for a year or two--till the thing died down. Now it will depend on
Stephanie herself whether she can force Society's hand."
"Is that her idea, do you think--to force Society's hand?"
"I don't know that she has formed any idea. She has been home only a
day or two, you must remember."
"Judging from this afternoon--I should say she hasn't," remarked
Burgoyne. "To come to the Club was about the wildest thing she could
have done--and then, as a climax, to meet Lorraine right in the centre
of the spot light! He seems to have known his mind when it came to the
pinch. I understand he gave her his back."
"He did. So far as they two are concerned the decision is made
finally," Pendleton replied. "The last hope of a reconciliation is
past."
An hour later, when the piazza was almost deserted, two men came from
the house and sat down some little distance away from the quiet corner
where Pendleton and Burgoyne still lingered.
"Who are they?" said Burgoyne.
"Porshinger and Murchison," Pendleton replied--"both new ones, also,
since you've been gone. They are long on money but short on breeding
and manners."
"How did they get in?"
"Climbed in some way--otherwise bought their way in. Porshinger
is a capitalist, who capitalized some of the Board of Governors;
and Murchison is a big broker who gave a couple of them tips that
eventuated. _Voilà!_"
"They are bounders, I suppose--like Emerson?"
"Of a different kind. Emerson is a good sort--these fellows are
bounders of the offensive type. Emerson wants to be a gentleman
and tries to be one--Porshinger _et al._ neither wants to be nor
tries. It is a great thing, now-a-days, being one of the Governors
of a fashionable club--when the new rich are climbing upward on the
golden ladder. Many impoverished fortunes have been restored, even to
affluence, by prospective candidates for admission."
"Has it come to be so bad as that?" said Burgoyne astonished.
"It has. Within the last two years there have been at least a score of
candidates elected to membership in this and other fashionable clubs
who have bought their election by before-and-after favors to certain
members of the Boards."
"What are we coming to?" Burgoyne exclaimed.
"The aristocracy of dollars. In a few years those of moderate means,
like ourselves, will be rooted out of our place by the gold hogs. They
will make it so expensive that we cannot belong. Already the old
families are beginning to drop out because of the cost: the doubled
dues--the higher priced card--the increased style of doing even the
simplest things--and, if they have wives or daughters or both, the
elaborate dressing that is necessary if they want them to look even
half decent and to be asked anywhere. They can't afford to keep up the
pace. So there's nothing to do but to drop out. Our time is coming,
Burgoyne--we may last longer because we have no feminine appendages,
but our limit will be reached, also--it is only a question of a very
little longer."
"Well, we shall be in good company at all events!" laughed Burgoyne.
"Yes, that is the recompense," commented Pendleton. "But it riles me to
go down before these contemptible crowders-out, like the two yonder."
Burgoyne did not respond immediately and Porshinger's harsh voice came
floating over.
"Did you see the Lorraine episode this afternoon?" he chuckled. "She
came _here_--actually had the audacity to come here--and she bumped
into Lorraine right there on the piazza--and he gave her the frozen
face _hard_. It was great."
"Just what Lorraine should have done," Murchison replied. "It's an
infernal shame that our wives and daughters should be subjected to
such effrontery. The woman has about as much idea of decency as a
professional of the street--to come still warm from Amherst's arms and
flaunt herself before them all. I should have thought the little shame
she has left would have held her from this last atrocity."
"She's a mighty good looker all right!" the other remarked. "I don't
blame Amherst--not in the least."
"Sure--she's a screamer--the tall, willowy sort--Kipling's vampire
kind, you know the style?" Porshinger laughed. "I wonder who will be
the next one. I should not much mind taking a flyer at her myself."
Pendleton pushed back his chair sharply and got up.
"Come along," he said to Burgoyne. "I may need your help."
He drew out his gloves and crossed the piazza to the two men.
"Well, you have the requisite amount in your clothes," Murchison was
saying. "But I fancy you'll have to move fast if you want to stand any
chance."
"Why?"
"Because she has----"
The rest of the remark was cut short by Pendleton's gloves falling with
a snap across Porshinger's mouth.
"What the devil!" cried he, sitting up.
Crack! Again the gloves came down, and a button marked the skin of the
cheek till the blood oozed out.
"I don't like the cut of your coat, Mr. Porshinger!" said Pendleton.
"And just because I don't like it I'm going to give you a thrashing.
