to see him except in a crowd. To be perfectly candid, I'm afraid of
him."
"Afraid of him!" her hostess marvelled. "Mercy upon us, what has
happened? What did he do to-night in the few minutes you were
alone--kiss you?"
Stephanie shook her head. "No--he didn't kiss me."
"Tried?"
"No--he didn't try--he didn't even so much as touch my gown, to my
knowledge."
"Was it his talk?"
"Yes--and no. It was his manner, which was strictly proper and yet most
indicative of what he was capable. I tell you, I am afraid of him!"
"You mean that his talk was suggestive?" asked Gladys.
"No--not in that way--yet it was suggestive of what he could do if
he had the opportunity." She laughed a little consciously. "You see,
last evening on the side piazza--when Montague and I were alone--he
did something a trifle beyond the conventional. Just as he did it,
some one turned on the light in the billiard room directly behind--and
Porshinger saw us."
"Where was _he_?"
"I don't know."
"How do you know he saw you?"
"He told me."
"What! baldly told you?" Gladys exclaimed.
"Not that he had seen--_it_, but that he had seen _us_. He told the
balance with his look and his smile--and what he didn't say."
"What ailed Montague that he got unconventional--or rather what ailed
you that you let him?"
"The evening, I reckon, did for us both--and the miserable lights did
the rest. I'm inclined to hold you responsible, my dear, for our being
seen."
"But not for your being--unconventional. I reckon Montague is alone
responsible for that, while you, with your fascinating beauty, are
responsible for nothing at all but the impulse.--Are you going to quit
him--Porshinger, I mean?"
"That is the question--and I don't know the answer. If I quit him, he
will be revenged on Montague; if I don't quit him, I shall have to
fight him for my reputation--or so much of it as is left."
"Is he so bad as all that?" Gladys exclaimed.
"He is. His one vulnerable point is his overweening desire to get into
society. That fact may make him controllable. I'm between his Satanic
Majesty and the deep water. _What to do_, Gladys, _what to do_?"
"Do nothing," counselled her friend. "Be amiably polite, and refuse to
see anything that you don't want to see or to infer anything that you
don't want to infer."
"Suppose he doesn't leave it to inference?"
Gladys raised her eyebrows. "In that event, you tell Montague--and
leave the rest to him. I rather fancy he will beat the life out of
Porshinger; and I rather fancy he will enjoy doing it--very much enjoy
it, indeed."
"The difficulty is, you can't beat the life out of a man--even
figuratively speaking--without creating a sensation, getting yourself
talked about and, like enough, into the law's clutches."
"If _you_ would be left out of the sensation and the talk, I reckon
Montague wouldn't mind in the least," Gladys remarked.
"No, I fancy he wouldn't--but I should mightily. He isn't my husband."
"Not yet, unfortunately--you'll have to endure Harry Lorraine a bit
longer. Pray that the longer may be very short--Oh! I'm not wishing him
a corpse, Stephanie--before his time; but I would not prolong the time."
Stephanie smiled a little wanly. "Unfortunately you are not the
ultimate one. He must go his course to the end, and so must
I--alone--and yet together, unless he reconsiders. That, however, does
not particularly interest me now--or rather this matter of Porshinger
interests me much more. I'm going to have trouble with that man,
Gladys, I'm sure of it."
"Aren't you anticipating, my dear?" asked Miss Chamberlain.
"Certainly, I'm anticipating what I'm convinced is in future for me. If
it shouldn't happen, I'm fortunate to have escaped."
"And if it never threatens, you're unfortunate in having anticipated."
"I'm unfortunate anyway, so a little more or less won't matter,"
Stephanie answered.
"You unfortunate? A woman with your face and figure and presence--with
true friends, both male and female--and Montague Pendleton. Oh, no! my
dear, _oh, no_!--Oh, you may shrug those pretty shoulders. I know what
you mean--but that is past and passing. You've had an experience, a
wonderful experience, and you're the better for it, I think--and as you
yourself know. It hasn't hurt you; it's only made you appreciate who
are your friends and proven the extent of their regard."
"Was it just to my friends to have their regard for me put to such a
severe test?"
"Why not? It didn't hurt them. Either they did or they didn't at the
pinch--when you returned and looked for countenance. Some were timid
about granting it, but granted it; others granted it straightway."
"Like you and Montague and Burgoyne!" Stephanie exclaimed.
"The others were only a bit shy, my dear. They all believed in you,
you may be certain of that. Most of them didn't feel sure how their
overtures would be received--and _you_ didn't give them much help. You
were as hard as flint and as cold as an iceberg."
