living-room with me, Montague--I'm afraid of hospitals--dreadfully
afraid--even by telephone."
Pendleton arose and accompanied her.
"It is nothing," he assured her.
"I am Mrs. Lorraine," she said, when she reached the receiver. "What is
it, please?"
"This is the Hahnemann Hospital, Mrs. Lorraine," came the answer and
Pendleton could hear it on the other side of the table. "Your husband
was seriously injured this evening when his automobile collided with
a street car. He was unconscious when brought in, but revived for a
moment and has asked for you."
She raised her eyes to Pendleton. He nodded that he had understood.
"Is he conscious now?" she asked to gain time. Her mind was in a whirl.
"No--he relapsed almost instantly. It is impossible to tell now
how seriously he is injured. He has bled profusely, from several
superficial wounds, but we fear he has been hurt internally. He may
also be suffering from concussion. We thought it best, Mrs. Lorraine,
to advise you of his condition and that he asked for you," the voice
went on, a trifle apologetically.
"You did very right," she replied. "I'll come to the Hospital at once."
She hung up the receiver and looked at Pendleton.
"You heard?"
"Everything."
"What _could_ I do?" she demanded.
"Nothing but what you did."
"But I don't want to do it--I don't want to see him--I don't wish him
to die, but----"
"Never mind," he said tenderly. "You don't have to go--you are quite
justified in not seeing him. And his condition is not dependent upon
your presence or your absence. Do exactly as you choose, Stephanie."
"But _if_ he should die! If he should die, having asked for me, and I
having been told and then not hastening to him at once! As a fellow
human--not as a wife--is it right that I should deny him what may be
his last request?"
"A request he has already forgotten in unconsciousness," Pendleton
replied. "Under all the circumstances, your duty depends wholly upon
your own desires--to go or not to go as you think best. You are not
obligated to consider anything else. Hence I approved of your first
determination to go to the Hospital; when you changed your mind and
said you would not go, I approve of it also."
"What do you _advise_ me to do?" she asked tremulously.
"I should advise you to go," he said quietly.
"And stay?"
"That can be determined later."
"And will you go with me?"
"I'll go anywhere or do anything you want, dear," he replied.
IX
HOPELESSNESS AND THREATS
Throwing a wrap over her evening gown, Stephanie hurried out and into
Pendleton's car, which was standing at the curb. He sprang after,
opened the throttle and they whirled away.
"How long will it take to get to the Hospital?" she asked.
"About fifteen minutes--if we are not held up by traffic when we come
off the Boulevard."
"I suppose I ought not to feel indifferent at such a time," she said
presently. "But I do--and I won't hide that I do. I'll try to meet what
the occasion demands but nothing more. If he still wants me, I'll go to
him. If he is conscious and hasn't asked for me again, I'll come away.
It will be a relief to come away. I have no longer any duty to him.
At least I feel that I haven't--and so why pretend the one or do the
other?"
"Would you rather not go?" he asked, slowing down.
"I would _much_ rather not go," she replied--"but I'm going just
because I'm not sure of my duty in the matter. I swore at our marriage
to love, honor and cherish him. I don't love him--I think I never
honored him--I'm not sure that it will do any good for me to cherish
him--but I'll try to be kind while his life is in danger--when the
danger has passed, the cherishing shall cease." She stole a look at
the man beside. "A queer philosophy, you think doubtless--and possibly
it is; but toward some few people, my husband among them, I have as
much feeling as a piece of marble--rather less indeed. Don't try to
understand me, Montague--you can't; I don't understand myself."
She was overwrought, he saw. This sudden call to confront a condition
such as she had never anticipated--the distressing fact that Lorraine,
injured maybe unto death, had asked for her--had stretched her nerves
to attenuation.
It was not for him to tell her what she should do. In truth, he did
not know. The one thing that made it difficult was Lorraine's request.
If it were not for that he would not have hesitated. But it is hard to
refuse a dying man--or one who may be dying.
"Steady yourself, Stephanie!" he said, as the car ran in under the
_porte cochere_ of the Hospital.
"I am steadied," she answered. "I'll be all right when we enter--I'm
not going to collapse or shriek or make a scene, you may be sure."
He rang the bell, gave the name, and they passed into the
reception-room.
