FRAUD
At Gosnold House that day, in an airy dining-room from which sunlight
was jealously excluded by Venetian blinds at every long, wide window,
creating an oasis of cool twilight in the arid heart of day, ten
persons sat at luncheon--a meal of few and simple courses, but
admirably ordered and served upon a clothless expanse of dark
mahogany, relieved at each place by little squares of lace and fine
linen, and in the center by a great, brazen bowl of vivid roses.
In this strange atmosphere the outsider maintained a covertly watchful
silence (which, if rarely interrupted, was altogether of her own
election) and was happily guiltless of any positive fault; long
proscription to the social hinterland of dingy boarding-houses, smug
quick-lunch rooms, and casual studio feeding had not affected her nice
feeling for the sensible thing at table. She possessed, furthermore,
in full measure that amazing adaptability which seems to be innate
with most American women of any walk in life; whatever she might
lack to her detriment or embarrassment she was quick to mark, learn,
assimilate, and make as much her own as if she had never been without
it.
And then--for in spite of reassurances persistently iterated by Mrs.
Standish, the news from New York troubled her
profoundly--preoccupation largely counteracted self-consciousness
through those first few dreaded moments of Sally's modest social
debut.
The men on either side of her she found severally, if quite amiably,
agreeable to indulge her reticence. Savage, for one, was secretly, she
guessed, quite as much disconcerted by the reported contretemps in
town; but he dissembled well, with a show of whimsical exasperation
because of this emergency that tore him so soon away from both Gosnold
House and his other neighbour at table, a Mrs. Artemas--a spirited,
mercurial creature, not over-handsome of face, but wonderfully smart
in dress and gesture, superbly stayed and well aware of it; a dark,
fine woman who recognised the rivalry latent in Sally's dark looks
without dismay--as Sally conceded she might well.
On her other hand sat a handsome, well-bred boy of eighteen or so, one
of the tennis four, answering to the name of Bob--evidently a cheerful
soul, but at ease in the persuasion that comparative children should
be seen and so forth. His partner of the courts sat next
him--name, Babs--a frank-eyed, wholesome girl, perhaps a year his
senior. Their surnames did not transpire, but they impressed Sally,
and correctly, as unrelated save in community of unsentimental
interests. The other players were not present.
Aside from these, the faces strange to her were those of a Miss Pride
and Messrs. Lyttleton and Trego.
The last-named impressed her as a trifle ill at ease, possibly because
of the blandishments of Mrs. Artemas, who had openly singled him out
to be her special prey, and discovered an attitude of proprietorship
to which he could not be said to respond with the ardour of a
passionate, impulsive nature. A youngish man, with a heavy body, a bit
ungainly in carriage, Mr. Trego had a square-jawed face with
heavy-lidded, tranquil eyes. When circumstances demanded, he seemed
capable of expressing himself simply and to the point, with a
sure-footed if crushing wit. In white flannels his broad-shouldered
bulk dwarfed the other men to insignificance.
Mr. Lyttleton--assigned to entertain his hostess, and (or Mrs. Gosnold
flattered him) scoring heavily in that office--was as slenderly
elegant and extreme a gallant as one may hope to encounter between
magazine covers. He had an indisputable air, a way with him, the eye
of a killer; if he perhaps fancied himself a trace too
fervently, something subtle in his bearing toward Mrs. Standish
fostered the suspicion that he was almost fearfully sensible of the
charms of that lady.
Miss Pride, on Mrs. Gosnold's other hand, was a wiry roan virgin who
talked too much but seldom stupidly, exhibited a powerful virtuosity
in strange gestures, and pointedly designated herself as a "spin"
(diminutive for spinster) apparently deriving from this conceit an
amusement esoteric to her audience. Similarly, she indulged a
mettlesome fancy for referring to her hostess as "dear Abigail." Her
own maiden name was eventually disclosed as Mercedes--pronounced, by
request, Mar-say-daze.
