dissatisfaction, he found himself limited as to his walks and lounging
places almost as much as if he had been in prison. There was a little
pergola at one end of the lawn with benches and flowering vines
which had taken his fancy when he first came, and which he had been
accustomed to frequent as a splendid place to walk and smoke, but not
any more. He was too certain of being picked up there, or of being
joined by Mrs. Skelton and Imogene, only to be left with Imogene, with
possibly the three gardeners or a broker as witnesses. He could not
help thinking how ridiculous it all was.
He even took Imogene, he and Blount, in Blount’s car, and Mrs. Skelton
with them or not, as the case might be--it was all well enough so
long as Blount was along--to one place or another in the immediate
vicinity--never far, and always the two of them armed and ready for any
emergency or fray, as they said. It seemed a risky thing to do, still
they felt a little emboldened by their success so far, and besides,
Imogene was decidedly attractive to both of them. Now that she had
confessed her affection for Gregory she was most alluring with him, and
genial to Blount, teasing and petting him and calling him the watchdog.
Blount was always crowing over how well he and Gregory were managing
the affair. More than once he had pointed out, even in her presence,
that there was an element of sport or fascinating drama in it, that
she “couldn’t fool them,” all of which was helping mightily to pass
the time, even though his own and Gregory’s life, or at least their
reputation, might be at stake.
“Go on, go on, is my advice,” Blount kept saying now that he was being
amused. “Let her fall in love with you. Make her testify on your
behalf. Get a confession in black and white, if you can. It would be a
great thing in the campaign, if you were compelled to use it.” He was
a most practical and political soul, for all his geniality.
Gregory could not quite see himself doing that, however. He was too
fond of her. She was never quite so yielding, so close to him, as now.
When he and Blount were out with her, now, the two of them ventured to
rag her as to her part in all this, asking her whether the other car
were handy, whether the gardeners had been properly lined up, and as to
who was behind this tree or that house. “There’d be no use in going if
everything wasn’t just right,” they said. She took it all in good part,
even laughing and mocking them.
“Better look out! Here comes a spy now,” she would sometimes exclaim
at sight of a huckster driving a wagon or a farm-hand pushing a
wheelbarrow.
To both Blount and Gregory it was becoming a farce, and yet between
themselves they agreed that it had its charm. They were probably tiring
her backers and they would all quit soon. They hoped so, anyhow.
But then one night, just as they had concluded that there might not
be so very much to this plot after all, that it was about all over,
and Mrs. Gregory was writing that she would soon be able to return,
the unexpected happened. They were returning from one of those shorter
outings which had succeeded the longer ones of an earlier day, Blount
and Gregory and Imogene, and true to his idea of avoiding any routine
procedure which might be seized upon by the enemy as something to
expect and therefore to be used, Blount passed the main entrance and
drove instead around to a side path which led to a sunk-in porch
flanked on either side by high box hedges and sheltered furry pines.
True also to their agreed plan of never being separated on occasions
like this, they both walked to the door with Imogene, Blount locking
his car so that it could not be moved during his absence. On the steps
of this side porch they chaffered a little, bantering Imogene about
another safe night, and how hard it was on the gardeners to keep them
up so late and moving about in the dark in this fashion, when Imogene
said she was tired and would have to go. She laughed at them for their
brashness.
“You two think you’re very smart, don’t you?” she smiled a little
wearily. “It would serve you right if something did happen to both of
you one of these days--you know so much.”
“Is that so?” chuckled Blount. “Well, don’t hold any midnight
conferences as to this. You’ll lose your beauty sleep if you do.”
To which Gregory added, “Yes, with all this hard work ahead of you
every day, Imogene, I should think you’d have to be careful.”
“Oh, hush, and go on,” she laughed, moving toward the door.
But they had not gone more than a hundred and fifty feet down the
shadowy side path before she came running after them, quite out of
breath.
“Oh dear!” she called sweetly as she neared them, and they having heard
her footsteps had turned. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, but some one
has locked that side door, and I can’t open it or make them hear. Won’t
one of you come and help me?” Then, as the two of them turned, “That’s
right. I forgot. You always work in pairs, don’t you?”