"Because I thought everyone would pass me by. My experience at the Club
that first afternoon didn't augur well for me--except with Montague and
Burgoyne. Then _you_ were--just the same, and the skies brightened."
"And now you're clouding them again by this foolish fear of
Porshinger," said Gladys. "Let alone! Don't you know the old maxim:
'Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.'"
"My dear Gladys, don't you think that I have troubled trouble
sufficiently to want a brief intermission?"
"Of course you have!" sympathized Gladys.
"And to be entitled to it?"
"I should say so."
"Then why should I borrow trouble unless I had a presentiment of it
impending? However, it hasn't cast me down, and it's not going to
cast me down. Neither shall I refer to it to anyone, not even to
Montague--until I must--and I hope that I shall never must."
She kissed Gladys good-night and walked to the door.
"Maybe my dinner didn't quite agree with me!" she laughed--"though I'm
not usually troubled that way."
"Wouldn't you better consider telling Montague?" Gladys urged.
"No--well, I'll think over it to-night. Sleep is a great clarifier."
"If you can sleep there isn't much the matter with your digestion, nor
with your Porshinger worry," Gladys called after her as the door closed.
Stephanie did not take her walk the next morning. It was raining
heavily, and when the men drove off she waved a farewell to Pendleton,
who had glanced up at her window, and went back to bed.
Pendleton caught the flash of a white arm and raised his hat; but when
the others followed his look there were only the closed curtains to
greet them.
"I wish you wouldn't do that, Monte," said Devereux.
"What?" Pendleton asked.
"Take to yourself what isn't meant for you--that farewell was for me."
"Go back, Dev, and get it--or another," recommended Burgoyne.
"I'll do it----"
"You'll go to the station first," interposed Cameron. "We have no mind
to miss our train."
"Oh, very well!" said Devereux, sinking back. "As you will,
Malvolio--I'll return anon, or next week."
"If you're asked!" smiled Pendleton.
"A timely provision, monsieur--we may none of us be asked--particularly
as we weren't much pleased with having Porshinger rung in on us."
"Oh, damn Porshinger!" said Cameron quietly. "What got into Gladys, do
you suppose?"
"We will delegate you to investigate, Dev," remarked Burgoyne. "You
want an excuse for returning."
"I don't need any excuse, thank you, dear," Devereux replied.
"Well, tackle her without one and feel yourself laid out in a cold
bath."
"I likely would!" Devereux laughed. Then he became serious. "What the
devil _was_ her idea in having Porshinger? Gladys Chamberlain is the
last one to be inoculated with the money madness that seems to have
afflicted the rest of the social world."
"Yes," said Cameron, "if she had been any of a score of women, I should
say that she was fascinated by his wealth, but I'll not believe it of
Gladys."
"She has no need," observed Burgoyne. "Old Chamberlain's got enough,
the Lord knows!"
"What do you think, Pendleton?" demanded Devereux.
"I don't think."
"Merely negative, or do you mean you don't want to think?"
"A little of both, thank you," said Pendleton.
"I believe you have been confided in by the lady!" Devereux exclaimed.
"Then if that be the case----"
"Sure thing--you daren't babble!" admitted Devereux. "However, she has
a reason, and I'm damn curious to know what it is--though I bet it is a
woman's reason, which is no reason at all."
But Pendleton did not enlighten him by so much as a look, and the next
moment the car drew up at the station.
That afternoon, when he was about to leave his office, Pendleton had
a telephone call from the Hospital. Lorraine wanted to see him, the
resident physician said, and would he come around before dinner;
something seemed to be on Lorraine's mind, to be worrying and exciting
him. He was much better and it would do him no harm to see Pendleton a
short while.
"I'll come at once," said Pendleton.
Lorraine was sitting up in a pillowed chair when he entered.
"How are you, Pendleton?" he said somewhat weakly, and holding out his
hand. "I hope I'm not too much of a bother to you."
"Not a bit," replied Montague. "I'm glad to see you so far on the mend.
I feared that you were pretty much all in, from the newspaper accounts
of the accident."
"I thought so myself--or rather I didn't think until later. However,
I'm not so much battered up as they had thought, and I'll be out in a
week; a trifle bruised and cut and sore, possibly, but nothing serious.
My head is all right--the injury was only temporary, thank the Lord!"
"That's a great comfort to know," Pendleton answered heartily. "If
one's head is right, the rest will soon come around."
