falling in perfect time. An amused smile broke over Stephanie's
face when she recognized Helen Burleston and Devonshire. As they
flashed by, the former nodded pleasantly, the latter raised his hat.
Their surprised looks, however, were not concealed--nor Lorraine's
embarrassed acknowledgment.
"We are creating a scandal--a fearful scandal!" Stephanie laughed.
"Husband and wife, about to be divorced, have been caught talking
together in a secluded bridle-path in the Park. What can it mean?"
"It can mean anything their imagination may suggest--except the truth!"
exclaimed Lorraine. "No one will ever believe it is a chance encounter."
"Thanks," said she. "You do me that much credit, at least."
"Yes; I fancy I may truthfully assume that this meeting is
unpremeditated on your part as well as on mine--though you doubtless
are expecting some one," he sneered. "Else why are you here?"
"For _once_ you do me an injustice," she replied ironically.
"The circumstances speak for themselves--a secluded by-path,
unfrequented on Sunday afternoons, especially by pedestrians--the thick
veil which you have just laid aside, doubtless to prepare for the
greeting."
"All of which you know perfectly well is not the truth!" she laughed.
He answered with an expressive shrug.
"It is not the way of those with whom you intimate that I properly
belong, to appoint a rendezvous for such a place," she remarked.
"Their ways differ--this is your way. You are rather--unconventional,
you know."
"Have it as you will," said she indifferently; "though, if you are
correct in your assumption, don't you think the man is very laggard at
the tryst?"
"Or you are early!" he cut in. "Ah! perhaps he comes!" as the canter of
a horse was heard around the bend.
A moment later, Montague Pendleton came in sight.
Instantly the occurrence of yesterday at the Club--Pendleton's
pre-nuptial admiration, together with the rumors current at that time,
flashed to his mind. He leaned forward and bent his eyes on Stephanie's
face--to meet her amusing glance.
"Perhaps he _does_ come!" he said. "Perhaps I am _de trop_."
"Then why don't you go?" she asked indifferently.
It was like a blow in the face--and it angered as a blow--sharply,
hotly.
He took a step toward her--recovered himself--stopped--glared at her
an instant--then faced Pendleton, who was just at hand, and motioned
for him to stop.
Instantly Pendleton drew rein and dismounted. His surprise he concealed
under the well-bred air of courteous greeting.
"What does it mean?" he thought. "Have they become reconciled--is it a
chance meeting--has Stephanie reconsidered--has Lorraine made his peace
for the affront of yesterday?"
One glance at Lorraine's face, however, answered him. There had been
no reconciliation--no peace made; rather had the breach widened, if
that were possible. He put his arm through his bridle-rein, and coming
forward took Stephanie's hand and pressed it meaningly--and got an
answering pressure back. Then he nodded pleasantly to Lorraine.
"You will pardon me for intruding!" Lorraine exclaimed. "I didn't
realize, until a moment ago, that Mrs. Lorraine had an appointment here
with you."
Pendleton understood a little now--and he turned to Stephanie with a
politely interrogating air.
"Mr. Lorraine seems to be laboring under some excitement, Stephanie,"
he said, "may I ask you to explain--if you think it worth while. I'll
not misunderstand, however, if you do not."
"Mr. Lorraine does me the honor to think that I have an appointment
to meet you here--and that he has discovered us," she answered,
unperturbed.
"Is that what you mean, Lorraine?" Pendleton inquired.
"That is exactly what I mean," he burst out. "Else why do I find her
here and waiting--and why do you come?"
"Don't be foolish, Lorraine," said Pendleton kindly.--"You don't mean
that--you're overwrought and nervous----"
"I'm not overwrought nor nervous!" Lorraine exclaimed. "And neither
am I foolish any longer. I _was_ blind _once_, but I'm not blind now.
Amherst's gone--and you're substituted."
Pendleton looked at him doubtfully--was it hurt pride or just plain
jealousy? He could not determine. Stephanie _had_ lost Amherst; but
she had come back and Lorraine had denied her--and yet, here he was
positively shaking with rage, because he thought he had surprised her
in a rendezvous with another man. He had cast her off before all the
world, and yet he wanted still to dictate as to what she did!
Pendleton glanced at Stephanie; she flashed him a smile, and shook her
head not to become involved in a quarrel.
