man for long. It rather adds to his attractiveness indeed--particularly
with the woman. He comes back, and all his clubs receive him; Society
blinks its eyes a bit, looks shocked and welcomes him. Yet it raises
its hands in horror at me! Society never seems to realize that a woman
cannot commit the unpardonable sin alone--a man has got to be her
accomplice."
"It's rotten philosophy, Stephanie, but it's the way of the world," he
said.
"It's the way of the world and I was aware of it, you mean," she
replied. "Certainly, I knew it before and I know it now--but I didn't
think of it at the time. Look at these dear people--pretending not
to notice me, yet watching covertly like a cat a mouse. And you're
coming in for your share, too, Montague. They are simply perishing from
curiosity--to know what we are talking about. They will hold you up to
know, when I'm gone."
He smiled and raised his shoulders a trifle.
She knew well that none would venture to mention the matter to him.
"I'm going, now," she said. "Will you escort me down this path of sweet
charity flanked by gentle spirits, Mr. Pendleton?"
"I would ask you to dine with me to-night but unfortunately I'm
promised to the Emersons--Burgoyne and I."
"They _are_ getting on!" she remarked. "Two years ago and they would
not have had the nerve to ask _you_. It's the daughter, I suppose?"
"You mean that she is the reason for my dining with them--or the reason
for their coming on?" he asked.
"The latter largely, the former possibly," she replied with an amused
look.
"Miss Emerson is a very pretty girl," he said.
"Beauty with money is a valuable asset for marriage with some needy
scion of the aristocracy," she observed.
"It is not confined to the needy in her case," he replied.
"I beg your pardon, Montague," she apologized.
"Oh, I'm not affected!" he laughed. "Since _you_ wouldn't have me, I've
retired."
"You never gave me the chance to have you--you never asked me!" she
laughed back.
"No--you were too occupied with Lorraine to give me the opportunity to
ask you."
"Lorraine?" she inflected contemptuously.
"You didn't say it _that_ way _then_," he replied.
"No--I was too blind to see." She arose. "I am going," she said; and
went down the crowded piazza with the same contemptuously ignoring
smile as at her coming.
As they neared the entrance--the eyes of all whom they had passed upon
them, the eyes of all those who were yet before them busy elsewhere--a
tall, good-looking young fellow sauntered out from the Club-house and
met them, face to face, before the door.
It was Harry Lorraine!
For an instant husband and wife confronted each other--while the
onlookers gasped, and gaped, and were silent. Never had they thought
to witness such a scene! Even Pendleton hesitated, uncertain what
would be Mrs. Lorraine's course. Assuredly it was a most unfortunate
contretemps--a trying moment.
She, however, did not seem to mind it in the least--the smile still
lingered on her lips as she paused and looked the man, whom she had
sworn before God's altar to love and to cleave to, calmly in the face.
It was a look of inquiry--is it to be an armed neutrality, or is it to
be war?
Then suddenly Lorraine's face changed. His startled surprise
vanished--he saw only the woman who had shamed him and disgraced
herself; and without a word, either of reproach or of greeting, he
turned from her and went back into the house.
A soft rustle passed over the craning throng, growing quickly into a
buzzing of whispers and low laughter:--Lorraine had refused even to
recognize her!
The next instant the Victoria drew up and Pendleton handed Mrs.
Lorraine in.
"That was Harry Lorraine's last chance," she said, as Montague bowed
over her hand. "I shall never go back to him now."
III
THE VACILLATOR
Lorraine, a scowl on his face and wrath in his heart, went slowly down
into the café--never seeing whom he passed--and made his way to a
secluded table in the darkest corner.
For a time he sat staring at the wall--across his mental vision floated
pictures of his courtship and his short married life--of the beautiful
woman he had caressed and who had caressed him--whose arms had been
around his neck--whose ruddy head had lain on his shoulder--whose lips
he had kissed--whose form he had embraced in a fury of tenderness--of
the woman who was his wife--who was his wife for yet a little time
longer, until the Courts could cut the bond asunder. The uncertainty
that had dominated him was ended. He knew his mind _now_--knew whether
he loved her still or whether that love was turned to hate. Why had
he not known sooner? Why had it taken him so long to realize it? Why
had he vacillated like a pendulum--not sure of himself nor of his
feelings? Why had he had _any_ feeling for her since she had none
for him?... He laughed--a little, bitter laugh--and turned his face
deeper into the shadow. It was not pleasant to contemplate. It had been
misery for him every day since that shameful one when he had found her
gone--and waiting, dazed and unbelieving, had read the truth in the
newspapers--the horrible, damning truth, that she had given herself to
another man.