From her alone Sally was conscious at the very outset of their
acquaintance of a certain frigidity--as one may who approaches an
open window in the winter unawares. And it was some time before she
discovered that Miss Pride accounted her a rival, thanks to a
cherished delusion, wholly of independent inspiration, that dear
Abigail was a forlorn widow-woman in sore want of some thoroughly
unselfish friend--somebody whose devotion could not possibly be
thought mercenary--somebody very much like Mercedes Pride, Spin.
The table talk was so much concerned with the sensation of the hour,
the burglary, that Sally grew quickly indifferent to the topic, and
thus was able to appreciate Savage's mental dexterity in
discussing it with apparent candour, but without once verging upon any
statement or admission that might count against the interests of his
sister. He seemed wholly unconstrained, but the truth was not in him.
Or, if it were, it was in on a life sentence.
The consensus pronounced Mrs. Standish a very fortunate woman to be so
thoroughly protected by insurance, and this the lucky victim indorsed
with outspoken complacence, even to the extent of a semiserious
admission that she almost hoped the police would fail to recover the
plunder. For while many items of the stolen property, of course, were
priceless, things not to be duplicated, things (with a pensive sigh)
inexpressibly endeared to one through associations, she couldn't deny
(more brightly again) it would be rather a lark to get all that money
and go shopping to replenish her treasure-chests from the most famous
jewellers of the three capitals.
This aspect of the case made Mrs. Artemas frankly envious. "How
perfectly ripping!" she declared. "I'm almost tempted to hire a
burglar of my own!"
"And then," Lyttleton observed profoundly, "if one isn't in too great
a hurry--there's no telling--one may run across the lost things in
odd corners and buy them back for a song or so. Anne Warridge did,
when they looted her Southampton place, some time ago. Remember
the year 'motor-car pirates' terrorized Long Island? Well, long after
everything was settled and the insurance people had paid up, Anne
unearthed several of her best pieces in the shops of bogus Parisian
antiquaries, and bought them back at bargain rates."
"It sounds like a sin to me," Savage commented.
"But I call you all to witness that, if anything like that happens in
this family, I hereby declare in on the profits. It's worth something,
this trip to town--and nobody sorry to see me go!"
After luncheon the party dispersed without formality. Mrs. Artemas
vanished bodily, Mrs. Standish in the car with her brother to see him
off; Bob and Babs murmured incoherently about a boat, and disappeared
forthwith; and Lyttleton, pleading overdue correspondence, Trego was
snapped up for auction bridge by Mrs. Gosnold and Miss Pride, Sally
being elected to fourth place as one whose defective education must be
promptly remedied, lest the roof fall in.
She found it very pleasant, playing on a breeze-fanned veranda that
overlooked the terrace and harbour, and proved a tolerably apt pupil.
A very little practice evoked helpful memories of whist-lore that she
had thought completely atrophied by long disuse, and she was aided
besides by a strong infusion in her mentality of that mysterious
faculty we call card-sense. Before the end of the second rubber
she was playing a game that won the outspoken approval of Trego and
Mrs. Gosnold, and certainly compared well with Miss Pride's, in spite
of the undying infatuation for auction professed by dear Abigail's one
true friend.
It was noteworthy that dear Abigail seemed to have no interests of any
character that were not passionately indorsed by her faithful
Mercedes.
Pondering this matter, Sally found time to wonder that Mercedes had
not been deemed a sufficiently vigilant protector for the poor rich
widow; it was her notion that Mercedes missed few bets.
A circumstance which Sally herself had overlooked turned out to be the
tacit understanding on which the game had been made up; and when, at
the conclusion of the third rubber, Mr. Trego summed up the score,
then calmly presented her with a twenty-dollar bill and some loose
silver--Mercedes with stoic countenance performing the same painful
operation on her own purse in favour of dear Abigail--the girl was
overcome with consternation.
"But--no!" she protested, and blushed. "We weren't playing for money,
surely!"