"Well, what have you to say?" sputtered Lorraine.
"Before I answer," returned Pendleton calmly, "I would like to know by
what right you ask?"
"By what right I ask! By what right do you think I ask. Isn't she still
my wife?"
"She is your _wife_--but you have lost all right to supervise her
actions. She is free of you--absolutely free. You made her free on the
Club-house piazza yesterday. You have no more authority over her than
any other man--you have less, indeed, for you renounced even that when
you disowned her and cast her adrift."
"So long as she bears my name, she shall not trail it in the mire in
this town by a vulgar, public assignation, if I can prevent it. I
have cause enough without that disgrace!" Lorraine declared. "Until
the Courts have divorced us she shall be decent, ostensibly at
least--afterward I don't care what she does nor when."
Pendleton frowned.
"That is discourteously blunt language, Lorraine," he replied.
"It is not the time nor the _occasion_ to mince words," Lorraine
retorted. "You are here by pre-arrangement and----"
"That is a lie--and you know it's a lie," Pendleton answered.
"In the light of _her_ past or of yours?" was the sneering question.
Pendleton hesitated what to answer. The man was plainly laboring under
intense excitement. His hands were trembling, his face was flushed, he
was beating a tatoo on his boot with his crop.
Suddenly Stephanie spoke. She had remained sitting down until now.
"I think it is better that I should continue my walk," she remarked.
"You men are not apt to come to an understanding, so let us go our
respective ways. Mr. Pendleton, I thank you more than I can say--and
I shall be glad to see you at my home any time you choose to call. I
shall wait until you both are gone."
"Come, Lorraine!" Pendleton laughed good-naturedly. "We will go
together."
On Stephanie's account he was willing to do anything to get him off.
"No--we will _not_ go together," Lorraine replied curtly, ignoring the
other's friendly tones and manner. "You'll go first, and I'll follow to
see that you don't come back."
His bearing was quite as insulting as his words, but Pendleton did not
seem to notice. It was the indulgent man and the complaining boy.
And Stephanie understood and gave Pendleton a quick glance of
appreciation. He was trying to save her from further annoyance, she
knew, and she loved him for it, but she had endured so much the last
two years that she was hardened to a callous indifference. Once she
would have been shamed to the earth by Lorraine's accusation; now it
made no impression on her--she simply shrugged it aside. Indeed, she
found herself studying its revelations as to her husband's character,
and pitying him for this exposition of his weakness and vacillation.
"Perhaps I would better go first since Mr. Lorraine is so exacting
and distrustful of a _friend_," she interposed. "Good-bye, Montague,"
giving him her hand; "I seem to be unfortunate lately with all who are
disposed to be nice to me. It won't always be so, I hope; I am not all
bad!" she smiled.
And with never a look at Lorraine, she passed in front of him and went
down the path toward town.
Lorraine watched her go--and Pendleton watched Lorraine. When she had
passed around the bend, the former turned slowly and encountered the
latter's eyes.
"Pendleton," said he impulsively, "I apologize! I didn't mean it--I
think I'm crazy--I must be crazy. Won't you shake hands with me?"
"Of course I will, Lorraine," Pendleton replied. "And you don't need to
apologize to _me_--apologize to Stephanie. She is the one you owe it
to."
Lorraine's face hardened.
"What do you think she owes me?" he asked.
"We are not computing the balance on the Amherst affair--we are dealing
with the present instance, and in it you were wholly at fault. Because
she slipped once, doesn't imply that she slips constantly, nor does
it excuse you for assuming that fact. Good God! man, give your wife
credit for regretting her mistake and wanting to live it down--it's the
normal and rational way to look at it. Be a little charitable in your
view--Stephanie needs it--we all need it."
"Do you mean that I should not divorce her--that I should take her
back?"
"That question you must decide for yourself."
"I ask for your opinion."
Pendleton shook his head.
"You must decide for yourself," he repeated, preparing to mount.
"I shall decide for myself--but I want your opinion," Lorraine
persisted.
Pendleton let his hand rest on the pommel of his saddle and considered.
What was the best for Stephanie--to return to Lorraine or to be free of
him? He was not sure she knew herself; yet he wanted to help her even
in a little, if his advice would be a feather-weight toward that end.
"Tell me!" exclaimed Lorraine again.
