THE BROKEN APPOINTMENT
Eleanor Thornton turned in bed and stretched herself luxuriously. It
was good to be young and to be sleepy. For a few seconds she dozed
off again; then gradually awoke, and, too comfortable to move, let
her thoughts wander where they would. In her mind's eye she reviewed
the events of the past months, and, despite herself, her lips parted
in a happy smile. She had come to Washington in November to visit her
friend, Cynthia Carew, and, delighted with the reception accorded her,
had invited her cousin, Mrs. Gilbert Truxton, to chaperon her, and,
on her acceptance, had rented a small furnished residence near Dupont
Circle for the winter.
Mrs. Winthrop and Cynthia Carew, whom she had known at boarding school,
took her everywhere with them, and her cousin, Mrs. Truxton, belonging
as she did to an old aristocratic family of the District, procured
her entrée to the exclusive homes of the "cave-dwellers," as the
residential circle was sometimes called.
Born also with the gifts of charm and tact, Eleanor's wild rose beauty
had made an instant impression, and she was invited everywhere. The
butler's tray was filled with visiting cards, which many newcomers,
anxious for social honors, longed to have left at their doors.
Eleanor was one of the older girls at Dobbs Ferry during Cynthia's
first year at that boarding school. They had taken an immense liking to
each other, which later blossomed into an intimate friendship. After
her graduation she and Cynthia had kept up their correspondence without
a break, and, true to her promise, given years before, she had left
Berlin and journeyed to Washington to be present at Cynthia's début.
After the death of her mother, Eleanor had been adopted by an indulgent
uncle, Mr. William Fitzgerald, of New York, and on his death had
inherited a comfortable fortune.
In many ways the winter had brought numerous triumphs in its train,
enough to spoil most natures. But Eleanor was too well poised to
lose her head over adulation. She had sounded the depths of social
pleasantries, and found them shallow. In every country she had visited
all men had been only too ready to be at her beck and call--except
one. The dreamy eyes hardened at the thought, and the soft lips
closed firmly. She had made the advances, and he had not responded. A
situation so unique in her experience had made an indelible impression.
Angry with herself for even recalling so unpleasant an episode, she
touched the bell beside the bed; then, placing her pillow in a more
comfortable position, she leaned back and contemplated her surroundings
with speculative eyes.
Her individuality had stamped itself upon the whole room. A picture or
two, far above the average, a few choice books, whose dainty binding
indicated a taste and refinement quite unusual; one or two Chinese
vases, old when the Revolutionary War began; an ivory carving of the
Renaissance; a mirror in whose lustrous depths Venetian beauties had
seen their own reflections hundreds of years ago. All these things gave
sure indication of study and travel, and a maturity of thought and
taste which, oddly enough, seemed rather to enhance Eleanor's natural
charm.
A discreet knock sounded on her door. "_Bon jour, Mademoiselle_,"
exclaimed the maid, entering with the breakfast tray.
"_Bon jour_, Annette," responded Eleanor, rousing herself, then lapsing
into English, which her maid spoke with but a slight accent. "Put the
tray here beside me. Must I eat that egg?" she made a slight grimace.
"But yes, Mademoiselle." The Frenchwoman stepped to the window and
raised the shade. "Madame Truxton gave orders to Fugi to tell the
cook that he must send you a more substantial breakfast. She does not
approve of rolls and coffee. I think she wishes you to eat as she does."
Eleanor shuddered slightly. "Did--did she have beefsteak and fried
onions this morning?" she inquired.
"But yes, Mademoiselle," Annette's pretty features dimpled into a
smile, "and she ate most heartily."
"Not another word, Annette, you take away my appetite. Is Mrs. Truxton
waiting to see me?"
"No, Mademoiselle; she was up at six o'clock and had her breakfast at
half-past seven." Annette paused in the act of laying out a supply of
fresh _lingerie_. "What have the Americans on their conscience that
they cannot sleep in the morning?"
"You cannot complain of my early rising," laughed Eleanor, glancing at
the clock, whose hands pointed to a quarter to twelve.
"Ah, Mademoiselle, you have lived so long away from America that you
have acquired our habits."
"You may take the tray, Annette; I have even less appetite than usual
to-day." Eleanor waited until it had been removed, then sprang out of
bed. "Come back in fifteen minutes," she called.
It did not take her long to complete her _toilette_, and when the maid
returned she was seated before her dressing table.
"What news to-day, Annette?" she asked, as the Frenchwoman, with
skilful fingers, arranged her wavy hair, which fell far below her waist.
"Madame and Fugi----" began the maid.
"I don't want household details," broke in Eleanor impatiently. "Tell
me of some outside news, if there is any."
"Oh, indeed, yes; news the most startling. Senator Carew----" she
paused to contemplate her handiwork.
"Well, what about him?" inquired Eleanor listlessly.
"He is dead."
"Dead!" The handglass slipped from Eleanor's grasp and fell crashing
to the hearth. Annette pounced upon it.
"Oh, Mademoiselle, the glass is broken. _Quelle horreur!_"
"Bother the glass." Eleanor's foot came down with an unmistakable
stamp. "Tell me at once of Senator Carew's death. I cannot believe it!"
"It is only too true," Annette was a privileged character and deeply
resented being hurried, also her volatile French nature enjoyed
creating a sensation. She had eagerly read the morning paper, and
had refrained from telling Eleanor the news until she could get
her undivided attention. "Senator Carew was found dead in his
carriage early this morning on his return from the dance at Mrs.
Owen's"--Annette had no reason to complain, Eleanor was giving her full
attention to the story--"he had been stabbed."
