a wrinkle or a grey hair. But she looked very
lovely. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling. Her warm soft hair
when hanging always enriched her beauty. She wore an Empire gown of
pale pink satin cut in a high square about the throat.
“Oh, I look pretty enough,” she thought. “If he would only come!”
For the twentieth time she went to the clock. It was a few minutes to
eight The train was due at twenty minutes past. He should be at the
hotel by a quarter to nine at latest.
The next hour was the longest of her life. She assured herself that if
there was such a result as retributive justice in this world it beat
upon her in a fiery rain during those crab-like moments. There was
nothing to momentarily relieve the tension, no seconds of expectation,
of hope. The roll of cabs in the street was incessant. The corridors of
the hotel were so thickly carpeted that she could not hear a foot-fall.
Her very hands shook, but she dared not take an anodyne lest she should
not be herself when he came.
She tried to recall the few quarrels of her engagement and their
perturbing effect. They were such pale wraiths before this agitation,
following years of intense living, and quicked with the full knowledge
of the great possession she may have tossed to Memory, that they
dissolved upon evocation. She sprang to her feet again to pace the
room. At that moment the door opened and her husband entered.
She had purposed to captivate him anew with her beauty, to shed several
tears, perhaps, but not enough to blister and inflame. She flew across
the room and flung herself about his neck and deluged his face with
tears, as she sobbed, and kissed him, and protested, and besought
forgiveness.
His face had been stern as he entered. Although the appeal of her
letter was irresistible, he had no intention of capitulating without
reserves; but no man that loved a woman could be proof against such an
outburst of feeling and affection, and in a moment he was pressing her
in his arms and kissing her.