"Of course we were!" Miss Pride snapped, with the more spirit since
Sally's stupidity supplied an unexpected outlet. "I never could see
the amusement in playing cards without a trifling stake--though
I always do say five cents a point is too much for a friendly game."
"It's our custom," Mrs. Gosnold smiled serenely. "You haven't
conscientious scruples about playing for money, I hope?"
"Oh, no; but"--Sally couldn't, simply couldn't confess her penniless
condition before Miss Pride and Mr. Trego--"but I didn't understand."
"That's all right," Trego insisted. "You won it fairly, and it wasn't
all beginners' luck, either. It was good playing; some of your
inferences were as sound as any I ever noticed."
"It really doesn't seem right," Sally demurred.
None the less she could not well refuse the money.
"I must have my revenge!" Miss Pride announced briskly, that
expression being sanctioned by convention. "To-night, dear Abigail? Or
would you like another rubber now?"
Mrs. Gosnold shook her head and laughed. "No, thank you; I've had
enough for one afternoon, and I'm sleepy besides." She thrust back her
chair and rose. "If you haven't tried the view from the terrace, Miss
Manwaring, I'm sure you'll find it worth while. And let your
ill-gotten gains rest lightly on your conscience; put them in the
war-chest against the rainy day that's sure to dawn for even the best
players. I myself play a rather conservative game, you'll find, but
there are times when for days on end I can't seem to get a hand
much better than a yarborough."
"Do you," Sally faltered, timidly appreciating the impertinence, "do
you lose very much?"
"I? No fear!" Mrs. Gosnold laughed again. "It amuses me to keep a
bridge account, and there's seldom a year when it fails to show a
credit balance of at least a thousand."
If Sally's bewilderment was only the deeper for this information, she
was sensible enough to hold her tongue.
Why need Mrs. Standish deliberately have uttered so monumental a
falsehood about the losses of her aunt at cards? She might, of course,
be simply and sincerely mistaken, misled by over-solicitude for a
well-beloved kinswoman.
On the other hand, the gesture of Adele Standish was not that of a
woman easily deceived.
Thus the puzzle swung full circle.
"Mind if I show you the way, Miss Manwaring?"
"Oh, no!" Sally started from her abstraction to find Trego had
lingered, and, smiling, turned to the steps that led down to the
terrace. "I'll be very glad . . ."
But the truth was that she was not glad of this unsolicited company;
she wanted uninterrupted opportunity to think things over;
furthermore, she thought the sheer weight and masculine force of
Trego's personality less ingratiating than another's--Savage's, for
instance, however shallow, was all ways amusing--or Lyttleton's, with
his flashing insouciant smile, his easy grace and utter repose of
manner.
But this Mr. Trego, swinging ponderously by her side down the terrace
walks, maintaining what was doubtless intended as a civil silence but
what achieved only oppressiveness, of a sudden inspired a sharp
impression that he would prove a man easy to dislike intensely--the
sort of man who is capable of inspiring fear and makes enemies without
any perceptible difficulty.
And if that were so--if, as it seemed, she had already, intuitively,
acquired a distaste for Mr. Trego--how could she at once retain her
self-respect and his money--money which she had won in defiance of the
rules of fair play?
It stuck in her fist, a hard little wad of silver wrapped in the bill;
nearly twenty-one dollars, the equivalent of three weeks' pay for
drudgery, the winnings of an idle hour, the increment of false
pretences.
"There's your view," Trego's voice broke upon the reverie. "Pretty
fine, isn't it?"
They paused in a corner of the terrace, where a low stone wall, grey,
weathered and lichened, fenced the brow of the cliff; and Sally's
glance compassed a panorama of sea and sky and rocky headlands,
with little appreciation of its wild, exquisite beauty.
She uttered an absent-minded "Yes," hesitated, plunged boldly: "Mr.
Trego, I do wish you'd let me give back this money!"
His slowness in replying moved her to seek an answer in his face. He
was unquestionably sifting his surprise for some excuse for her
extraordinary request; a deep gravity informed his heavy-lidded eyes
that were keen with an intelligence far more alert than she had
previously credited.
