When people returned to town they were astonished at the change in
Madeleine Talbot, especially after a summer in the city that would have
"torn their own nerves out by the roots." More than one had wondered
anxiously if she were going into the decline so common in those days.
They had known the cause of the broken spring, but none save the
incurably sanguine opined that Howard Talbot had mended it. But mended
it was and her eyes had never sparkled so gaily, nor her laugh rung so
lightly since her first winter among them. Mrs. McLane suggested
charitably that her tedium vitae had run its course and she was become
a philosopher.
But Madeleine _reviva_ did not suggest the philosopher to the most
charitable eye (not even to Mrs. McLane's), particularly as there was a
"something" about her--was it repressed excitement?--which had been
quite absent from her old self, however vivacious.
It was Mrs. Abbott, a lady of unquenchable virtue, whose tongue was
more feared than that of any woman in San Francisco, who first
verbalized what every friend of Madeleine's secretly wondered: Was
there a man in the case? Many loyally cried, Impossible. Madeleine was
above suspicion. Above suspicion, yes. No one would accuse her of a
liaison. But who was she or any other neglected young wife to be above
falling in love if some fascinating creature laid siege? Love dammed up
was apt to spring a leak in time, even if it did not overflow,
and--well, it was known that water sought its level, even if it could
not run uphill. Mrs. Abbott had lived for twenty years in San
Francisco, and in New Orleans for thirty years before that, and she had
seen a good many women in love in her time. This climate made a
plaything of virtue. "Virtue--you said?--Precisely. She's _not there_
or we'd see the signs of moral struggle, horror, in fact; for she's not
one to succumb easily. But mark my words, _she's on the way_."
That point settled, and it was vastly interesting to believe it
(Madeleine Talbot, of all people!), who was the man? Duty to mundane
affairs had kept many of the liveliest blades and prowling husbands in
town all summer; but Madeleine had known them all for three years or
more. Besides, So and So was engaged to So and So, and So and So quite
reprehensibly interested in Mrs. So and So.
The young gentlemen were discreetly sounded, but their lack of anything
deeper than friendly interest in the "loveliest of her sex" was
manifest. Husbands were ordered to retail the gossip of the Club, but
exploded with fury when tactful pumping forced up the name of Madeleine
Talbot. They were harridans, harpies, old-wives, infernal
scandalmongers. If there was one completely blameless woman in San
Francisco it was Howard Talbot's wife.
No one thought of Langdon Masters.
He appeared more rarely at dinners, and had never ventured in public
with Madeleine even during the summer. When his acute news sense
divined they were gossiping and speculating about her he took alarm and
considered the wisdom of discontinuing his afternoon visits. But they
had become as much a part of his life as his daily bread. Moreover, he
could not withdraw without giving the reason, and it was a more
intimate subject than he cared to discuss with her. Whether he was in
love with her or not was a question he deliberately refused to face. If
the present were destroyed there was no future to take its place, and
he purposed to live in his Fool's Paradise as long as he could. It was
an excellent substitute for tragedy.
But Society soon began to notice that she no longer honored kettledrums
or the more formal afternoon receptions with her presence, and her
calls were few and late. When attentive friends called on her she was
"out." The clerk at the desk had been asked to protect her, as she
"must rest in the afternoon." He suspected nothing and her word was his
law.
When quizzed, Madeleine replied laughingly that she could keep her
restored health only by curtailing her social activities; but she
blushed, for lying came hardly. As calling was a serious business in
San Francisco, she compromised by the ancient clearing-house device of
an occasional large "At Home," besides her usual dinners and luncheons.
When Masters was a dinner guest he paid her only the polite attentions
due a hostess and flirted elaborately with the prettiest of the women.
Madeleine, who was unconscious of the gossip, was sometimes a little
hurt, and when he avoided her at other functions and was far too
attentive to Sally Ballinger, or Annette McLane, a beautiful girl just
out, she had an odd palpitation and wondered what ailed her. Jealous?
Well, perhaps. Friends of the same sex were often jealous. Had not
Sally been jealous at one time of poor Sibyl Geary? And Masters was the
most complete friend a woman ever had. She thought sadly that perhaps
he had enough of her in the afternoon and welcomed a change. Well, that
was natural enough. She found herself enjoying the society of other
bright men at dinners, now that life was fair again.
Nevertheless, she experienced a sensation of fright now and again, and
not because she feared to lose him.