He made a quick resolution--it could do no harm--it would still be for
her to determine:
"I should by all means take her back--if she will have you," he
answered.
"If she will have me!" Lorraine interrogated in surprise. "You think
there is any doubt about it?"
"Candidly I do--very material doubt, indeed."
"You say that with knowledge--you have talked with her!" Lorraine
cried, instantly suspicious.
"I saw Mrs. Lorraine but a few minutes at the Club-house, yesterday.
Is it likely she would discuss you there?" Pendleton replied. "It was
not until she was leaving, remember, that she encountered you and
your--rebuff."
It was an unfortunate speech. Pendleton realized it as the last word
was said.
It brought to Lorraine's mind the scene of yesterday, and his
decision--made before them all. He had refused to recognize her
then--should he reverse himself within twenty-four hours--make himself
the laughing stock of every one--prove himself a mere will-o-the-wisp?
He had been about to dash after Stephanie and apologize--to ask her
to come back--to forgive and forget the past. But now he was not
so sure--he must take time to consider--must ponder the situation
gravely--must----
He looked at Pendleton, indecision showing in his face and sounding in
his voice as he replied:
"It is a serious matter--I must think over it, Pendleton, I must think
over it. I will know what to do to-morrow--and to-morrow is time enough
to decide a matter that has been in abeyance for two years."
Pendleton nodded.
"Very well," he replied. "I said it is a matter for you alone to
decide; but if you will be advised _you_ will decide it without taking
counsel with anyone. Make up your own mind, Lorraine, and then stick to
it."
"You're very right, and I'll do it," Lorraine answered; and with a wave
of the hand he trotted away.
"I wonder," Pendleton mused, as he went slowly down the hill, "what
it must mean not to know your own mind any better than Lorraine knows
his--to be as changeable and as irresponsible--to keep debating and
putting off a decision for two years--and then be no nearer it than you
were at first."
VII
AN OFFER AND AN ANSWER
Lorraine took Pendleton's advice. He did not take counsel with
anyone--not even with Cameron, with whom he dined at the Club that
evening, and afterward played billiards until bedtime. The thought
of what he had said to him yesterday, as to his intended course of
conduct, may have deterred him, as well as a hesitation to admit the
instability of his own mind. Yesterday he was fixed on divorce--to-day
he was not so sure. The real reason for his uncertainty was his wife's
beauty. Yesterday he had not noticed it--had not time to notice it,
being occupied with the instant.
But this Sunday affair was quite different. He had been alone with
her--and he had seen again the adorably beautiful woman--whom once he
had possessed, but possessed no longer; who was colder to him now than
a graven image.
The trim, slender figure in its close cut walking-skirt; the narrow,
high-arched feet that she put down so well; the small head, with its
crown of auburn hair; the cold, proud, high-bred face that once had
been so tender for him, he now saw in all their loveliness--recollected
in all their perfectness. And they weighed heavily in the scale--almost
balancing her sin. Nay, there were moments when they did balance it,
and a trifle more--until he grew hesitating again and doubtful.... And
the hesitancy gradually grew less, and the doubt gradually decreased.
Then one afternoon in the latter part of the week, as he was coming
from his office, the day's work done, he saw her ahead of him on the
opposite side of the Avenue. And he became so absorbed in watching her
that he was three blocks beyond his Club before he realized it.
Guiltily he turned and retraced his steps; and alone, in a quiet corner
of the lounge with a high-ball and his face to the wall, he fought it
out with himself.
And having fought it out, he did a most unusual thing for him--he acted
straightway upon his decision, and did not wait for it to cool and
himself to doubt and hesitate and change.
He pushed the bell.
"Call a taxi!" said he to the boy.
When it came, he gave Mrs. Mourraille's number. There was a click, as
the flag went up, and they whirred away.
"You need not wait," said he, handing the driver a bill as the car drew
up before the house.
The man touched his cap and shot off.
Lorraine crossed the sidewalk, went up the steps and rang the bell.
The aged butler answered. He had been in the Mourraille family for a
generation, but even his automaton calm was not proof against such a
surprise, and he failed to repress wholly the amazement from his face
and manner when he beheld who stood in the doorway.
"I want to see Mrs. Lorraine a moment, Tompkins," said Lorraine, and
went in with the utmost nonchalance.