In a moment a white uniformed nurse entered--a woman of middle age,
quiet and business-like.
"Mrs. Lorraine?" she asked.
"Yes," Stephanie answered.
"I am Mrs. Bangs, the head nurse, Mrs. Lorraine. Your husband has not
regained consciousness, I am sorry to say. Doctor Wilton has been
advised of your arrival and he'll see you just as soon as possible.
Will you come into the resident physician's office and wait? It will be
only a moment, I'm sure."
They crossed the corridor, were shown into the office, and the nurse
went about her duties.
There is not much sentiment in a hospital attendant--at least toward
those not patients--and the patients themselves are but cases in the
abstract.
Stephanie looked at Pendleton and smiled.
"You see--I'm steady," she said, holding up her hand. "A trifle too
steady for an injured man's wife, I fear--though, I suppose, they all
know the state of our--affairs."
"Every one knows it--if they've read the newspapers," Pendleton
returned.
"And it's safe to assume that they have; and that they believed all
they read as well--and then some. It's a common failing. I'd do the
same about someone else, I reckon--if it happened to interest me."
"_There_ is just the difference--it wouldn't interest you, nor me, nor
any right-thinking person."
"Then the right-thinking persons are very scarce in this world!" she
smiled.
"I shouldn't call them scarce," he replied--"very much in the minority
would be better."
Dr. Wilton entered the room at that moment--the rubber-soled shoes
having deadened his steps in the corridor. His was one of the old
families, and so he was no stranger to Stephanie or to Pendleton. He
was familiar with the peculiar situation--and, man like, sympathized
with Stephanie. He responded to the look of inquiry in her eyes before
she had time to ask.
"Your husband, Mrs. Lorraine, is resting quietly. The concussion is
slight--and unless something develops internally, which we can't
yet tell, he will likely recover. He has had four ribs broken, has
sustained numerous cuts and bruises, and has lost much blood--but these
are merely temporary in their effects."
"Has he recovered consciousness?" Stephanie asked.
"At brief intervals--but not for any length of time."
"Is there any indication that he is hurt internally?"
"It is too early to know certainly; though the character of the
accident and the wounds make it very possible. There was a slight
hemorrhage, but that has ceased."
It was as if he were discussing the case with an ordinary visitor or
a reporter. He already knew she was not likely to be particularly
interested, but the impersonal manner in which she asked and received
his account of her husband's accident--certainly grievous and possibly
fatal--was most indicative. He found himself wondering why she had
taken the trouble to come at all.
And she read something of what he thought, for she remarked, without
preliminary:
"The Hospital said over the telephone that he had asked for me when he
was first brought in--and I came because of that. Has he asked again?"
"I think not, Mrs. Lorraine--nor for any one."
"May I see him?"
The doctor hesitated. "You may--if you very much wish--but we should
prefer not."
"Can I do him any good by seeing him?"
"Not a particle. He is, pardon me, much better as it is--with the
surgeons and nurses. In such cases, the presence even of one nearly
connected is frequently a deterrent, and excites the patient unduly."
"I can do nothing then?" she persisted.
"Absolutely nothing," he assured her.
"And in event of his needing me?"
"We will telephone you."
"You think I should not wait?"
"I do," he said. "It is quite unnecessary. At present, Mrs. Lorraine,
your husband is in no immediate danger."
Either Harry had revoked his request, or Doctor Wilton was making it
easy for her.--At all events, she could depart with the equanimity of a
duty done.
"Then I will go home--depending on being advised on the instant, if I
am needed," she said with the most bewitching smile and holding out her
hand.
The doctor took it in a friendly grasp.
"I think that is best, Mrs. Lorraine," he replied.
"I suppose you know nothing of the details of the accident?" she asked.
"No--we leave them to the newspapers and the ambulance chasers," he
smiled. "Our record begins with Mr. Lorraine's entry here."
"I will depend then upon the Hospital notifying me if I am needed,"
she repeated, and with another smile and a nod she went out.
"Thank heavens!" she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, when they were
once more in the car and turned toward her home. "I've done as much as
the circumstances warrant--at least, to my mind. The next move is up to
him and the Hospital."
"You've done all that anyone could demand," he said. "More than was
necessary, I think."
"Which being the case, I'm going to forget it, except that twice a day,
until he is out of danger, I shall inquire for him by telephone. Now
let us talk of something else."
