FANCHON did not go up-stairs. She flung herself face downward on the
lounge in the library and writhed there, beating the old silk cushions
with her small, furious fists. In the bitterness of her heart she
thought she hated them all, every Carter who was ever born! Because
she was so angry, so wilfully hurt, she had wreaked her vengeance upon
Daniel. She had told him a falsehood, and now, thinking of it, she tore
at the cushions and wept hot tears.
She had no idea why she had done it. She hated Virginia Denbigh,
because she knew the Carters loved Virginia. They had wanted William
to marry her, and she believed they were making William hate his wife.
She believed it from the bottom of her soul. But why had she struck at
Daniel?
Perhaps it was because he was William’s brother; perhaps it was because
Fanchon had divined that he loved Virginia.
Virginia, with her calm, lovely face, had become a nightmare to
Fanchon. She quarreled with her husband, and she goaded and teased
him, because the Carters did not like her, because their attitude was
so superior. Then she laid it all to Virginia!
Fanchon had done nothing lately but quarrel with William. He had
objected to Corwin, had forbidden her to have him at the house.
Fanchon, who feared Corwin, might have rejoiced had she not resented
her husband’s tone. He had been set on, she thought, by Mr. Carter.
Since that fatal dance Mr. Carter had been coldly civil. He hadn’t
considered it his duty to scold his daughter-in-law, but he snubbed
her. Fanchon, carrying her head high, had nevertheless been cut to the
heart by it. She loved admiration, she loved applause, she lived on
excitement, and she had none of these things, unless she counted the
admiration of Leigh and Emily--two children, as she thought scornfully,
who didn’t know any better!
As she lay there on the old lounge, strange, ancestral passions stirred
in her, wild impulses of rage and melancholy. She had had a bitter
time. The very place was intolerable; she hated it, and she knew that
the place hated her. The stodgy, monotonous domestic life--she had to
face that, too--three meals a day with the Carters!
If they had liked her, if they had even made her welcome and forgiven
her unconventional ways, it might have been different, she thought;
but now she hated them. She knew that Mrs. Carter had seen her in the
church lane with Corwin. Mrs. Carter had no idea of the quarrel she had
with Corwin, or her fear of him, but she must think ill of her and run
home to tattle about it!
Fanchon sat on the old lounge and dashed hot tears from her eyes. She
pictured herself sitting at the luncheon-table with the family. She
could see them! Mr. Carter and William would not be at home; but there
would be Leigh, making moon eyes, a sentimental boy, and Emily with
her white eyelashes and her honest, snub-nosed face, and Mrs. Carter,
her fair hair fading in ugly streaks, and her absence of eyebrows.
Daniel, too, his dark, handsome head bent and his eyes indifferent--he
had never liked her! Even Miranda, moving around cumbersomely with the
dishes, would show the whites of her eyes when she looked at her, as if
she was watching something strange and outlandish.
“I might be a Fiji Islander, from the way they look at me!” Fanchon
sobbed angrily, staring about the old room with its familiar, guttered
armchairs, its littered library-table--where Mr. Carter’s pipe lay
beside his accustomed place--and at the dull, ancestral Carter over the
mantelpiece.
The portrait filled the latest Carter bride with a kind of fury. She
rose from the lounge and went and stared at it.
“Ugly old thing!” she cried angrily. “You’d hate me, if you could!”
She felt a sudden sensation of suffocation. The place was too small for
her; she couldn’t breathe in it. She went to the window and leaned out,
staring blankly at the peaceful scene. The Carter house was well on the
outskirts of the town, and she could glimpse a distant meadow where
a spotted cow moved placidly. A few red chickens crossed her vision,
picking in the grass. A colored maid in the next house was pinning
some clothes on the line. Down the quiet street an ice-cart trundled
its sober, dripping way. It was quiet again when the sound of wheels
receded; then suddenly a rooster crowed. He crowed tremendously in a
fine, deep bass.
“_Mon Dieu!_” cried Fanchon.
She drew back from the intolerable prospect, and heard Miranda setting
the table for luncheon. The faint jingle of glasses and the occasional
rattle of china warned her. The domestic meal was approaching with its
unfailing regularity. She could not bear it. She ran out of the room,
and had one foot already on the lowest step of the stairs, when the
door opened and Leigh came in.
“Fanchon!” he cried eagerly, his boyish face flushing to the hair.
An imp of perversity stopped her. She stood balanced, one hand on the
banisters, looking back over her shoulder. There was at least one
Carter she could manage, and she knew it. Those fawn eyes softened and
glowed.