The maid's hand accidentally touched Eleanor's bare neck, and she felt
the taut muscles quiver. Covertly she glanced into the mirror and
studied the lovely face. But Eleanor's expression told her nothing. Her
cheeks were colorless and her eyes downcast.
After a barely perceptible pause Annette continued her story. "The
coachman has been arrested----" a knock interrupted her and she
hastened to open the door, returning in an instant with a note.
"Fugi says the messenger boy is waiting for an answer, Mademoiselle."
Eleanor tore it open and read the hastily scrawled lines.
DEAR ELEANOR:
I suppose you have been told of last night's terrible tragedy. Cynthia
is prostrated. She begs pitifully to see you. Can you come to us for a
few days? Your presence will help us both.
Affectionately,
CHARLOTTE WINTHROP.
Eleanor read the note several times, then walked thoughtfully over to
her desk.
DEAREST MRS. WINTHROP: [she wrote] It is awful. I will come as soon as
possible.
Devotedly,
ELEANOR.
"Give this to Fugi, Annette, then come back and pack my small steamer
trunk," as the maid hastened out of the room; she picked up a silk
waist preparatory to putting it on, but her _toilette_ was doomed to
another interruption.
"Well, my dear, may I come in?" asked a pleasant voice from the doorway.
"Indeed you may, Cousin Kate," Eleanor stepped across the room and
kissed the older woman affectionately. Mrs. Truxton's ruddy face
lighted with an affectionate smile as she returned her greeting. She
did not altogether approve of her young cousin, many of her "foreign
ways" as she termed it, offended her, but Eleanor's lovable disposition
had won a warm place in her regard.
Mrs. Truxton seated herself in one of the comfortable lounging chairs
and contemplated the disheveled room and Eleanor's oriental silk
dressing gown with disapproval.
"Do you know the time?" she inquired pointedly.
"Nearly one," answered Eleanor, as she discarded her dressing gown
for a silk waist. "Lunch will soon be ready. I hope you have a good
appetite."
"Yes, thank you; _I've_ been out all the morning," reproachfully. "Mrs.
Douglas has asked me to dine with her this evening, and, I think,
Eleanor, if it will not interfere with your arrangements, that I will
accept the invitation."
"Do so by all means," exclaimed Eleanor heartily. "I hope she won't
talk you deaf, dumb, and blind."
"She is rather long-winded," admitted Mrs. Truxton, tranquilly. "On the
telephone this morning she took up twenty minutes telling me of the
arrival here of her nephew, Douglas Hunter--good gracious, child----"
as Eleanor's silver powder box rolled on the floor with a loud
bang--"how you startle one."
"I beg your pardon," Eleanor was some seconds picking it up, for
her fingers fumbled clumsily. "What were you saying, Cousin Kate?"
replacing the silver on the dressing table.
"Mercy, child, how inattentive you are! I was only remarking that
Douglas Hunter is no stranger to Washington. He was raised here, as he
belongs to one of the first families of Georgetown."
"I never heard of a 'second' family in Georgetown," smiled Eleanor;
then, seeing her cousin's offended expression, she hastily changed the
subject. "Have you heard the shocking news of Senator Carew's--" she
hesitated for a moment--"tragic death?"
"Indeed I have. Washington is talking of nothing else. Why are you
packing, Annette?" as the servant entered.
"Mrs. Winthrop has just written and asked me to spend a few days with
them," explained Eleanor hurriedly, "so suppose you invite Miss Crane
to stay with you in my absence."
"Of course you cannot very well decline to go," said Mrs. Truxton
thoughtfully. "Still, I hate to have you mixed up in such an affair,
Eleanor."
"Nonsense, Cousin Kate, you must not look at it in that light," Eleanor
patted the fat shoulder nearest her affectionately. "Cynthia told
me yesterday that Senator Carew had said he was going to discharge
the coachman, Hamilton (a surly brute, I always thought him), for
drunkenness. I have no doubt he committed the murder from revenge, and
while under the influence of liquor."
"I sincerely trust that is the correct solution of the mystery," Mrs.
Truxton looked dubious, "but there has been one fearful scandal in that
family already, Eleanor, and I very much doubt if Senator Carew was
killed by a servant."
"Why, what do you mean?" Eleanor wheeled around in her chair and faced
her abruptly.
"Time will show." Mrs. Truxton shook her head mysteriously.
"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Eleanor impatiently.
As Mrs. Truxton opened her lips to reply, Annette reëntered the room.
"Pardon, madame, you are wanted at the telephone," and as Mrs. Truxton
lifted herself carefully out of her chair and walked out of the
room, she handed a package to Eleanor. "This has just come for you,
Mademoiselle; the boy who left it said there was no answer."
"Annette! Annette!" came Mrs. Truxton's shrill voice from the lower
hall.
"Coming, Madame, coming," and the maid hastened out of the room
shutting the door behind her.
Left alone, Eleanor turned the sealed package over curiously. The
address was written in an unknown hand. Quickly breaking the red
sealing wax and tearing off the paper, she removed the pasteboard cover
and a layer of cotton. A startled exclamation escaped her as she drew
out the contents of the box--a necklace of large rubies and smaller
diamonds in an antique setting.
Eleanor, who knew the value of jewels, realized from their color and
size that the rubies were almost priceless, and in the pure joy of
beholding their beauty laid the necklace in the palm of her left hand
and along her bare arm. After contemplating the effect for a moment, a
thought occurred to her, and she pulled out the remaining cotton in the
box and found at the bottom a small card. She picked it out and read
the message written on the card.
"_The appointment was not kept. Well done._"
The card fluttered to the floor unheeded. The pigeon blood rubies
made a crimson stain on Eleanor's white arm, strong wrist, and supple
fingers.