Stand up and defend yourself. I don't want to hit even a cur when he's
down."
"What in hell do you mean?" Porshinger shouted. "I've got no quarrel
with you, Pendleton! What in hell do I care whether you like the cut of
my coat or not--I'm no tailor."
"Aren't you? I thought you were--I apologize to the tailors," said
Pendleton easily. "Put up your hands, you dirty scoundrel, or haven't
you a single spark of courage in you?"
"I don't understand you!" protested Porshinger, edging away. "What have
I done to you, Pendleton?"
"I've told you I don't like the cut of your coat," was the answer. "Put
up your hands, if you don't want me to take my stick to you."
"The man must have lost his mind! Mr. Burgoyne, can't you do
something?" Porshinger cried, retreating until his back was against the
railing.
For answer, Pendleton's left shot out and tapped Porshinger lightly on
the nose.
"Put up your hands," said he, and tapped him again.
Murchison sprang between them.
"Stop!" he cried. "What do you mean, Pendleton?"
"I've already answered that question several times," Pendleton replied.
"Sheldon, will you be kind enough to take charge of Mr. Murchison?"
"Come to think of it I don't like the cut of your coat either, Mr.
Murchison," said Burgoyne. "Oblige me by standing aside."
"What's the matter with you damn fools?" demanded Murchison. "Are you
trying to pick a fight?"
"Yes," said Pendleton quietly, "but we are meeting with very poor
success;" and he tapped Porshinger a third time--and harder.
"Well, if that's what you're after we'll accommodate you!" exclaimed
Murchison. "Porshinger, let's give them what's coming to them"--and
picking up a chair he let it drive at Burgoyne's head.
The next few minutes were very busy for all parties concerned--and
when the astonished servants, attracted by the noise of overturning
tables and shifting feet, hurried to the scene, Porshinger and
Murchison were bearing their contusions down to the wash-room, while
Pendleton and Burgoyne, without a scratch upon them--except for abraded
knuckles--were in their chairs and smoking peacefully.
"What was it all about--why did they start the rough house?" Porshinger
demanded, while they were repairing the damages.
"Don't you know?" asked Murchison.
"If I knew I wouldn't have asked you!" the other retorted.
"They overheard our talk about Mrs. Lorraine and resented it, I think,"
said Murchison.
"Hell! I might have known--Pendleton and Burgoyne met her when she came
here this afternoon. Well, I fancy we can square off with them; Mrs.
Lorraine is a pretty fair target--and Pendleton is not invulnerable to
those who know how to reach him."
"You would better let Pendleton alone," cautioned Murchison.
"What! I think not. I'm not that sort. He started the fight so I'm
going to accommodate him. Didn't like the cut of our coats, didn't
they? What the devil did they mean by that--what's our clothes
got to do with starting a rough-house?" he reiterated. "I don't
understand--they didn't mention the Lorraine woman's name!"
"No, that is just it!" Murchison remarked. "They didn't mention her
name; they chose some fool pretext for a quarrel so as not to mix her
up with it. I've read of the thing, but I've never seen it before.
Pretty neat dodge: I don't like the cut of your coat, or whiskers, or
cravat, or trousers--so I'll knock your infernal block off. Biff! And
the lady's name never mentioned! It's damn neat."
Porshinger looked at him in disgust.
"Why don't you go and tell them so!" he sneered. "They'll likely be
courteous and biff you again."
"Probably they would," admitted Murchison good-naturedly.
"I didn't know they were so handy with their fists," Porshinger
growled--he was bathing an eye in cold water.
"Maybe we were only particularly unhandy with ours," the other
remarked. "At any rate, they're better than us, all right."
"Better at the fist-game, yes," retorted Porshinger. "We'll see now if
they're better at some other games, damn them."
"Better forget it--and hold our tongues," Murchison advised again.
"Forget it? Not me! I never forget an injury--and I usually square off
my debts. See!"
VI
ON THE BRIDLE-PATH
The talk which Stephanie and Gladys Chamberlain had the following
morning was prolonged into the after luncheon hours.
It was an intimate, personal conference, wherein Stephanie recounted
every material incident of the Amherst affair. She told her friend all,
freely and without reserve: how the affair started; how it progressed;
of Lorraine's indifference or blindness; how it culminated; where she
and Amherst went; what they did; how they avoided their acquaintances;
how she grew to hate Amherst; his brutalities and meannesses; their
slow rupture; the final break; the return, with the episode of
yesterday on the Club-house piazza, and her husband's refusal even to
recognize her.