Blount chortled. Gregory smiled also. They couldn’t help it. It was so
ridiculous at times--on occasions like this, for instance.
“Well, you see how it is,” Gregory teased, “the door may be very
tightly closed, and it might take the two of us to get it open.”
Seeing that Blount was really coming, he changed his mind. “I guess I
can get it open for her. Don’t bother this time. I’ll have to be going
in, anyhow,” he added. The thought came to him that he would like to be
with Imogene a little while--just a few moments.
Blount left them after a cautioning look and a cheery good night. In
all the time they had been together they had not done this, but this
time it seemed all right. Gregory had never felt quite so close to
Imogene as he did this evening. She had seemed so warm, laughing, gay.
The night had been sultry, but mellow. They had tittered and jested
over such trifling things, and now he felt that he would like to be
with her a while longer. She had become more or less a part of his
life, or seemingly so, such a genial companion. He took her arm and
tucked it under his own.
“It was nice over there at the Berkeley,” he commented, thinking of
an inn they had just left. “Beautiful grounds--and that music! It was
delightful, wasn’t it?” They had been dancing together.
“Oh, dear,” she sighed, “the summer will soon be over, and then I’ll
have to be going back, I suppose. I wish it would never end. I wish I
could stay here forever, just like this, if you were here.” She stopped
and looked at the treetops, taking a full breath and stretching out
her arms. “And do look at those fire-flies,” she added, “aren’t they
wonderful?” She hung back, watching the flashing fire-flies under the
trees.
“Why not sit down here a little while?” he proposed as they neared the
steps. “It isn’t late yet.”
“Do you really mean it?” she asked warmly.
“You see, I’m beginning to be so foolish as to want to trust you. Isn’t
that idiotic? Yes, I’m even going to risk fifteen minutes with you.”
“I wish you two would quit your teasing, just once,” she pleaded. “I
wish you would learn to trust me and leave Blount behind just once in a
while, seeing that I’ve told you so often that I mean to do nothing to
hurt you without telling you beforehand.”
Gregory looked at her, pleased. He was moved, a little sorry for her,
and a little sorrier for himself.
In spite of himself, his wife and baby, as he now saw, he had come
along a path he should not have, and with one whom he could not
conscientiously respect or revere. There was no future for them
together, as he well knew, now or at any other time. Still he lingered.
“Well, here we are,” he said, “alone at last. Now you can do your
worst, and I have no one to protect me.”
“It would serve you right if I did, Mr. Smarty. But if I had suggested
that we sit down for a minute you would have believed that the wood
was full of spies. It’s too funny for words, the way you carry on. But
you’ll have to let me go upstairs to change my shoes, just the same.
They’ve been hurting me dreadfully, and I can’t stand them another
minute. If you want to, you can come up to the other balcony, or I’ll
come back here. I won’t be a minute. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” he assented, thinking that the other balcony would not be
as open as this, much too private for him and her. “Certainly not. Run
along. But I’d rather you came back here. I want to smoke, anyhow,” and
he drew out his cigar and was about to make himself comfortable when
she came back.
“But you’ll have to get this door open for me,” she said. “I forgot
about that.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right.”
He approached it, looking first for the large key which always hung on
one side at this hour of the night, but not seeing it, looked at the
lock. The key was in it.
“I was trying before. I put it there,” she explained.
He laid hold of it, and to his surprise it came open without any effort
whatsoever, a thing which caused him to turn and look at her.
“I thought you said it wouldn’t open,” he said.
“Well, it wouldn’t before. I don’t know what makes it work now, but it
wouldn’t then. Perhaps some one has come out this way since. Anyhow,
I’ll run up and be down right away.” She hurried up the broad flight of
stairs which ascended leisurely from this entrance.