And now--she had returned; flung aside by the man. Would he receive
her! take her back! take someone's else leavings! a dishonored
woman--lower than the hired ones who stand for pay, honest in their
dishonor.
Had she lost all idea of the fitness of things? Was she dead to every
sense of shame that she should thus show herself at the Club--to
all the mob--and flaunt her degradation before their very eyes--to
their vast enjoyment and bitter tongues? And then to have met him--by
accident, it was true; but none the less had she remained in seclusion
it would not have happened, and he would not have been compelled to
bear the ignominy of that scene, while a staringly curious crowd looked
on, laughing slyly and with zest.
It was horrible! horrible! He buried his face in his hands and groaned
in spirit. The humiliation of it all pressed down upon him with
overwhelming weight. He was ashamed to leave the Club-house--he was
ashamed to remain--he was ashamed to be seen--he was ashamed to----
"What's up, old chap?" said a hearty voice beside him. "Can't you put,
or have you been guessing wrong in the stock market--like the most of
us lately?"
Lorraine looked up to see Steuart Cameron stretch his long length in a
chair opposite and draw out his tobacco bag.
"Oh--is that you, Cameron?" said he. "No--that is, I've been feeling
a--bit out of sorts the last day or so--stomach, I reckon. Have
something?"
"No, thanks--I've cut it out for a month," replied Cameron, neatly
rolling a cigarette and licking it. "Do you know," striking a match
and holding his head to one side while he deftly applied the flame--"I
never before realized how long a month was--it's been a week since
yesterday."
"At that rate your month will be over in about four days," Lorraine
replied, with a forced laugh.
"That is an idea--I hadn't thought of it," said Cameron.
He had seen the meeting on the piazza and had followed Lorraine down
for the purpose of being with him--after a little. He was Lorraine's
particular friend, and he knew that presently it would be well for the
other to have some one to talk to.
Lorraine relapsed into moody silence. Cameron smoked and rattled ahead,
without pausing for answers nor seeming to note their absence.
Occasionally Lorraine stirred himself to throw out a reply, only to
fall again, after a moment, into silence. Cameron talked on--with never
a word however which could imply that he was waiting for his friend
to unburden himself. He was aware that Lorraine must break out to
some one--the longer he waited the surer it was, and the less likely
that he would choose his confidant. He would go off like a delayed
explosion--say things that later he would give much to unsay, and which
would be much better unsaid. But the unsaying being impossible, it was
best that he should say them to him--who would forget them.
It is not many friends who will voluntarily consent to act as safety
valves for the overflow of another's feelings--and then not tell. And
Cameron's patience and consideration were at last rewarded.
Lorraine shook himself--as though to get rid of his thoughts--and sat
up.
"Cameron," he said, "what shall I do? Stephanie is back--she was here
in the Club--just now. I met her on the front piazza--before them all!"
"I know," said Cameron, "I saw it."
Lorraine regarded him thoughtfully.
"And you followed me here so as to--it was mighty good of you, Steuart."
Cameron smiled sympathetically.
"What do you think you want to do?" said he.
Lorraine made a despairing gesture.
"I don't know--except that I shall never take her back," he replied.
"Um--what else is there to decide?" Cameron asked.
"Whether I also shan't kill Amherst!" exclaimed Lorraine.
Cameron shook his head. "It is too late now!"
"Too late for what?"
"To kill him."
"Why?"
"If you've cast off Stephanie, you've let him out."
"_What?_" Lorraine demanded. "_I've let him out?_"
"To my mind, yes. If another man goes off with my wife, I'm not
justified in killing him unless I'm ready to take my wife back. If she
is worthless it is folly to kill because of her. The killing is for her
honor--for having led her astray."
"And is my honor not to be considered?" asked Lorraine vehemently.
"How has your honor been affected?" returned Cameron gently.
"My God!--how hasn't it been affected! Didn't he run away with my wife?"
"He ran away with something that you say you don't want," Cameron
pursued.
"That is why I don't want her--because she betrayed me."
"Because she betrayed you may be valid ground for you to kill _her_--it
certainly isn't ground for killing _him_."
"Amherst is the man in the case, isn't he?"