"He wasn't altogether accountable, I fancy," said Gladys kindly. "He
has had his trials too, Stephanie, you must remember."
"I do remember--or I try to," Stephanie replied; "but I can never
forget his conduct or his want of conduct--his stupidity and want of
sight. He could have saved me, and he _didn't_."
"Would you have given up Amherst, if Harry had demanded it of you?"
"Yes--if he had _demanded it like a man_. If he had thrashed Amherst
within an inch of his life, I think I should have adored him."
"Instead, he did the usual thing--thought that his wife could be
trusted, or he didn't perceive. In either of which events, I don't see
that he is much to blame. Give Henry Lorraine his due, dear. He isn't
much of a character possibly; he is irresolute and hesitating despite
his size and appearance. Yet I had hoped that you would make it up--for
your sake."
"For my sake!" marvelled Stephanie.
"It's a lot easier, you know," Gladys nodded, "to resume the old life,
than to cut out a new one--now."
"Perhaps so--but how long would the reconciliation last?"
"Long enough for Society to forget the past. If the husband forgives,
who else may say a word?"
"It may be the way of expediency; it is not my way," answered
Stephanie. "However, if Harry Lorraine had made the slightest sign of
forgiveness--of recognition when he saw me--even if he had but bowed,
it might be different. Now, I am done with him forever."
"Don't you think you put him to a rather hard test?" asked Gladys.
"Without a word of warning you encountered him on the Club-house
piazza, before the assembled mob, and he--failed. Could you expect
anything else from one of his character?"
"Possibly not," admitted Stephanie, as she daintily flicked the ash
from her tiny cigarette. "He is true to type, and it is the type to
which I object. Between taking him back (assuming that he would have
me back) or fighting it out alone, I much prefer to fight it out
alone. It may require longer, but it hasn't the drag.... I had thought
of going elsewhere, but that will only postpone the struggle a little
while and will make it all the harder when it comes--for sooner or
later they are sure to find me out. I even considered changing my
name--that, too, has innumerable obstacles, with the necessity of
living a lie and the constant fear of being detected." She flung her
cigarette out of the window and flexed her silken knees under her.
"So, on the whole, I thought it better to return and fight. I can down
it soonest, if at all, at my home; and then it will stay down. I have
a nasty thing to confront. I've been all kinds of a fool, and no one
realizes it more than myself; but I'm not going to be weighted down
with Harry Lorraine, nor to sacrifice myself again for him--no not even
for a little while, not even for my rehabilitation. He didn't save me
when he might, and I'm not going to give him another chance. I prefer
to make my way alone without any aid from him."
"Without any aid from him, possibly, but not _alone_," Gladys replied.
"Some of your friends are standing by you, and more will follow--many
more, I hope, and soon. I shall ask Margaret Middleton, Arabella
Rutledge, Helen Burleston, and Sophia Westlake to lunch with us
Tuesday. They will do as a starter, I think."
"My dear Gladys!" Stephanie exclaimed, "I don't deserve such friendship
as yours. I am----"
The other interrupted her with a gesture.
"You are Stephanie Mourraille to me--no matter what you did or may do.
Isn't that enough? So let us forget it."
"I can't forget it, dear," Stephanie answered.
"Well, you can make a bluff at it!" Gladys laughed, as she arose to
go. "I'll telephone you to-morrow about the luncheon, unless I see you
before then. What are you doing to-morrow morning?"
"I've nothing to do," said Stephanie. "I'm not pressed with engagements
as yet."
"I hope not--I want mine to be the first," Gladys returned easily.
"I'll be at home all morning so if you can come over you'll find me in."
"Do you quite appreciate what you're about to do?" Stephanie protested.
Gladys stopped and looked at her thoughtfully a moment.
"Stephanie," said she, "if you are going to play this hand through you
must not think for your friends. Let them think for you, and act as
they see fit--and don't you be bothering about what is _past_."
"I'm _not_ bothering--except for my friends," was the answer.
"And your friends are amply able to look out for themselves. They are
not obligated to do anything for you unless they choose. You just sit
tight in the saddle and give the mare her head--above all, don't fret
her. You understand."