There were no instructions against admitting Lorraine, so Tompkins
could do nothing but bow him into the living-room. Then he went slowly
up to the library and gave the card to Mrs. Lorraine.
She took it from the tray, wondering as she did so who was calling on
_her_, and read the name--and read it again. Then she frowned slightly
and remained silent.
The butler stood at attention and waited--waited so long, indeed, that
Mrs. Mourraille glanced up from her evening paper, having observed the
whole thing, and inquired casually:
"Who is it, Stephanie?"
Her daughter passed the bit of pasteboard across--then nodded to
Tompkins that she would be down.
Mrs. Mourraille's heart gave a great bound--if, in so placid a woman,
anything ever could bound--when she read the name. The thing for
which she had hoped--for which she had prayed--for two years was that
Stephanie would make it up with her husband, and go back to him. It
was the better way--the way that made everything as nearly right as
was humanly possible--the easier way for everyone. If he overlooked
her fault, who else had any cause to cavil? She had been much too
wise, however, to urge it unasked. It must come voluntarily from
Stephanie--then she could add her counsel and encouragement. But better
even than Stephanie was Lorraine himself--and what else could his
unexpected coming mean than an overture for a reconciliation!
"You will receive him?" she asked quietly.
Stephanie nodded.
"I suppose," she said, "it is some arrangement about the divorce--but I
can't understand why he should come in person to make it."
"Perhaps it is a first step in an attempt to effect a--readjustment of
matters," her mother suggested.
Stephanie had risen--now she paused, and a smile flitted across her
face.
"As you hope it is--and hope also that it will be successful, _n'est ce
pas_?" she said, bending down and kissing her.
"What I hope, dear, is that you will do the best for yourself," Mrs.
Mourraille answered--"and you can alone decide that best, and hope to
remain satisfied with the decision. Go and see what Harry wants; it was
a great deal for him to come here, and you should not keep him waiting."
"Particularly as he may change his mind if I keep him waiting long!"
she laughed; and with a little caressing touch to her mother's cheek,
she went down to the living-room.
Lorraine was standing with his back to the fireplace, nervously drawing
his gloves back and forth through his fingers. He came forward and
offered her his hand--and after just a second's hesitation, she touched
it momentarily.
It was as though she said:
"As the hostess, I cannot do less, but I don't in the least fancy the
doing."
"Will you sit down, Mr. Lorraine?" she said perfunctorily, letting
herself sink into a chair with the lithe grace he remembered so well.
She was perfectly at ease--with the air of one who entertains a casual
visitor.
She looked at him, politely interrogatively, and waited for him to
begin. It was his move, and she did not intend to help him in the least.
Lorraine was not so tranquil--his agitation showed in his slightly
flushed face and in his manner. He took out his handkerchief and passed
it across his lips. When he did speak he knew it was with an effort and
unnaturally.
"Stephanie," he said, "I want to apologize for what I did at the
Club-house, and what I said yesterday--will you let me?"
"Certainly," she replied impersonally. "An apology is one thing that
you can tender and one thing that I can accept."
"It does not right the injury----" he began.
"No, it does not right it," she concurred.
"Any more than your apology will right the injury you have done me," he
added.
"And mine was the greater injury," she observed. "I know it. There is
no apology I can offer that will be effective--so, why try?"
"Don't try!" he exclaimed. "Just let us forget it, and take a fresh
start." He leaned forward and took her hand--and she, in sheer
amazement, suffered him to retain it. "I am willing to forgive,
Stephanie, if you are willing to come back to me. Will you do it, dear?"
For a moment she had the impulse to ask how long this notion had
actuated him, and how long he thought that it would last. Then the keen
injustice of the taunt came home to her, and with it a sharp sense of
just what such an offer meant from _him_. Aside from everything--of
blindness when he should have seen, of supineness when he should have
acted, of vacillation when he should have known his own mind, of all
the other deficiencies of which he was guilty--there yet remained the
ever present, ever damning fact that _she_ was a guilty wife; and that
he was willing to overlook the past, and to restore her to the place
she once had, made all his shortcomings as nothing in comparison. It
mattered not how soon he might again change his mind--that was not the
present question. He had offered. He was waiting for her answer. She
had but to accept--and the thing was done beyond the fear of change.
"Will you do it, Stephanie, dear?" she heard him say again--she did not
know how often he had said it.