"In the case _with her_--and her you have refused to recognize. The
ethics of the situation are involved and debatable but I repeat that
this much is clear: unless you are willing to take her back, you have
no justification nor excuse for killing Amherst."
"As you said before!" Lorraine remarked.
"As I said before--and as I shall say twenty times, if necessary, until
you see reason!"
"Suppose I _had_ taken her back--what then?"
"Then," said Cameron slowly--"it would depend on what _she_ wanted.
Your first duty would be to her."
Lorraine frowned and stared at the table.
"You may be right," he admitted, "but what do you think is my duty to
myself under the circumstances?"
"If I were in your place," Cameron answered, "I should first consider
whether to take her back----"
"I have considered, I tell you--it is impossible."
"Then I should forget her and everything connected with her. I should
turn the case over to my attorneys and go away until the trial. When
the divorce is granted, I should resume my old life as if I had never
been married."
"And Amherst--what would you do about him?" asked Lorraine.
"I should not think of him. To me, he would not exist."
"You have never been married!" commented Lorraine bitterly. "You cannot
know the impulse to violence--the impulse to kill. I want to see
him die--to choke him with my own hands--to feel his struggles--his
writhings--his gasps--to prolong his agony--to watch his face in the
death throes--to feel his last breath--sometimes, that is. At other
times, I am indifferent. I don't care what becomes of her or him--nor
myself. Why is it, Cameron, why is it?"
"It was the uncertainty--till you've made up your mind what to
do," Cameron answered. "But it is over now, old man. You have
decided.--Moreover you're likely to have plenty of time to master your
impulse to homicide. Amherst has gone to Europe with Mrs. Amherst. They
will likely be gone a long time."
"With Mrs. Amherst!" Lorraine exclaimed. "She has taken him back?"
"So to-night's _Telegraph_ says."
"H-u-m--I suppose some people will think I should do that too."
"Many persons, many minds," replied Cameron. "However, it's no one's
affairs but your own--so let them all go to the devil."
"It's different with Amherst," Lorraine reflected. "He's not smirched
so much."
"So Society thinks."
"What do _you_ think?"
"I think it is a question which concerns only the parties
interested--so deeply concerns them, indeed, that no one else has any
right to an opinion."
"In the abstract, no. But, in the practical, Society's view must
be considered--it says the woman's case is very different from the
man's--and it may make the husband feel it if he takes her back."
"Not for long--if he has the courage of his conduct, and fights," said
Cameron. "However, you are not confronted by any such condition. You've
met the situation according to custom. It is up to her now to do the
fighting back."
"I'm not concerned for her; she's just a--woman," said Lorraine curtly.
"No--you're not concerned for her," replied Cameron slowly; "not
concerned further than every man is concerned for a woman--that she
gets fair play and a square deal."
"I'm perfectly willing for Society even to forget her past, if it
wishes," said Lorraine. "I'm not vindictive. I'm indifferent. I'm done
with her forever."
"You look at it in the proper spirit, old man," Cameron encouraged.
"The time when men took the law into their own hands is past--with one
exception, possibly. Your course is dignified, and thoroughly within
your rights."
It had been easier than he had anticipated. Lorraine was steadier
than he had thought--had borne the meeting with reasonable fortitude,
considering the circumstances and the provocation. He leaned over and
put his hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Old fellow," he said, "don't misunderstand me--but--don't let
your feelings run away with you and say things to others that you
will regret. You'll have plenty to try you--plenty to make you
forget--plenty to anger you--but don't! don't! Bear in mind that this
is an occasion when silence is more than golden."
"I've been fairly steady--don't you think?" Lorraine asked. "I came
down here to avoid people--to get away. If I only could get away from
myself it would be much better for me. My thoughts are what madden."
"Don't think," advised Cameron--"it may be difficult--but try it."
"I've got to try it--I've nothing else to do," was the bitter answer.
"Good!--you've the right idea!"
"I've been doing little else than thinking for the last year and a
half," Lorraine continued. "It's the sight of her that stirs it up
afresh, just when I thought it overcome. I tell you, Cameron, you must
go through what I've gone through, loving your wife, to understand
and appreciate. It is well enough for you and the rest of my friends
to caution prudence--to resume the old life--to forget--to choose the
expedient way--but try it! only try it!" He brought his fist down
on the table. "It will be the damnedest hardest thing you have ever
attempted!"