It was on the fourth day thereafter that Doctor Wilton himself called
Stephanie on the telephone.
"Mr. Lorraine has asked for you," he informed her. "He knows that you
were here the night of the accident and it pleased him greatly. Will
you come some time this morning, if it is convenient?"
"It is not very convenient," Stephanie responded; "I am going out of
town--to Criss-Cross--this afternoon for a couple of days, but I'll
stop in for a moment. I can't well break the appointment at this late
moment."
"Very well," said he. "I'll just tell him I have concluded it is unwise
for him to see you for a day or so."
She drummed a moment on the table.
"No, I will come," she decided--"at eleven thirty--will you please see
that I am admitted promptly?"
And at eleven thirty she was there and Doctor Wilton received her.
"The nurse will remain, I suppose," she remarked, as they reached the
door of Lorraine's room.
He understood.
"If you do not object," he replied. "It would not be well for her to
leave her patient--in his present condition."
Lorraine glanced up as the door opened--and when he recognized his wife
he smiled and put out his hand.
"I'm glad to see you, dear," he said.
"I'm glad to see you so much better," she replied, taking his hand, but
not offering to kiss him. "You had a narrow escape!"
"Rather close call," he admitted.
The doctor, after a word to the nurse, had gone out--and the nurse
remained. Lorraine's eyes glanced at her impatiently. She was occupied
with the chart.
"You're ever so much stronger--aren't you?" said Stephanie, inanely.
"I suppose so--I think I am.... They told me of your being here the
evening I was injured. It was very good of you to come, Stephanie."
"I came because they told me _you_ had asked for me," said she quietly.
"I did--I thought I was going to die; and I wanted to see you
again--just to--apologize."
"Don't think of that," she replied hastily. "You're not going to die."
"They say I'll probably pull through now--my head is all right--but I'm
pretty weak."
"Of course, you're weak," she echoed. "Who wouldn't be weak with all
that you've endured."
She simply did not know what to say to him. The last spark of affection
was in ashes--cold ashes--else would it have been warmed, at least a
trifle, by the sight of him lying there, injured and helpless.
He smiled faintly--and the nurse came to the rescue. She looked at Mrs.
Lorraine meaningly. Stephanie nodded.
"Your nurse intimates that it is time for me to go," she remarked. "And
the nurse is in command." She reached down and took his hand. "Good
bye!" she said.
"You will come again!" he questioned.
"Certainly, whenever you wish--and the nurse lets me."
He smiled--and she, with an answering smile, went quietly out.
He closed his eyes and lay quite still. The nurse came to the bed;
played with gentle fingers a moment upon his wrist, and went softly
away.
It was pretty hopeless, he reflected, pretty hopeless! Stephanie cared
no more for him than for an utter stranger--probably less. She had
come in response to his request, but she had let him know that it was
because he had asked for her and not of her own volition. And when she
did come, the talk had been the veriest of inanities; and the nurse
had remained in the room the entire time--at Stephanie's behest he had
little doubt. Her "whenever you wish," had really meant, "but don't
wish".... He did not see why she had taken the trouble to come at all,
since he was nothing to her--why she had not simply answered that she
would not come, that she no longer recognized any obligation toward
him. Everyone knew the facts of the last two years so why should she
not be candid, even brutally so? This visit was nothing--nothing but
ashes to them both--nothing but the proof that the rupture was beyond
repair. And he loved her still!--loved her as in the days of courtship,
though it had been obscured by the hate and injury of the recent past.
If he could not affect her now, even so far as to win a look of regard,
his case was forlorn. If his condition would not melt even a little the
ice of her reserve, there was small hope. But he _would_ hope!--_would_
hope! It was not her fault--it was Amherst's. He acquitted her--she was
a wronged woman--he was a wronged husband! Amherst was the villain!
Amherst was----
There was a light touch on his shoulder. He opened his eyes--the nurse
was standing beside him, a glass of orange juice in her hand, a smile
on her face.
"It is time to take your nourishment," she said.
For a moment he was tempted to refuse--but she smiled again, very
sweetly; and put the glass to his lips.
"Now, try to relax and sleep a while," she suggested.
"Is that an order?" he said faintly.
"An order," she answered, dropping her hand on his forehead and
smoothing it with deft touch.