"Yes--yes," said Lorraine. "I'll be out of this in a week." He glanced
impatiently toward the nurse, who was standing in the window. "I'll
be out in a week," he repeated.--"Miss Sayles, will you excuse Mr.
Pendleton and me a moment--I'll call you when we're through.--It will
take only a very short time."
"I'll be in the corridor," the nurse smiled--with a glance at
Pendleton, which he understood as a warning not to stay too long.
Lorraine waited until Miss Sayles had gone out and closed the door
quietly behind her, then he said:--
"I haven't much time, nor have you any to waste, so I'll not beat
around the bush, Pendleton--we'll cut the preliminaries and come down
to the facts----"
He paused, and Pendleton wondered what was coming. Was he about to make
a scene because of anything he had heard in regard to Stephanie?
"It's this way," Lorraine went on:--"I don't know whether you know it
or not, but I fancy you do.--I've made an infernal damn fool of myself
in the way I've treated Stephanie. I see it all now. I've been lying
here and thinking, and thinking, with nothing else to do, and it's
perfectly plain, perfectly plain. It was all my fault originally. I had
her--and I lost her--and I've no one but myself to blame in the first
instance. If I'd been careful of her--had appreciated her--she would
have had no occasion to make a mistake. Amherst wouldn't have had a
chance to work his smooth way with her. Damn Amherst! I could choke the
life out of him--_damn him! damn him!_"
"Don't excite yourself, Lorraine," Pendleton cautioned. "Why not leave
this matter until you are better and able to be about?"
"No--I must say it now. It will do me good to say it. I'll try not to
get excited. I'm not excited now--see?" He held up an unsteady hand.
"At least, not much. We'll let Amherst rest, for the moment. I'll
handle him when I'm quite fit--if I can ever find him. Do you think
I'll find him, Pendleton?"
"Certainly you will find him," Montague answered soothingly. "And now
you wait and tell me all this some other time--to-morrow."
"No--now--to-day," persisted the sick man. "Listen! You were
Stephanie's best friend before the wedding. You've always been
a friend--until she went away. I want you to be her friend
still, Pendleton. She needs a friend who is trustworthy--who is
dependable--who won't be misunderstood by the world. She won't
have _me_--I tried--I offered to take her back--to let the past be
buried--to forget and forgive--to be all to her that I should have
been. But she declines. I went to her house and offered--plead with
her--besought her--without avail. She visited me the other day, at my
request--but she hasn't softened toward me. I don't know that she will
ever soften. I'm afraid she won't. Yet I mean to try, Pendleton--I
mean to try; and though it takes a year, or ten years, I shan't give
up. I shall never give up, Pendleton, I shall never give up!--Will you
help me--will you be her friend?--Stand by her at this crisis--when
she won't have her husband, yet needs him more than she ever needed
him? Won't you try to take my place toward her--you understand, old
man; guard her--protect her--sympathize with her? You were fond of her
once--you still are fond of her. She may let _you_--she wouldn't let
me.--Save her, Pendleton--save her from herself, if need be.--You will,
won't you, you will?" he ended, his voice sinking to a mere whisper.
"My dear Lorraine, I'll do anything in my power for Stephanie," said
Pendleton. "But I think that you are unduly apprehensive. She is not
without friends--she has plenty of friends, and they are staunch
friends. Gladys Chamberlain, Helen Burleston, Dorothy Tazewell, Marcia
Emerson, Burgoyne, Devereux, Cameron--they all are for her. We have
just come from spending the week-end at the Chamberlains. In a few
months the Amherst episode will be forgotten, even by the Queen P's.
Don't worry, old man, it will only retard your recovery. As for you
and Stephanie, you two must work that out alone. But you can depend on
us being for Stephanie _always_." He reached down and took Lorraine's
hand. "You know that, don't you? We all will stand by her to the final
call."
"I thought _you_ would, Montague, and it's mighty good to know of
Gladys and the rest. A woman can do much at such times."
"And you mustn't think of it until you're out of this place," Pendleton
urged. "Your business is to get well; we'll look after Stephanie, you
may depend on it."
He moved toward the door, and Miss Sayles appeared at the same moment.
"Here is the nurse to send me away!" he smiled. "Good-bye--and we'll
look for you at the Club in a week."
"Good-bye, Pendleton, old man," said Lorraine faintly.