"There is no possible doubt of that, Lorraine," Cameron agreed. "But
you're up against a hard proposition--one that tries men's souls, and
takes a man to meet and handle. You've handled it with great credit
thus far, old chap, and I want to see you handle it so to the end.
We're all interested, you know--interested because we're your friends."
"I know you are," said Lorraine. "I appreciate your regard more than I
can say. I'm not going to make a scene with--Stephanie; nor do anything
to Amherst--if he keeps away from me. This unexpected meeting with her
hasn't bereft me of quite all my senses--though it did stagger me for
a moment. I'm all right now, Cameron. I'll be strictly conventional,
hereafter, never fear."
"I'm not afraid," Cameron smiled. "The fateful moment has passed.
You'll be right as a trivet henceforth."
He gave his order to a passing boy, and this time Lorraine joined him.
"Are you staying here for dinner?" Lorraine asked presently.
Cameron nodded. "I'm dining with the Emersons--a sort of a pick-up
crowd, I fancy--at least I'm a pick-up. I wasn't asked until about half
an hour ago."
"The Emersons sure are coming along," Lorraine remarked. "It's the gold
key with them, all right--and they use it on every occasion. I venture
they try for Burgoyne--he has just returned from abroad. He is sort of
a celebrity, and a near-celebrity is better than nothing."
Cameron smiled and drank his high-ball. He had heard Lorraine holding
forth before on the Emersons and their kind.
"Look at the old man there!" Lorraine went on. "He is a good-natured
bounder--but he ought to be tending bar in a corner saloon rather than
hob-nobbing here. And as for Mrs. Emerson!----"
"How about the daughter?" Cameron inquired.
"Except for her family, Miss Emerson is all right. Only I shouldn't
want to marry her--I'd be afraid the children would breed back."
"With grandpa's money, and the present day advantages and forced
culture!" laughed Cameron. "I reckon not, my friend, I reckon not."
One of the attendants approached with a telephone instrument and
connected it with the wire at the side of the room.
"Some one wants to talk to you, Mr. Lorraine," he said, placing the
transmitter on the table and handing him the receiver.
"Excuse me, Cameron!" said Lorraine. "Hello!"
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Yes, this is Mr. Lorraine."
* * * * * * * * * * *
"This evening--at seven-thirty!"
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Why--yes--I shall be very glad to!"
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Not at all--the pleasure is mine, I assure you."
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Yes--good-bye!"
He put down the receiver and the man took the instrument away.
"I'm elected!" he remarked.
"To what?"
"To Mrs. Emerson's pick-me-up."
"Why didn't you decline?" Cameron asked.
"Decline! How the devil could I decline--when she held me on the
telephone! Damn the telephone, anyway."
"It's the old game!" laughed Cameron. "A man is helpless when a woman
gets him there. He would dine with his cook, or take the laundress to
the theatre, if she asked him over the telephone."
But to himself he was thinking:
"Mrs. Emerson knows of that scene on the piazza and wants to have the
most talked-of man in the Club at her table to-night. She is long for
the main chance."
IV
A QUESTION OF FRIENDS
Stephanie Lorraine, choosing a round-about route through the Park,
drove slowly homeward--passing on the way numerous acquaintances and
erstwhile friends, who, if they were men, looked their surprise and
spoke pleasantly; if they were women, pretended not to see her, or,
having seen her, either looked away or bowed distantly--very distantly.
The more unstable their social position the more distant was the bow.
Just at the exit from the Park, her Victoria was stopped by a sudden
congestion in the traffic ahead. Preoccupied, she did not notice it
until she heard a voice exclaim:
"Why, Stephanie Lorraine!" Gladys Chamberlain in riding togs and crop
was at the curb and holding out her hand in greeting. "You dear girl!
How do you do?"
"Pretty fit, thank you," Stephanie smiled.
"When did you get back?"
"Several days ago. I'm at my mother's,--if you care to come around."
"Why _surely_ I'll be around, Stephanie--I'd ride back with you now,
but I expect to meet my groom here with my mare. Will you be home
to-morrow?"
Mrs. Lorraine looked at her intently for an instant.
"Do you appreciate just what you are doing?" she asked.
"Certainly I do--I'm going to visit an old friend--who is a friend
still--and always will be, I hope."
Stephanie put out her hand again. "Thank you, Gladys, but I think you
ought to know that the Club-house piazza refused to recognize me a few
minutes ago."