Gregory returned to his chair, amused but not conscious of anything
odd or out of the way about the matter. It might well have been as she
said. Doors were contrary at times, or some one might have come down
and pushed it open. Why always keep doubting? Perhaps she really was
in love with him, as she seemed to indicate, or mightily infatuated,
and would not permit any one to injure him through her. It would seem
so, really. After all, he kept saying to himself, she was different
now to what he had originally thought, and what she had originally
been, caught in a tangle of her own emotions and compelled by him to
do differently from what she had previously planned. If he were not
married as happily as he was, might not something come of this? He
wondered.
The black-green wall of the trees just beyond where he was sitting,
the yellow light filtering from the one bowl lamp which ornamented
the ceiling, the fireflies and the sawing katydids, all soothed and
entertained him. He was beginning to think that politics was not such
a bad business after all, his end of it at least, or being pursued
even. His work thus far had yielded him a fair salary, furnishing
as it had excellent copy for some of the newspapers and political
organizations--the best was being reserved for the last--and was
leading him into more interesting ways than the old newspaper days had,
and the future, outside of what had happened in the last few weeks,
looked promising enough. Soon he would be able to deal the current
administration a body blow. This might raise him to a high position
locally. He had not been so easily frustrated as they had hoped, and
this very attractive girl had fallen in love with him.
For a while he stared down the black-green path up which they had come,
and then fixed his eyes in lazy contemplation on one of the groups of
stars showing above the treetops. Suddenly--or was it suddenly?--more
a whisper or an idea--he seemed to become aware of something that
sounded, as he listened more keenly, like a light footfall in the
garden beyond the hedge. It was so very light, a mere tickle of the
grass or stirring of a twig. He pricked up his ears and on the instant
strained every muscle and braced himself, not that he imagined anything
very dreadful was going to happen, but--were they up to their old
tricks again? Was this the wonderful gardeners again? Would they never
stop? Removing the cigar from his mouth and stilling the rocker in
which he had been slowly moving to and fro, he decided not to stir, not
even to move his hands, so well concealed was he from the bushes on
either side by the arrangement of the posts, one of which was to the
left of him. In this position he might see and not be seen. Did they
know he was there? How had they found out? Were they always watching
yet? Was she a part of it? He decided to get up and leave, but a moment
later thought it better to linger just a little, to wait and see. If
he left and she came back and did not find him there--could it be that
there was some new trick on foot?
While he was thus swiftly meditating, he was using his ears to their
utmost. Certainly there was a light footfall approaching along the
other side of the hedge to the left, two in fact, for no sooner was
one seemingly still, near at hand, than another was heard coming from
the same direction, as light and delicate as that of a cat--spies,
trappers, murderers, even, as he well knew. It was so amazing, this
prowling and stalking, so desperate and cruel, that it made him a
little sick. Perhaps, after all, he had better have kept Blount with
him--not have lingered in this fashion. He was about to leave, a
nervous thrill chasing up and down his spine, when he heard what he
took to be Imogene’s step on the stair. Then she was coming back,
after all, as she had said. She was not a part of this as he had
feared--or was she? Who could tell? But it would be foolish to leave
now. She would see that he was wholly suspicious again, and that stage
had somehow seemed to be passing between them. She had promised on
more than one occasion to protect him against these others, let alone
herself. Anyhow he could speak of these newcomers and then leave. He
would let her know that they were hanging about as usual, always ready
to take advantage of his good nature.
But now, her step having reached the bottom of the stair and ceased,
she did not come out. Instead, a light that was beside the door, but
out at this hour, was turned on, and glancing back he could see her
shadow, or thought he could, on the wall opposite, to the right. She
was doing something--what? There was a mirror below the light. She
might be giving her hair a last pat. She had probably arrayed herself
slightly differently for him to see. He waited. Still she did not
come. Then swiftly, a sense of something treacherous came over him,
a creeping sensation of being victimized and defeated. He felt, over
his taut nerves, this thrilling fear which seemed to almost convey the
words: Move! Hurry! Run! He could not sit still a moment longer, but,
as if under a great compulsion, leaped to his feet and sprang to the
door just as he thought he heard additional movements and even whispers
in the dark outside. What was it? Who? Now he would see!