“Leigh!” she responded softly. “_Mon brave garçon!_”
He put his books down and came toward her with shining eyes.
“Oh, Fanchon, what mites of feet you’ve got!” he exclaimed, looking at
the foot that she was displaying on the step. “I never saw a foot as
small as that.”
She smiled.
“You think so, _chéri_?”
She moved the small foot a bit, looking down at it, pensive, aware that
he could see also the charming sweep of those dark lashes. Leigh, long
since subjugated, dropped on one knee beside the lowest step.
“If I were a prince, I’d follow that shoe,” he laughed up at her, his
boyish eyes adoring. “I’ve read some French about a lady’s feet--in
a novel. It fits your feet, Fanchon.” He blushed. “I’m not sure I
pronounce very well, but it was this: ‘_Petits pieds si adorés!_’”
For a moment her lips trembled, half mirthful, half tearful. She leaned
toward him and stroked his hair caressingly, her light, soft fingers
thrilling him.
“_Je t’adore, mon Leigh!_” she whispered.
Then she laughed elfishly, put one of her slender fingers on her lip
and ran up-stairs like a whirlwind.
Leigh slipped out of her mind in an instant. She did not even see the
adoring look that followed her. She was bent on escaping that stodgy
family meal, and she was in hot haste. She had thought of a way to
evade it--to evade them all for a while.
She was fond of riding on horseback, and William had taken her out
on several occasions. He would have taken her more frequently if her
modish habit had not shocked the sobriety of the old-fashioned town. It
had been made in Paris, and it had startled the streets through which
they rode. After one or two experiences William had quietly let the
rides drop. Fanchon knew why he had done so, and it made her angry.
To-day she thought of it again, and she longed for the fresh air in her
face and the swift gallop. Even the stupid country roads were tolerable
for the sake of that.
She went to her closet and dragged out the famous breeches and
riding-coat. She was putting on the stylish leggings when Miranda
knocked.
“Please, ma’am, Miz Carter, she say ain’t you-all comin’ down t’
luncheon? De chops is gettin’ cold.”
“I don’t want any luncheon,” Fanchon called to her without opening the
door. “Say that I’ve got a headache.”
She heard Miranda retreating heavily; then she slipped on her
riding-habit, found her hat, and, opening the door softly, stole
down-stairs. She could hear Mrs. Carter talking to Daniel in a
hesitating voice, and she heard Leigh answer something. She did not
want them to talk to her. She could not bear it. She opened the door
gently, slipped out, and started almost at a run for the livery-stable
where she knew William had hired the horses.
Mr. Carter had lunched down-town. He did so when he was very busy, and
he was on his way back to his office when he encountered Judge Jessup.
The judge halted him and shook hands.
“Dan’s won the case!” he said with elation. “Why weren’t you in court
to hear your son plead, Carter?”
Mr. Carter reddened a little. He had been thinking of William and
William’s wife, and this was a keen relief. He relaxed.
“I was busy. How did the boy get on, judge?”
The judge clapped his big hand on his old friend’s shoulder.
“Carter, he’s going to be a great lawyer! I’m as proud of him as if I’d
hatched him myself.”
“Poor Dan!” Mr. Carter’s face softened while his eyes smiled. “He ought
to have something to make up--I hate to see him so lame!”
“Nonsense! It doesn’t hurt his brains, man!” Jessup exclaimed hotly.
“He only limps a little. He’s the smartest boy you have, Carter.”
Mr. Carter smiled broadly.
“Think so? I wouldn’t like to say that. William’s done well, Payson
tells me; he said so a month or two ago. They’re all pleased with the
way he handled things abroad.”
“Eh?” the judge cocked a humorous eyebrow. “I thought the most William
did over there was--to get married!”
Mr. Carter met his eye, faltered, and groaned. The judge laughed.
“You don’t appreciate Dan. Now, as I was saying--”
He stopped with his mouth open. A horse came down the main street at a
hard gallop. There was a distinct sensation. The drivers of passing
vehicles sat sidewise; a string of little half-dressed pickaninnies
streamed along the edge of the sidewalk in eager but hopeless pursuit.
A street-car that had stopped at the crossing failed to go on because
conductor and motorman were gaping after the vision.
Riding cross-saddle, in the latest extreme of fashion, was young Mrs.
William Carter. The apparition would have startled them at any time,
but the lady was already famous, and her progress might be viewed
somewhat in the light of a Roman triumph.
Very pale, her dark eyes shining and her lips compressed, Fanchon
struck her steed sharply with her riding-crop. The horse, a spirited
young bay, came on at a gallop, with the clatter of maddened hoofs,
followed by the stream of pursuing children and their wild shouts of
applause. In this fashion Fanchon dashed past Judge Jessup and Mr.