"I understand," said Stephanie, "but I fear I'll do nothing but fret
them, so to speak--at least for a time. Under the circumstances, I'm
rather a weight to carry, especially when the going is apt to be both
rough and heavy."
"You can never tell what the going is until you ride it," said Gladys
heartily. "Sometimes the field worse on the surface is the best
underneath."
After Gladys had gone, Stephanie grew restless. She tried to read, but
she could not keep her mind on even the print; as for the story, it
made no more impression on her than a passing carriage.... Presently
she laid the book aside and tried to sleep.... It was futile also--more
futile even than the attempt to read.... Finally the restlessness
became unbearable in the quiet of the house. She sprang up; she would
go out--maybe the soft spring air and the out-of-doors would calm her.
She wanted to go--go--go! To do something....
She dressed hurriedly--putting on a quiet street-suit with a small hat,
and a white veil to conceal her face from the casual passer-by. As she
passed her mother's door Mrs. Mourraille saw her.
"I'm going out for a walk," Stephanie said in answer to the look of
polite inquiry. "I must do something--I'm as nervous as a filly."
"It will do you good," replied Mrs. Mourraille. "Do you wish me to go
with you?"
"If you don't mind, _ma mère_, I think I can walk off better alone--you
understand?"
"Perfectly, my dear," her mother smiled. "We understand each other, I
hope," as Stephanie bent and kissed her.
Once on the Avenue and swinging along at rapid pace, Stephanie felt
better--the restlessness was having vent.
It was Sunday and the people she passed were mainly of the working
class. They were out for an airing on the only day of the week that
permitted. Occasionally she encountered some one whom she knew, but
the veil was excuse for neither seeing them, nor noticing that they
saw--if they did. Now and then, some man would stare impertinently at
her; but it lasted only for the instant. She was passing, and she did
not mind--for there again the veil was her protection, though she knew
that, like enough, the veil was the reason or the excuse for the stare.
She reached the entrance to the Park and turned in, choosing presently
a bridle-path that took off from the main drive. It was retired and
quiet, and ran amid the great trees from which vines hung in huge
festoons of verdure. The path was soft and in fine condition, and
on the turf that bordered it the foot fell without sound or shock.
Overhead the birds whistled and sang, the wind played lightly among the
leaves through which the sun penetrated timidly as though uncertain of
its welcome.
After a mile or two she unconsciously hummed a song, and realized it
only when it ended and the break came. She smiled to herself, and began
to whistle softly one of the airs from _In a Persian Garden_. When it
was finished, she whistled it again.
Presently she came to a rustic seat--a plank between two trees. She
had walked now for more than an hour and the cool shade and the quiet
spot appealed to her. She sat down and undid her veil. She would stay
a moment and rest her eyes--the white mesh had been more than usually
severe under the glint of the light through the foliage. Not a soul had
passed her since she had entered on the bridle-path. The noise of the
city was very distant--she could scarcely hear it. At intervals came
the faint clang of a gong, the whistle of a locomotive, the exhaust of
an automobile on an up-grade.
She did not see the man who, his horse's bridle rein over his arm,
rounded the turn and came slowly toward her. Her back was toward them
and on the soft path the steps of the horse were almost without noise.
When she did hear them and, startled, swung suddenly around, it was to
come face to face with Harry Lorraine.
The recognition was mutual and simultaneous.
He stopped and surveyed her with scrutinizing glance--a bit of a frown
furrowed between the eyes, the eyes themselves half closed.
She regarded him with a look as impersonally indifferent as though he
were the most casual stranger, then shifted it with interest to his
horse.
"So!" he said, after a moment's steady stare. "You have returned--after
your paramour has cast you off. Whom do you wait for now, I wonder?"
The cold insult of the words were more than she could endure.
"Not you, at all events!" she retorted.
He laughed mirthlessly--a hollow, mocking laugh that seemed to wrench
his very soul.
"No, not me," he answered--"even _your_ effrontery would hesitate at
the same victim twice."
She shrugged her shoulders and made no reply.
He waited, while the horse drew over and began to crop the grass at her
feet. At length, he spoke again.
"What do you intend to do, Mrs. Lorraine--have you come back with the
purpose of driving some bargain with me--a bargain that will leave you
a trifling semblance of your good name?"
A slight smile curled her lovely lips but she made no answer.