He sank back among the pillows and closed his eyes. He could see it,
though the other had tried hard to hide it. Pendleton had no interest
whatever in him--he had forfeited all claims for sympathy by his
vacillating course. All the men had lost patience with him. They might
feel for him as a victim of bodily pain, and try to make it easy for
him because thereof, but he knew--he _knew_. He had been a fool--he was
still a fool maybe in trying to make it up with Stephanie--yet it was
the only decent thing to do--the only thing he wanted to do. He made a
gesture of despair--and the nurse came over and spoke to him.
But he did not hear, or did not answer--and after a moment she went
back and sat down. She understood in part. Everyone in town was aware
of the Lorraines' troubles--and _she_ knew, also, of Stephanie's visit
to her husband and how it had terminated.
As for Pendleton, he went to the Club dissatisfied with himself and
with what he had done. He had no patience with Lorraine's conduct and
Lorraine knew it--at least he had never been at any pains to conceal
it--and now he was constrained, by regard for an injured man, to
appear to help him, when _he_ hoped for nothing so much as Stephanie's
divorce. She was committed to his care--to him, who was the last man
Lorraine should have selected to trust.... And maybe Lorraine also knew
it--and chose him because of that very fact, tied his hands by trusting
him, with full confidence that he not only would not violate the trust,
but that he would be vigilant to see that no one else trespassed.
He had not credited Lorraine with so much foresight and knowledge
of specific human nature. It might be he erred in the credit, but
nevertheless it bound _him_.--_Noblesse oblige._
XV
IN THE CONSERVATORY
"How does Porshinger seem to be doing?" asked Miss Chamberlain, as five
weeks or so later she and Stephanie were having luncheon together in
town.
"Very well, indeed, so far as I can judge," the latter answered.
"I don't know anyone who is more competent to judge," Gladys smiled.
"He now is your shadow. Any indication of any attempt on Montague?"
"None.--Indeed, he has been rather complimentary of late to Montague,
in a mild sort of way."
"Beware the Greeks bearing gifts."
"I am being aware.--Montague doesn't like it at all; in fact, we've
quarrelled."
"Quarrelled with Montague!" cried Gladys. "I can't believe it!"
"We've quarrelled nevertheless, and all because of Porshinger. Montague
insisted that I was encouraging the 'bounder,'--and one thing led to
another until I flashed out. Montague lost patience and grew angry--and
we fought."
"Like two children!" the other laughed. "What in the world ever
possessed you to quarrel with Montague Pendleton, the best friend
surely a woman ever had?"
"I think it was the devil!" confessed Stephanie.
"The devil at the very least," agreed her friend. "Have you given him
no chance since to make it up?"
"I've seen him only once--on the street. I think he has been away."
"How like a woman!" Gladys remarked. "To quarrel with the one man who
is devoted to her, absolutely devoted to her, and who hasn't a selfish
thought where she is concerned! Stephanie, I feel like shaking you!"
"I feel like shaking myself," Stephanie replied. "By the way, didn't
_you_ ever quarrel with your best man friend? I think I can recollect
several at different times--for instance----"
"Of course you can recollect--but don't!" Gladys laughed. "However,
none of the interested parties was a Montague Pendleton. Good heavens!
my dear, do you realize what he has been to you--what he is to you?"
"I think that is just what made me quarrel--the perversity of the
woman. I'll make it up, however, and he _will_ let me make it up, and
we will be better friends for this little disagreement. The nice thing
about Montague is his broad-mindedness."
"_One_ of the nice things," amended Gladys. "He has got several
more--more, indeed, than any man I know. I never could understand,
Stephanie, why you----" she broke off and jabbed her fork into her
salad.
"Why I didn't marry him instead of Henry Lorraine, you were about to
say," Stephanie finished. "Neither do I--it is only another exhibition
of our sex's perverseness. And I've been paying the penalty for it
ever since--and it is a long account." She shrugged her shoulders
expressively. "You're going to the Croyden's ball tonight, I suppose."
"I am invited. I never miss anything at the Croyden's, if I can help
it. They do things _well_. You're going, of course."
"I don't know--I feel rather listless today."
"Get over it," said Gladys briskly. "Your mother is away, so come and
stay the night with me and we'll go together."
With the result that at ten o'clock the Chamberlain car deposited them
at the entrance of the Croyden country-house--a huge place, with great,
wide piazzas on all four sides, but so arranged that they minimized the
extent of the house and made it seem only of average size.
In the dressing rooms they came upon Helen Burleston, Dorothy Tazewell
and Arabella Rutledge. They all went down-stairs together, and greeted
their host and hostess. Presently they were found by Devereux, Burgoyne
and Cameron, and the eight of them strolled out on the west piazza.