Carter and disappeared in a cloud of dust on the highroad.
A comet could scarcely have had a more startling effect. Mr. Carter
said nothing, but his color became apoplectic. He stared after her for
a minute, and then, with a set face, he turned to the judge.
“What were you saying? Oh, I remember--yes, yes, I’ll come in
to-morrow and hear Dan address the jury,” he said hastily.
The judge smiled grimly.
“The verdict was reached to-day, Johnson. You’re a bit behindhand.”
As he spoke he held out his hand. “Congratulations on Dan,” he said
heartily. “I’m in a hurry. Want to walk back to my office with me?”
“No!” said Mr. Carter.
He knew what Jessup thought, he suspected him of shaking with
suppressed laughter, but the judge looked innocent enough. They shook
hands again absently, having forgotten that they had done so twice
already, and Mr. Carter strode away. He knew that he was stared at,
and he walked fast, his face still deeply red. At the door of his
office--he was in the insurance business--he found his office-boy
gaping down the street.
Mr. Carter stopped short.
“Here, you! Go into that office!” he said sharply. “What are you doing
out there, you young ninny? You’ll be picked up for a street-corner
loafer if you don’t mind your own business better!”
The alarmed youth retreated before him, apologizing. Mr. Carter, with
his hat still on, strode past the clerks in the outer office, went into
his own room, and slammed the door with such force that the glass
rattled.
One of the young stenographers looked up from her work and laughed
silently at the other.
“Seen his daughter-in-law?” she inquired in a whisper.
The other girl nodded.
“She’s awfully pretty and swell, anyway,” she murmured. “Oh,
my--Minnie, look!”
Across the street was the old road-house where William and his wife had
supped after the dance. As Mr. Carter’s stenographer looked out now she
saw a hastily saddled horse led to the door. A tall man came out and
swung himself into the saddle. It was Corwin.
The two girls across the street rose silently and leaned over their
machines to watch him. He rode well, turning his horse around, starting
at a quick trot, and breaking almost at once into a gallop.
“He’s gone after her, Minnie!”
Minnie nodded; then, hearing a noise in the inner room, they dropped
into their places and worked furiously. Mr. Carter opened the door,
looked in, and closed it sharply again. They heard him return to his
desk.
Minnie pulled her companion’s sleeve.
“He saw him!” she whispered.
The other girl assented, touching her lips with her finger. They could
hear earthquakelike sounds within, and they rattled away at their
typewriters, demurely silent; but through the open window they could
see, far in the distance, the furious horseman disappearing down the
turnpike.
His horse was a powerful animal, a far better traveler than the young
bay that had carried Fanchon. The two girls in the office speculated
in silence, and worked rapturously. Young Mrs. Carter was the most
exciting thing in a dull town at a dull time of the year, and they were
grateful to her.
Mr. Carter kept them late that day and worked them hard. Usually an
easy taskmaster, he called them in during the afternoon and gave them
page after page of dictation. It was half past six when he slammed down
the top of his desk, locked it, and went home.
He walked, and it was a long way. It was seven o’clock when he opened
the front door with his latch-key.
The family were already at dinner--all but William, who was walking up
and down the hall, looking haggard. Mr. Carter came in and hung his hat
upon the rack.
“Waiting for any one?” he asked his son dryly.
William raised his head.
“Yes, Fanchon. She hasn’t come in yet. I’m expecting her any moment.”
“You needn’t,” his father retorted grimly. “She’s out riding with that
fellow--Caraffi’s manager.”
William said nothing, but he stopped short. Mr. Carter, after eying him
for an instant, went on into the dining-room. His wife, Daniel, Emily,
and Leigh were sitting around the table, eating the second course
disconsolately.
“I thought you’d never come--and we were hungry,” Mrs. Carter said
apologetically. “Miranda, go and get the soup for Mr. Carter. I had it
kept hot,” she added, glancing anxiously toward the hall door.
They could hear William walking to and fro again. As Miranda
disappeared for the soup, Mr. Carter looked up. He glanced at his wife
meaningly.
“She’s out riding with that man,” he said in an undertone.
“Johnson!”
His wife’s dismay only brought a grim smile to Carter’s face. He
unfolded his napkin without further comment. Before Miranda returned
with the soup-tureen, Mrs. Carter rallied sufficiently to lean over
and murmur across the table:
“I’ve got a lot to tell you--that dreadful girl was with that man this
morning--behind the Methodist Church! I saw--”
She stopped, for Leigh had risen suddenly. He flung his napkin on the
table and stalked out of the room with a white face. Mr. Carter stared
after him.
