Madeleine came of a brave race and she was a woman of intense pride.
She spent a week at Congress Springs and she took her courage in her
teeth and spent another at Rincona. There was a house party and they
amused themselves in the somnolent way peculiar to Alta. Bret Harte was
there, a dapper little man, whose shoes were always a size too small,
but popular with women as he played an excellent game of croquet and
talked as delightfully as he wrote. His good humor could be counted on
if no one mentioned "The Heathen Chinee." He had always admired
Madeleine and did his best to divert her.
Both Mrs. McLane and Mrs. Abbott were disappointed that they were given
no opportunity to condole with her; but although she gave a fair
imitation of the old Madeleine Talbot, and even mentioned Masters' name
with a casual indifference, no one was deceived for a moment. That her
nerves were on the rack was as evident as that her watchful pride was
in arms, and although it was obvious that she had foresworn the luxury
of tears, her eyes had a curious habit of looking through and beyond
these good ladies until they had the uncomfortable sensation that they
were not there and some one else was. They wondered if Langdon Masters
were dead and she saw his ghost.
The summer was almost over. After a visit to Sally Abbott on Lake
Merritt, she returned to town with the rest of the fashionable world.
People had never been kinder to her; and if their persistent attentions
were strongly diluted with curiosity, who shall blame them? It was not
every day they had a blighted heroine of romance, who, moreover, looked
as if she were going into a decline. She grew thinner every day. Her
white skin was colorless and transparent. They might not have her for
long, poor darling! How they pitied her! But they never wished they had
let her alone. It was all for the best. And what woman ever had so
devoted a husband? He went with her everywhere. He, too, looked as if
he had been through the mill, poor dear, but at least he had won a
close race, and he deserved and received the sympathy of his faithful
friends. As for that ungrateful brute, Langdon Masters, he had not
written a line to any one in San Francisco since he left. Not one had
an idea what had become of him. Did he secretly correspond with
Madeleine? (They would have permitted her that much.) Would he blow out
his brains if she died of consumption? He was no philanderer. If he
hadn't really loved her nothing would have torn him from San Francisco
and his brilliant career; of course. Duelling days were over, and the
doctor was not the man to shoot another down in cold blood, with no
better excuse than the poor things had given him. It was all very
thrilling and romantic. Even the girls talked of little else, and
regarded their complacent prosperous swains with disfavor. "The Long
Long Weary Day" was their favorite song. They wished that Madeleine
lived in a moated grange instead of the Occidental Hotel.
Madeleine had had her own room from the beginning of her married life
in San Francisco, as the doctor was frequently called out at night.
When Howard had returned and told her that Masters would leave on the
morrow and that she was not to see him again, she had walked quietly
into her bedroom and locked the door that led to his; and she had never
turned the key since.
Talbot made no protest. He had no spirit left where Madeleine was
concerned, but it was his humble hope to win her back by unceasing
devotion and consideration, aided by time. He not only never mentioned
Masters' name, but he wooed her in blundering male fashion. Not a day
passed that he did not send her flowers. He bought her trinkets and
several valuable jewels, and he presented her with a victoria, drawn by
a fine sorrel mare, and a coachman in livery on the box.
Madeleine treated him exactly as she treated her host at a dinner. She
was as amiable as ever at the breakfast table, and when he deserted his
club of an evening, she sat at her embroidery frame and told him the
gossip of the day.