Burgoyne was with Gladys and Stephanie, and Gladys enquired:
"Where is Miss Emerson, Sheldon; you and Devereux haven't both lost
her, have you?"
"We haven't found her yet, I fancy!" Burgoyne laughed,--"at least, I
haven't."
"Then it is safe to infer that she hasn't arrived. You're a good
hunter, Sheldon."
"Thank you, my lady--I appreciate the compliment from one who has so
often been the quarry yet never has been caught. How many scalps dangle
at your belt, I wonder?"
"Not yours, at all events!" Gladys laughed.
"No--not mine," Burgoyne returned sadly. "I have been prudent even
though it has been at the expense of my happiness."
"How cleverly you have concealed it!" Gladys retorted.
"Until now, alas!"
"Perhaps we may strike a bargain," she reflected.
"A bargain!" he protested. "How sordid!"
"How does Miss Emerson view the question--the general question, I mean?"
"I haven't asked her!"
"You haven't asked her _yet_," she corrected.
"But I think--I think she would at least not style it a 'bargain,'" he
replied.
She tapped him with her fan.
"Try it, Sheldon--try it, my boy!" she said. "'Faint heart never yet,'
you know."
"Brave heart has failed in some instances," he replied. "Witness your
girdle and its appendages."
"Precisely--but it's because they were brave that they hang there. They
at least had a chance of winning, and they took the chance."
"And lost!" he ended.
They had entered the ballroom; and Porshinger, who was standing in a
corner at the other side, sighted them and bore down in pursuit.
Miss Chamberlain saw him--as did plenty of others--and she indicated
to Burgoyne that he should dance with Stephanie. She herself stopped
beside Mrs. Burleston. Burgoyne understood--and putting his arm around
Stephanie's waist he swung her away.
Porshinger saw the play--and smiled--and Burgoyne detected the smile
and knew its cause.
"That fellow Porshinger," he remarked, "is becoming entirely too
persistent."
"Do you think so?" Stephanie laughed.
"I think so--most decidedly. What does Pendleton mean by permitting it?"
"What has Mr. Pendleton to say about it?" she inquired sweetly.
"What have I to say about it, either?" he replied. "Just this,
Stephanie: We're your friends--we've been your friends from the cradle,
so to speak, and I, for one, am not going to let that miserable bounder
compromise you without making a strenuous protest. It's beginning to
be talked about in the Clubs and drawing-rooms. His attentions to you
are causing comment. You don't know it, of course, but it has become
decidedly marked in the last couple of weeks. At least half the people
in this room saw you enter, saw Porshinger start across--and they
stopped talking and watched you. Maybe you didn't notice it, but Gladys
and I did, and----"
"I noticed it," Stephanie answered, "and it is absurd--this talk. Mr.
Porshinger has never been anything but most courteous."
"Of course he hasn't. All _your_ friends know that, but----"
"I have a bad reputation back of me," she interrupted. "Well, I can't
see how I shall ever manage to keep out of its shadow. However, I
promise to be more circumspect. To be quite frank with you, Sheldon, I
positively dislike Porshinger. I'm doing this with a purpose."
"I know," he said; "but you can't afford it--it's too compromising. You
can't control Porshinger. He is a cad--and you don't understand cads.
They are not governed by the same instincts as the men of your class.
Your scheme would work with them but will _not_ work with Porshinger.
He will misinterpret and _presume_."
"I think I can control him," she answered. "He has manifested no
disposition to presume."
"Oh, no!--the disposition and the presumption will be synchronous in
their manifestation, if I know anything of cads--and Porshinger's kind
in particular. I wish Pendleton were here--where has he been the last
four weeks?"
"I haven't the slightest idea."
He looked down at her thoughtfully.
"Well," he said, "I wish he would come back and get on the job. He is
shirking his duty."
"And that duty is?" she asked sweetly.
"To look after you--now don't flare up and explode! You know that every
woman needs a man to look after her--and Pendleton is the particular
man for this particular woman."
"Don't be silly, Sheldon!" Stephanie laughed.
"That's better--more natural to you. Gee! what a dancer you are! There
is more ravishing rhythm in your swing than any one's I know. It's
simply perfect."
"I might say the same of yours."
"Don't. I'm intoxicated enough as it is."
"Just imagine I'm Miss Emerson!" she smiled.
"If you'll imagine I'm Montague Pendleton."