Inside he looked for her, and there she was, but how different!
When she had gone upstairs she had been arrayed in a light summery
dress, very smart and out-door-ish, but here she was clothed in a soft
clinging housedress such as one would never wear outside the hotel. And
instead of being adjusted with her customary care, it was decidedly
awry, as though she might have been in some disturbing and unhappy
contest. The collar was slightly torn and pulled open, a sleeve ripped
at the shoulder and wrist, the hang of the skirt over the hips awry,
and the skirt itself torn, a ragged slit over the knee. Her face had
been powdered to a dead white, or she herself was overcome with fear
and distress, and the hair above it was disarranged, as though it had
been shaken or pulled to one side. Her whole appearance was that of one
who had been assailed in some evil manner and who had come out of the
contest disarranged as to her clothes and shaken as to her nerves.
Brief as his glance was, Gregory was amazed at the transformation.
He was so taken aback that he could not say anything, but just what
it all meant came to him in an intuitive flash. To fly was his one
thought, to get out of the vicinity of this, not to be seen or taken
near it. With one bound he was away and up the easy stair three at a
time, not pausing to so much as look back at her, meeting her first
wide half-frightened stare with one of astonishment, anger and fear.
Nor did he pause until he had reached his own door, through which he
fairly jumped, locking himself in as he did so. Once inside, he stood
there white and shaking, waiting for any sound which might follow, any
pursuit, but hearing none, going to his mirror and mocking at himself
for being such a fool as to be so easily outwitted, taken in, after
all his caution and sophisticated talk. Lord! he sighed. Lord!
And after all her protests and promises, this very evening, too, he
thought. What a revelation of the unreliability and treachery of human
nature! So she had been lying to him all the time, leading him on
in the face of his almost boastful precautions and suspicions, and
to-night, almost at the close of the season, had all but succeeded in
trapping him! Then Tilney was not so easily to be fooled, after all. He
commanded greater loyalty and cunning in his employees than he had ever
dreamed. But what could he say to her, now that he knew what she really
was, if ever he saw her again? She would just laugh at him, think him a
fool, even though he had managed to escape. Would he ever want to see
her again? Never, he thought. But to think that any one so young, so
smooth, so seemingly affectionate, could be so ruthless, so devilishly
clever and cruel! She was much more astute than either he or Blount had
given her credit for.
After moving the bureau and chairs in front of the door, he called up
Blount and sat waiting for him to come.
Actually, as he saw it now, she had meant to stage a seeming assault
in which he would have been accused as the criminal and if they had
sufficient witnesses he might have had a hard time proving otherwise.
After all, he had been going about with her a great deal, he and
Blount, and after he had told himself that he would not.
Her witnesses were there, close upon him, in the dark. Even though he
might be able to prove his previous good character, still, considering
the suspicious fact that he had trifled with her and this treacherous
situation so long, would a jury or the public believe him? A moment or
two more, and she would have screamed out that he was attacking her,
and the whole hotel would have been aroused. Her secret friends would
have rushed forward and beaten him. Who knows?--they might even have
killed him! And their excuse would have been that they were justified.
Unquestionably she and her friends would have produced a cloud of
witnesses. But she hadn’t screamed--there was a curious point as to
that, even though she had had ample time (and she had had) and it was
expected of her and intended that she should! Why hadn’t she? What had
prevented her? A strange, disturbing exculpating thought began to take
root in his mind, but on the instant also he did his best to crush it.
“No, no! I have had enough now,” he said to himself. “She did intend to
compromise me and that is all there is to it. And in what a fashion.
Horrible. No, this is the end. I will get out now to-morrow, that is
one thing certain, go to my wife in the mountains, or bring her home.”
Meanwhile, he sat there trembling, revolver in hand, wiping the sweat
from his face, for he did not know but that even yet they might follow
him here and attempt the charge of assault anyhow. Would they--could
they? Just then some one knocked on his door, and Gregory, after
demanding to know who it was, opened it to Blount. He quickly told him
of his evening’s experience.
