for feeling bitter, but I haven't any sympathy for him now--he has
shilly-shallied so long he would best forget it. Altogether Stephanie
seems to have made a devil of a mess of it--with her husband, and
the Amherst matter, and coming back the way she did, and refusing
Lorraine's overtures for a reconciliation, and _now_ his attitude. It
makes a pretty problem in human frailties--and mistakes. There isn't
a thing about the whole affair that is normal. Why in thunder didn't
Lorraine get killed in the recent accident? No one would ever have
missed him!"
"Those that will never be missed are usually the ones that can't be
killed," Pendleton remarked. "However, so long as Amherst stays away
there will be no killing--and Lorraine, in the meantime, may see
reason. Let us hope for it--for Stephanie's sake."
"And if Lorraine does go into the killing business, I trust he will
make a thorough job of it and wipe out both Amherst and himself. Clean
the slate!"
"A clean slate for a fresh start," said Pendleton.
Devereux looked keenly at him.
"For a fresh start?" he inflected tentatively.
But Pendleton had resumed his smoke rings--and for a time there was
silence.
Presently Devereux spoke:
"I didn't see you at the Croyden's last night."
"I wasn't there," replied Pendleton. "I came in from New York this
morning. Was it interesting?"
"The Croyden functions are always interesting--some more so than
others, but any of them will do for mine, thank you!--Lucky chap,
Croyden!"
Pendleton nodded. "Not many girls would have done what Elaine Cavendish
did: throw convention overboard and--because Croyden was poor and
wouldn't, and she was rich and loved him--bridge the chasm and made it
easy for him to cross to her."
"Elaine's a girl in a million!" Devereux declared. "I wish there were
some more of that sort."
"Would you pick one?" Pendleton asked.
"Would I pick one? Well, rather, my friend."
"Why didn't you pick Elaine?"
"I wanted to but she wouldn't be picked--by me."
"I can't remember that you fussed her especially."
"I can't remember it myself; but I reckon I read my doom beforehand,
and didn't go up against it. Elaine is a winner for looks, Pendleton.
She was the loveliest thing last night I most ever saw--in a shimmering
silver gown and--there was only one woman who was her equal in looks:
Stephanie Lorraine. _She's_ unbeatable--simply unbeatable!"
"I'm sorry I wasn't there!" laughed Pendleton.
"You should have been there. That bounder Porshinger was playing the
devoted to her--had her in the conservatory for a half an hour." He
glanced slyly at the other. "So long, indeed, as to occasion comment.
I overheard some of the dowager tabby-cats mewing over it." He paused
a moment, then asked seriously: "Pendleton, why don't you warn her of
Porshinger's attentions? _You_ can do it. He is up to no good, you may
be sure--at least, no one will ever credit him with any good where
Stephanie is concerned. You understand, old chap."
"Do you mean that people will suspect _her_?" Pendleton demanded.
"You and I and her other friends and the right-minded people won't,
but there are a lot who will. It well be a fresh bit for them to roll
over their tongues and to infer and imply the scandalous. The question
is whether she can afford to have them do it--now."
"She is simply courteous and nice to him," Pendleton replied.
"I know she is. Yet why not be simply courteous, and let it go at that;
what is the good of being _nice_ to him?"
"No good at all--but----"
"I told Gladys she would regret having Porshinger to Criss-Cross. It's
all due to that Sunday, damn it!"
"I don't think so," Pendleton said, with a shake of his head. "It may
have accelerated it by a few weeks--Porshinger was sure to get in
anyway."
"Get in! Of course he would get in!" Devereux exclaimed. "But he
wouldn't have come in through the Chamberlain doorway--nor have had any
opportunity to know Stephanie well. I can't see what Gladys meant by
it--and yet she must have had some object. She is the last to do things
on impulse."
"Here she comes--you might ask her," Pendleton remarked, as
Miss Chamberlain appeared on the piazza through one of the low
French-windows.
Both men arose and bowed.
"May I sit down?" she said. "I'm tired out and--thirsty. Get me some
tea, please--and some toast, the soft kind." She removed her gloves and
put up her veil. "It is charming here."
"_Now_ it is!" said Devereux.