“What the--” he began.
Emily touched his hand warningly. Miranda was returning.
“Leigh’s awfully mashed on Fanchon,” Emily whispered irrelevantly,
returning to her dinner.
Mr. Carter shut his mouth hard, and the conversation languished. Daniel
spoke once about the weather, and his father nodded.
“Judge Jessup handed out a lot of compliments for you to-day, Dan,” he
remembered suddenly.
Mrs. Carter looked pleased, but even this fell flat. They could hear
William’s tramp continuing after Leigh went up-stairs. Mr. Carter rose
once and went to the door.
“Aren’t you coming in to eat your dinner, William?” he demanded.
“I’ve dined,” William replied shortly.
“Then I think you’d better go into the library and sit down,” said his
father meaningly.
William, halting in his walk, stared for a moment, puzzled. Then he
understood, and a deep red went up to his forehead. Without a word, he
turned, went into the library, and shut the door.
Miranda had brought on the dessert, but only Emily and Daniel ate
it. There was a heavy silence. Mr. Carter sat moodily, apparently
listening, and Mrs. Carter could think of nothing to say. She tried
two or three times and stopped, aghast at her own temerity. The three
vacant chairs--William’s, Fanchon’s, and Leigh’s--seemed to gape at
them. Daniel finally rose.
“I’ve got to prepare a paper for Judge Jessup,” he remarked quietly,
and left the room.
They heard him light his cigar and go up-stairs. It was then that Mr.
Carter rose also and went as usual into the library. Emily and her
mother, left alone, gaped at each other in a startled way. They heard
voices in the library, and then a heavy silence, filled with the odor
of tobacco. Emily began to be a little frightened.
“Mama, do you suppose she’s run away?” she whispered in an awed tone.
Mrs. Carter cast a frightened look toward Miranda’s retreating figure,
and shook her head.
“I don’t know, Emily. Suppose we go and sit in the parlor? I don’t
think papa wants us in the library.”
They spent the evening sitting in the little unused parlor that Fanchon
hated. It was full of heavy stuffed furniture and old-fashioned
cabinets. Accustomed to a family gathering in the library, they
languished there, watching the clock.
“It’s getting awfully late,” said Emily finally, after an interminable
hour. “Where can she be?”
“Emily,” said Mrs. Carter irrelevantly, “I wish you wouldn’t say that
Leigh is ‘mashed’ on her. In the first place it’s absurd, and in the
second it’s vulgar.”
“But he is,” insisted Emily. “He’d get down in the mud and let her walk
on him--like Sir Walter Raleigh’s cloak. He says so.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Carter, trembling with nervousness, discovered that it
was half past ten. “You go to bed,” she ordered shortly.
After her daughter went up-stairs, she sat for a long time, waiting.
She was puzzled by the silence in the library. From time to time she
went to the window and looked out anxiously; yet she had no real hope
that her daughter-in-law would appear. She felt sure that Fanchon had
run away, and the disgrace of it made her face burn. She turned the gas
down and sat in semi-darkness, ashamed to look at her own image in the
long mirror between the windows.
The Carters had always had such good wives, such loyal, faithful women.
She had not failed herself, she had done her best, and William, her
first-born, the pride of her heart--must he be disgraced?
She sat there watching and listening until nearly twelve o’clock. Still
she heard occasional sounds from the library. Finally, worn out, she
crept up-stairs to her room; but even there she continued to listen and
tremble at intervals.
At last she heard the sounds of locking up the house and her husband’s
heavy step on the stairs.
Mr. Carter came into the room and slammed the door. His wife had crept
hastily into bed, and she lay there, shivering a little with dread.
“What did you say to him, papa?”
“Say? Not a blamed word!” Mr. Carter sat down and pulled off his
boots, flinging one down with violence. “I guess I don’t have to say
anything,” he remarked grimly. “I reckon the fool’s got about enough.
Marrying a French ballet-dancer!”
Mrs. Carter drew a long breath.
“Where do you s’pose she is, Johnson?”
“How do I know? He’ll have to get a divorce--that’s as plain as the
nose on your face. Then I suppose the donkey’ll want to marry Rosamond
Silvertree, or Bloomie Bloomingkitten, or some other actress.”
“Oh, hush!” groaned Mrs. Carter, burying her head in her pillow with a
sob. “I can’t bear it! Poor Willie!”
Mr. Carter restrained his tongue, but he flung the other boot into the
corner with a bang more eloquent than words.