"I'm not controlled by the Club-house piazza, Stephanie dear," said
Miss Chamberlain gently.
"You may be very lonely in your friendship," Stephanie warned. "The
only two who spoke to me at the Club were Montague Pendleton and
Sheldon Burgoyne--the rest didn't even see me."
"I would bank on Pendleton, and on Burgoyne, too. They are _men_."
"They came to the front of the house to meet me--assisted me from
the carriage--escorted me through the crowd to their table--sat with
me--and Montague went back with me and put me in the Victoria. It was a
brave thing to do--and I told him so."
"How like Montague Pendleton," said Gladys. "And it was brave too of
you to go there and beard the old dowagers and tabbies to their very
faces. They can't but respect you for it."
"They are more likely to view it as shameless effrontery," Stephanie
answered.
"Let them--they are apt to say anything for a time. Then they will hurt
themselves playing follow-my-leader--and trying to distance her."
[Illustration: THE OFFENDER]
"Who is the leader?" Stephanie smiled.
"Whoever starts first," said Miss Chamberlain contemptuously. "They're
all afraid to commence anything unconventional, but when _one_ ventures
they all break after her, and then it's bally-ho! for the race. You've
noticed it, surely?"
"I can't say I have--but then I've not been very observant of the
dowagers and the tabbies."
"And of course they like you accordingly. Well, who cares? You didn't
have to regard them--before, so why regard them now? They'll come
around, Stephanie, never fear. If you make the pace as hot as you seem
to have made it this afternoon, they'll be along in full cry shortly.
Wait until some of their men folks have had _their_ say--there will
likely be another thought coming to them then. I've great faith in the
men--they prevent us from becoming cats."
A groom rode up leading a spanking bay mare. Touching his hat he
dismounted. Miss Chamberlain swung up lightly astride and gathered the
reins.
"Until to-morrow morning then--at eleven?" she asked.
"Whenever it suits you," Stephanie smiled.
"I'll be there on the dot," said Gladys--and with a little laugh and a
nod she rode away.
Stephanie continued her drive homeward. The way was pleasanter now--she
was not alone--Gladys would stand by her--and with Gladys would come
others of her old intimates. The first was the hardest--the rest would
follow in time, depending on the independence of the individual and
the extent and force of the opposition. It might take a year for her
to be rehabilitated--for Society to white-wash her or to forget--or
it might take only a month. At all events, she was going to try it.
She would rather enjoy the struggle--enjoy fighting those who were
opposed. She always had despised the conventional ones--those who were
afraid--those whose God was Society's good opinion, and who worshipped
at the altar of commonplaceness and custom. True she was a false wife,
branded so all could see; but she knew that, except for the brand,
she was not alone. She was in good company; only, the others were
ostensibly regular, while she had broken over and had left no room
for doubt nor for exercise of a discretionary blindness. She had been
honest about it--she had gone away never to come back, she thought. She
had staked herself openly and unreservedly before the whole world, with
the intention never to seek for restitution. The others staked nothing
unless found out--they broke the seventh commandment with impunity, but
discreetly and with due regard for the conventions. And the very ones
who were breaking, or had broken it, would be the most frigid to her
now. She smiled a bit sarcastically. It was the way of the world, and
she knew it years ago, so she had nothing to cry over. They also were
doing the conventional and the proper--and looking out for themselves.
When she had melted the ice around her sufficiently for them to sail
up to her without endangering their own crafts in the floe, they would
come promptly and with dispatch. Until then she was aware they would
hold off.
When she arrived at home a limousine was standing before the door. Her
mother was entertaining a visitor in the piazza-room, and she passed on
upstairs.
Presently Mrs. Mourraille entered. She was an older edition of
Stephanie, except that her hair was black and her eyes grey--the honest
grey that one instinctively trusts and is rarely deceived in. Now they
bore the trace of suffering, and her hair was beginning to whiten--had
begun during the last year, her intimates observed.
Stephanie arose quickly from the dressing-table, where she had been
straightening out her own auburn tresses before the glass, and gliding
swiftly over bent and kissed her mother on the cheek.
"Sit here, dearest," she said. "I noticed Mrs. Parsons was with you
when I came in, so I didn't stop."
"I saw you," Mrs. Mourraille smiled--"and so did Mrs. Parsons!"
"What did she say?"
"Not a word vocally; but she said many things by her face--chiefly
bewilderment and concern."