“Well,” said Blount, heavily and yet amusedly, “she certainly is the
limit. That was a clever ruse, say what you will, a wonder. And the
coolness of her! Why, she joked with us about it! I thought you were
taking a chance, but not a great one. I was coming around to thinking
she might be all right, and now think of this! I agree with you that
it is time for you to leave. I don’t think you’ll ever get her over to
your side. She’s too crafty.”
The next morning Gregory was up early and on the veranda smoking and
meditating as to his exact course. He would go now, of course, and
probably never see this girl with her fiend’s heart again. What a
revelation! To think that there were such clever, ruthless, beautiful
sirens about in the same world with such women as his wife! Contrast
them--his wife, faithful, self-sacrificing, patient, her one object
the welfare of those whom she truly loved, and then put on the other
side of the scale this girl--tricky, shameless, an actress, one without
scruples or morals, her sole object in life, apparently, to advance
herself in any way that she might, and that at the expense of everybody
and everything!
He wanted to leave without seeing her, but in spite of himself he sat
on, telling himself that it would do no harm to have just one last talk
with her in order to clear up whether she had really intended to scream
or no--whether she was as evil as he really thought now, confront her
with her enormous treachery and denounce her for the villainess she
was. What new lie would she have on her tongue now, he wondered? Would
she be able to face him at all? Would she explain? Could she? He would
like to take one more look at her, or see if she would try to avoid him
completely. This morning she must be meditating on how unfortunately
she had failed, missed out, and only last night she had taken his hand
and smoothed it and whispered that she was not so bad, so mean, as he
thought her to be, and that some day he would find it out. And now see!
He waited a considerable time, and then sent up word that he wanted to
see her. He did not want to see this thing closed in this fashion with
no chance to at least berate her, to see what new lie she would tell.
After a while she came down, pale and seemingly exhausted, a weary look
about her eyes as though she had not slept. To his astonishment she
came over quite simply to where he was sitting, and when he stood up at
her approach as if to ward her off, stood before him, seemingly weaker
and more hopeless than ever. What an excellent actress, he thought! He
had never seen her so downcast, so completely overcome, so wilted.
“Well,” he began as she stood there, “what new lie have you fixed up to
tell me this morning?”
“No lie,” she replied softly.
“What! Not a single lie? Anyhow, you’ll begin by shamming contrition,
won’t you? You’re doing that already. Your friends made you do it, of
course, didn’t they? Tilney was right there--and Mrs. Skelton! They
were all waiting for you when you went up, and told you just what to do
and how it had to be done, wasn’t that it? And you had to do it, too,
didn’t you?” he sneered cynically.
“I told you I didn’t have anything to say,” she answered. “I didn’t do
anything--I mean I didn’t intend to--except to signal you to run, but
when you burst in on me that way----” He waved an impatient hand. “Oh,
all right,” she went on sadly. “I can’t help it if you won’t believe
me. But it’s true just the same. Everything you think, all except that
automobile plot, and this is true, but I’m not asking you to believe
me any more. I can’t help it if you won’t. It’s too late. But I had to
go through my part anyhow. Please don’t look at me that way, Ed--not
so hard. You don’t know how really weak I am, or what it is that makes
me do these things. But I didn’t want to do anything to hurt you last
night, not when I left you. And I didn’t. I hadn’t the slightest
intention, really I hadn’t. Oh, well, sneer if you want to! I couldn’t
help myself, though, just the same--believe it or not. Nothing was
farther from my mind when I came in, only--oh, what a state my life has
come to, anyhow!” she suddenly exclaimed. “You don’t know. Your life’s
not a mess, like mine. People have never had you in any position where
they could make you do things. That’s just the trouble--men never know
women really.” (“I should say not!” he interpolated.) “But I have had
to do so many things I didn’t want to do--but I’m not pleading with
you, Ed, really I’m not. I know it’s all over between us and no use,
only I wish I could make you believe that as bad as I am I’ve never
wanted to be as bad to you as I’ve seemed. Really, I haven’t. Oh,
honestly----”