He smiled up at her,--and closed his eyes--and presently he slept.
* * * * * * *
Stephanie, when she left the Hospital, went on to the shopping district.
It was the first time she had been down town since the day before
Lorraine's accident--and she very quickly noticed the difference in
the attitude of many that she knew and met. There was a more manifest
cordiality, slight in some cases, more open in others, but unmistakable
nevertheless. More people looked at her in a friendly way, and would
have spoken had she given them the chance. But _she_ never saw them,
or looked right through them--depending upon whether hitherto they
had been negative or positive in their hostility. From all those who
had spoken heretofore, she accepted the additional smile or word
of greeting--from all those with whom it was an initial effort she
declined the overtures.
Mrs. Postlewaite passed down the aisle just as Stephanie was turning
away from the glove counter, and the _grande dame_ relaxed sufficiently
to glance at her in a personal way and to give her the chance to
return the glance--her manner even indicating that, if Stephanie were
brave enough to speak, she might condescend to acknowledge it with the
faintest nod. It was plainly a look of permission--but Stephanie never
looked; though taking due care to let Mrs. Postlewaite know that she
saw. And the ancient lady's face congealed into impassivity--and they
went their respective ways.
She knew, of course, what had caused the change. It had become known
that she had visited her husband at his request--and they assumed a
reconciliation was likely to follow.
She finished her shopping and went out to her car--to find it with a
deflated tire and the driver just beginning the repair. She glanced at
the clock on the dash. It was after one. She was much later than she
thought.
"Is that the correct time?" she asked the man.
"Yes, Mrs. Lorraine!" said he, touching his cap but without raising his
eyes from the wheel.
It would be too late to go home for luncheon, by the time the repair
was made, so she turned back into the department store and took the
elevator to the dining room on the top floor.
The place was crowded--the head waiter and the captains at the far end
of the room, as usual. There was no empty table in sight, and Stephanie
paused at the door.
Instantly the eyes of a hundred women focussed on her. At the same
time Marcia Emerson, sitting some distance down the room, saw her and
getting up hastily came forward.
"Won't you join me at my table, Mrs. Lorraine?" she asked. "It's for
two and I'm alone."
It so happened that Stephanie, since her return, had not encountered
Miss Emerson, therefore there could be no memory of glances withheld
nor of greetings lacking. It was very polite in her and she could not
well refuse, though she would have been better satisfied had Marcia not
done it.
"I shall be glad to join you--you're very kind," she answered.
An audible buzz went up as they passed down the aisle to their table.
Some who were not acquainted with her were simply curious to see the
noted Mrs. Lorraine--others, who knew both well were startled at the
one's temerity and the other's acquiescence. Why Marcia Emerson should
endanger her social position, none too strong with the powers that be,
was more than they could understand. Never independent themselves,
they could not appreciate intrepidity in another. In such a case, they
trimmed their sails to the leader's wind and were content to remain
under convoy. So far as they were aware, the wind had not veered with
any strength to Mrs. Lorraine's quarter. And even though some had heard
of the prospective reconciliation, they waited to take their cue from
one of those powerful enough to indicate an assured course of action.
"I assume you know how rash you are in inviting me to your own table,
and in coming the length of the room to do it," she remarked. "I am
distinctly _persona non grata_ at present."
"You're not to me," said Marcia heartily. "I don't follow Mrs.
Postlewaite and her clique. I do as I wish, and where I wish it. Your
affairs are your own--they concern only those directly involved. I'm
not involved, therefore it is an unwarrantable impertinence for me to
interfere in the slightest--or to judge. I've been out of town for
the past three weeks is why I've not called--which, I hope, you will
pardon. I didn't know you intimately before you went away, but if
you'll permit it we will start in just where we left off."
"It may hurt you with the conservatives," Stephanie warned.
Miss Emerson shrugged her shoulders. "And that might injure my standing
in Society, since I've not a too secure footing as it is. Let it, I'll
take my chance as it pleases me to take it, not as some one else would
make me take it. I'm responsible for my friendships, and I'm not going
to have anyone tell me who they shall be--or who they mustn't be.
Imagine a _man_ submitting to any such dictation!"
"I can't imagine it!" smiled Stephanie. "He would laugh in their
faces--or else tell them a few truths in very plain English."