He said deliberately: "Why?"
"I'd rather not say." She offered the money in her open hand. "But I'd
feel--well, easier, if you'd take it back."
He clasped his hands behind him and shook his head. "Not without good
reason. I don't understand, and what I don't understand I can't be
party to."
She tried the effect of a wistful smile. "Please! I wish you wouldn't
make me tell you."
"I wish you wouldn't put me in such an uncomfortable position. I don't
like to refuse you anything you've set your heart on, but my notion of
playing the game is to lose like a loser and--win like a winner."
"That's just it. I can't win like a winner because--because I didn't
win fairly."
"You never cheated."
It was less a question than an assertion.
"How do you know?"
"I'd have known quick enough if you'd tried. Anyway, you're not that
kind."
"How do you know I'm not?"
There was a pause. Then Trego smiled oddly. "Better not ask me. You
don't know me very well yet."
She coloured faintly. "Then I must tell you you are wrong. I did
cheat. I did, I tell you! I played for money without a cent to pay my
losses if I lost. You don't call that fair play, do you?"
"Depends. Of course, it's hard to believe."
"I'm penniless. You don't understand my position here. I'm--nobody.
Mrs. Standish took pity on me because I was out of work and brought me
here to act as secretary to Mrs. Gosnold."
Trego nodded heavily. "I guessed it. I mean I felt pretty sure you
were--well, of another world." He jerked a disrespectful head toward
the smiling face of Gosnold House. "The same as me," he added. "That's
why I thought . . . But it doesn't matter what I thought."
An unreasonable resentment held her true to the course of her purpose.
"Well, now you know, you must see it's impossible--"
"I don't," he contended stubbornly. "Maybe I'm the devil's advocate,
but the way I see it--to begin with, I was playing for money; if I had
won I'd have expected you to pay up."
"But I couldn't--"
"You would have; that is, Mrs. Gosnold would have paid for you. It was
up to her. She meant it that way. She was staking you against the
Pride person and myself; that's why you played together; if you and
she had lost, she'd have paid for both. So, you see, you may as well
quit trying to make me touch that money."
His sophistry baffled her. She shook her head, confused and a little
angry in defeat, liking him less than ever.
"Very well. But I don't feel right about it--and I think it most
unkind of you."
"Sorry. I only want to play the game as it lies, and this is my idea
of doing it."
There was a brief pause while Sally, at a loss, stared out over the
shining harbour, now more than ever sensible of the profound, peaceful
beauty of its azure floor over which bright sails swung and swayed
like slim, tall ladies treading a measure of some stately dance.
"If you ask my definition of unfair play," Trego volunteered, "it's
this present attitude of yours--forcing a quarrel on me and getting
mad because I stick up for my notion of a square deal!"
"Oh, you misunderstand!" she protested. "I'm only distressed by my
conception of what's wrong."
"It's the worst of gambling," he complained: "always winds up in some
sort of a row."
"Why gamble, then?"
"Why not? We've got to do something here to keep from yawning in one
another's faces."
"Is there so much of it going on all the time--gambling--here?"
"Oh, not a great deal. Not bad gambling, at least." He smiled faintly.
"Not what I call gambling. But I was bred on strong meat--in mining
camps--where my father made his money. There men gambled with their
lives. Here--_hmp!_" He grunted amusedly. "It's just enough like the
real thing to make a fellow restless. Sometimes I wish the old man
hadn't struck it quite so rich. If he hadn't, we'd both be happier. As
it is, he fluffs around, making a pest of himself in Wall Street
because he thinks it's the proper thing. And here am I, instead of
earning dividends on what little knowledge I do happen to possess,
sticking round with a set of idle egoists, simply because the old
man's got his heart set on his son being in society! He won't be happy
till he sees me married to one of these--er--women. Sometimes. . ."
Morosely he ruminated on the suppressed adjective for a moment.
"Sometimes I feel it coming over me that the governor's liable to be
happy, according to his lights, considerably quicker than I am."