"Because, if you have," he went on, "I warn you that it will be
unavailing."
The idea of his warning her of anything now, after the way he had stood
back and let her drift upon the rocks, was so intensely absurd that she
laughed.
"_You_ would warn me!" she inflected. "Warn me!" and she laughed again.
"Do you think you are capable of warning any one?"
He saw her meaning and his face grew pale with anger.
"You think that I might have warned you before?" he broke out. "Yes, I
might----"
"And you did not!" she interrupted. "Therefore you are a contemptible
knave not to have saved your own wife."
"I might have warned you," he repeated slowly, "if I had suspected you
were in danger of forgetting your marriage vows."
"Then you were a fool for not realizing it.--_You_ had plenty of
warning."
"Plenty of warning, yes--in the light of the after events. But no
warning whatever on the basis of trust and confidence. I never thought
of your being _crooked_, until you proved it before all the world."
"Just so!" she exclaimed. "I proved it before all the world--which
think you is worse: the woman who does, or the husband who through
blindness or indifference suffers another man to rob him of his wife
before his very eyes?"
"The wife who is worthless is never missed!" he retorted.
"Then what quarrel have you for my going?" she demanded, "more than
hurt vanity?"
"It's not your going--it's your coming back that irritates me."
"Irritates!" she laughed. "I am sorry to have irritated you--sorry to
have irritated one so childish. It may affect your mind, Mr. Lorraine."
"If my mind has survived the last two years, I think it can survive a
trifle more. Nevertheless," he sneered, "I am deeply sensible of the
consideration you would show me."
"What are you going to do about it?" she asked sharply.
"I don't quite follow your train of thought," he answered.
"Of course not--it was dreadfully involved," she mocked. "I beg your
pardon, Mr. Lorraine. I meant what are you going to do now that I
_have_ returned--divorce me?"
"Yes--divorce you," he answered bluntly.
"And without delay?"
"As quickly as the Courts can cut us asunder."
"I am glad," she said. "I rather feared you might make overtures for a
reconciliation."
"A reconciliation?" he exclaimed incredulously.
She nodded. "You seem uncertain of your own mind--your letters, you
know, were rather childish and vacillating."
"I know my own mind now, thank God," he answered, his voice tense.
"If I didn't know it before, it was because your beauty had befuddled
it into imbecility. Oh! you may smile, with all the assumed credulity
you can muster, but nevertheless you know in your own heart that I
speak the truth. I _did_ love you--loved every part of you, from your
glorious hair to your slender arched feet. Loved your proud, cold face,
that can glow warm enough upon occasion--I've seen it glow for me--and
often; and your lips that were made for kisses--and your arms--and your
flawless shoulders, white as marble, and soft as----"
Her derisive laugh broke in on him.
"Be careful, sir, or the recollection of my charms may cause you to
change your mind _again_," she cautioned.
For a space he was silent. And she was silent, too--waiting.
At last he spoke, slowly and deliberately.
"No," he said; "the time when you held me by a smile and a nod has
passed. You are just as beautiful, just as alluring, but your body is
soiled with the touch of another's hands. Your lips, your hair, your
arms, your shoulders--everything--have all been defiled by Amherst's
caresses, and by yours."
"Am I then so polluted?" she queried. "At least," slowly stretching
out her lithe limbs and looking herself over, "I see no trace of
it--neither do I feel it in me."
"Your honor is not sufficiently developed to feel it, there's the
pity," he answered. "You will catch another man with the same
indifference you forsook me, or were yourself forsaken by Amherst. And
your basilisktic beauty will be fatal alike to them and to you."
"Are you a prophet?" she asked.
"One does not need to be a prophet to foresee the apparent," he
retorted.
She laughed pityingly.
"You had me unpolluted--why did you not keep me so?" she asked. "I
was yours, why did you not hold me fast? You could had you tried.
If I am as beautiful as you would have me believe, you were not
alone in knowing it. Therefore it was for you to guard me; you were
my husband--and you did not. Hence you are either faithless or
incompetent, so you have only yourself to blame."
"A naturally good woman doesn't have to be guarded," he sneered.
"Which shows how little--how very little--you know!" she smiled. "You
are scarcely fit to be out of the nursery, Harry--you need a guardian,
not a wife."
"The Divorce Court at least will relieve me of the wife," he
retorted--"and I shall not want another very soon."
"I trust not," she replied.