"Exactly! We women are silly fools in the way we submit to being
controlled. We haven't any independence even in our clothes. We let a
few shoddy French modistes, and their _demi-mondaine_ assistants at the
Longchamps races, prescribe what we shall wear, and we follow with the
abject servility of slaves--never pausing to think whether the fashions
are becoming, or hideous, or grotesque. And we change them every three
months--so the tailors and dressmakers can overcharge us four times a
year. _A man!_ I should like to see the tailors who had the hardihood
to try it. They make his clothes as _he_ wants them, and they make
them the same way and the same cut year after year. A man can wear
out his clothes, and be in fashion until they're worn out if it takes
five years. His hats are the same style year after year, his shoes are
the same last, his collars and neckties vary practically not at all.
There is something fine about a man's supreme indifference; making
the tradesmen do as he wants, instead of as the tradesman wants--as
we do. And it's all because we are afraid; afraid of being behind
the styles--behind some one who has something newer than ourselves.
We forget that we control the styles, and that if we would simply
refuse to change there would not be a change--and the modistes would
become--as the men's tailors are--purveyors of goods, not dictators of
styles."
"It is absurd, of course," agreed Stephanie; "yet who is to break the
chains that custom has welded? We women are more or less fools--and
the shopkeepers and their class trade on the fact, and laugh in their
sleeves while doing it. And we know we're fools and that they're
laughing, but we pretend ignorance. It must be very amusing to a man."
"If he takes time enough to notice it--or if it doesn't touch him in
the pocket," Marcia returned.
"More especially the latter!" Stephanie laughed.
She saw Mrs. Porterfield coming down the room with Mrs. Postlewaite.
As they neared, she glanced at them with the casual look of a total
stranger, and went on with her luncheon. Miss Emerson remarked it and
smiled inwardly in appreciation of the situation. It was beautifully
carried off. The Queen P's were being deliberately ignored--not Mrs.
Lorraine.
As they passed, both dames nodded pleasantly to Marcia. Then Mrs.
Porterfield, catching Stephanie's eye, bowed slightly but with
unmistakable deliberation--as though she wished to impress the act upon
all who witnessed it.
Stephanie instantly returned it in just the way it was given--with
precisely the same manner and deliberation. Then a little mocking smile
crept into her eyes and lingered.
"I know it is bad taste to comment on what does not concern one,"
Marcia remarked, "but do you quite appreciate the honor that has been
done you?"
"I understand the honor--even if I don't appreciate it," Stephanie
replied. "It is the first indication that the icebergs are preparing to
melt."
"I love the way you first ignored her, and then acknowledged her bow
with a manner that was a perfect replica of her own," Marcia laughed.
"Are you going home?" Stephanie asked, when they were drawing on their
gloves; "and have you your own car here? No?--well, won't you let me
drop you on my way?"
"Indeed, I will," said Marcia. "Mother took the machine and left me to
the tender mercies of the street car."
As they came out of the store, two men who were passing took off their
hats and bowed most deferentially.
"Who were they?" asked Stephanie, as the car started.
"Charles Porshinger, on the outside--and Henry Murchison," Marcia
answered, with a look of quick surprise.
"They must be new people--at least, I've never heard of them."
"They've been in society about a year--they both belong to the nice
clubs, and are not married."
"It's comparatively easy for an unmarried man to get in," Stephanie
observed. "All that he needs is to present a good appearance and to
have a friend or two to vouch for him."
"And if he happens to have money, it is pretty easy to--get the
friends!" Marcia smiled.
Stephanie nodded. "To _buy_ the friends, you were about to say. Yes, it
_is_ easy now-a-days--entirely too easy."
Then she suddenly thought what she was saying and to whom--and stopped.
But Marcia only laughed--and answered:
"Father is married--and has a daughter. We're in another class, and
we're a bit--acclimated now."
"And that daughter," said Stephanie heartily, "has made good--you
belong!"
"Mrs. Lorraine," began Marcia presently, "I don't want to seem
impertinent, but did you really intend me to infer, from what you said
as we came out of Partridge's, that you did not know Porshinger or
Murchison?"
"Yes indeed," Stephanie replied. "I not only don't know them, but I
have no recollection even of having seen them prior to to-day. Why do
you ask?"