She released her hand and sat staring down at the rug at her feet. It
was a Senna prayer rug, beautiful in coloring and soft as an autumn
twilight in the tones, but she was looking back into the past--its lost
opportunities and forsaken shrines....
Presently her glance shifted to Lorraine--and lingered, speculatively,
appraisingly, as though casting up the balances. It swept him slowly
from head to foot, pausing long upon his face--so long, indeed, that he
shifted uneasily and smiled in self defence.
"Will you do it, Stephanie, dear?" he repeated.
She slowly shook her head.
"I cannot," she answered.
"Why can't you, dear?" he asked.
"Because I do not love you!"
"What has that to do with the question?" he replied. "Neither do I know
that I love you--we must try----"
"I know," she interrupted; "you don't love me--and love is the one
thing that could heal the wounds the past two years have made--for us
both."
"Do you love that scoundrel Amherst?" he asked.
"I do not," was the calm answer--"and you have termed him rightly--he
_is_ a scoundrel."
"Do you love any other man?"
"I do not!" looking him straight in the face.
"Then let us try it, Stephanie," he said.
But she shook her head again.
"It is not just to you----"
"Let me be the judge of that," he cut in.
"Neither is it just to me," she ended. "You will take me back for
the sake of appearances. You think to save me and yourself some
temporary unpleasantness by obviating a divorce--by preventing scare
headlines in the papers. You don't see that you would be making
untold unpleasantness for us both through the remainder of our lives.
When we are apart and need only the Court's severing decree, why
should we assume a life of wretchedness for both? I bear the heavier
burden now. I am content to bear it for a little while--until the
world has forgotten--rather than to purchase that forgetfulness by
a reconciliation which would be only in name--and scarcely in name,
indeed."
"Why should it be only in name?" he asked, leaning toward her. "It
won't be with me, dear."
"You are very good to say so," she replied--"but you'll think
differently in a month--in a week possibly. Amherst will be ever
between us--you will always see him; and as time passes you will see
him only the more. Nothing we can do will remove him--he will be
persistently present--you can't see me without thinking of him--and
of what I did with him. And that can have only one result--renewed
unhappiness for us both, and eventually the final break. Therefore why
not let the break be now--when it is anticipated by every one and is so
much easier for us both?"
She might have added--what was in her mind--that with a man of
strong and resolute purpose the experiment would not be so hazardous
of success; but with one of his character the issue was not even
doubtful--it would be decided before it was begun.
A spasm of anger had crossed his face at her reference to Amherst
and herself, and for a moment she had hoped that he would recall his
offer--but as she talked it passed, and when he spoke it was with quiet
resolution.
"Wouldn't we better eliminate Amherst from the question?" he asked. "I
understand that episode has ended!"
"It has, indeed!" she answered,--"as between Amherst and me--but it can
never end as between you and me."
"As between you and me it is as we make it," he returned. "I engage
that I shall never, by word or act, refer to Amherst, nor to what
you have done. It will be as though it had never been. Is not that
satisfactory?"
"You can't engage to control your thoughts," she replied; "and thoughts
tincture acts, however much we may strive to avoid it. It's generous,
more generous than I can say, for you to offer to take me back--but it
cannot be, Harry. We may as well face the matter as it is--there need
be no concealment between us surely. I do not love you--I never shall
love you. You do not love me--you never can love me. It is much wiser
to end things now than to drag them along a little while and end them."
"Why do you say I do not love you?" he asked.
"Because you admitted it yourself a moment since, and because, aside
from that, I know it."
He made a denying gesture.
"I loved you when we were married," he broke out.
"We both loved then--or thought we did--but we both have learned much,
since that day at St. Luke's." She sat up and bent nearer to him. "And
one of the things we have learned is that we are better apart--and I
have proven it--by running away with another man. And you have proven
it--by not following instantly and taking me from him--or killing him."
"What have I proven by my present attitude?" he demanded.
"Your magnanimity--but not your love. And as I said, love alone would
justify a reconciliation now, or give the slightest warrant for the
future."
For a time he made no answer, looking at her steadily with thoughtful
eyes. At last he spoke.
"Am I to understand then that you refuse my offer?" he asked.
"I refuse!" she answered. "For both our sakes--yours as well as mine--I
refuse your offer."