"Warwick," she smiled, "I've long ago learned that when you flatter you
want something! What is it? Out with it."
"He must be in a condition of perpetual want," Pendleton derided.
"When Gladys is around, I am," Devereux agreed. "She keeps me on
starvation rations, don't you know."
"Isn't that better than letting you starve?" Gladys asked.
"It is not comparable to being well fed," he responded.
"I can't devote all my time to providing for the needy," she smiled.
"You might at least give me the time you confer on Mr. Porshinger."
"So--that is the fly in the ointment, is it?" she asked.
"You're likely to find before you are through with him that you're the
fly and not Porshinger," retorted Devereux.
"Then I shall look to you and Montague to come promptly to my rescue
and fish me out."
"It would have been wiser never to have got in. However, as first aid
to the injured, Monte and I are some class--and we're likely to be
called on to fish someone else than you out of the ointment--that is to
say, out of your friend Porshinger's clutches."
"I confess that I don't understand you," said Gladys. "Do you,
Montague?"
"Do you, Montague?" sarcasmed Devereux.
"Well, seeing that we're just discussing the matter when you blew
along, I sort of reckon he does. Tell the lady what it is, Monte; you
advised me to ask her."
"Tell her yourself, you tattle-tale!" laughed Pendleton. "Gladys will
understand the spirit in which _I_ said it."
"You must admit that you didn't and don't approve!"
"Certainly--as I've already told Gladys; but I've not asked for her
reasons. They are her own, I take it."
"And I'm just curious, you think? Well, let it go at that. I am
curious, I admit it, to know--and Pendleton advised me to ask you,
Gladys--why _you_ invited Porshinger to Criss-Cross the other Sunday?
You see what has been the result: the bars are down. Why did you do it?"
"Because I wanted to do it," she replied sweetly.
"Undoubtedly. You don't do much that you don't want to do--but what was
your ulterior motive?"
"Was it so bad as that?" Gladys asked.
"Worse--far worse, I suspect."
"Then don't voice it--keep it dark."
"I will. I'll go away and leave you with Pendleton--and with an insane
curiosity to know just what I suspect. In fact, you will give him no
rest until he tells you.--See?" and with a laugh and a nod he arose and
strolled away.
Gladys watched him with an amused smile until he turned the corner of
the piazza--then she spoke.
"He doesn't suspect the real reason?" she asked.
Pendleton shook his head rather shortly.
"No more than that there _was_ a reason," he answered. "A reason which,
I fear, was very foolish and absurd. You see where it has led and is
leading?--Were you at the Croydens last night?"
"For a little while."
"Did you see Stephanie?"
"Only for a moment."
"Where?"
"I don't recollect--in the drawing-room, I think."
"Was Porshinger with her?"
"Not that I remember."
"It is none of my affair, perhaps--more than a friend--but do you think
it wise for Stephanie to have Porshinger dangling around her so much?
I've been away for two weeks, and Devereux says that he has become
exceedingly attentive recently--so much so, indeed, as to occasion
comment of not the kindest sort.--I don't want to say anything to her
on the matter, but _you_ can--so, if you consider it expedient, you
might mention it to her."
"Why don't you mention it yourself, Montague? You have the most
influence with Stephanie, surely!"
"I don't think so," he replied, with a bit of a smile.
"A quarrel?" she asked.
He nodded. "Just before I went to Boston.--It's nothing serious, but
I'm not exactly in a position to influence her until we have made it
up."
"Then why don't you make it up?" Gladys demanded. "You would think you
two were children."
"We _are_ children. I'm ready to make it up any time, but I don't want
to start it by finding fault with her recent conduct. It would hardly
be conducive to the makeup, do you think?"
"The idea of Stephanie and you having a misunderstanding!" she
exclaimed. "You ought to be sent back to the nursery--you overgrown
infants."
"Granted again," he agreed.
"Whose fault was it?"
"Both, I imagine, to be accurate."
"Do you mind telling me what it was about?"
"No--I don't mind telling _you_, Gladys. It was about Porshinger. I
cautioned Stephanie about letting him show her attention. She--well,
one thing led to another and--we quarrelled. I had to leave town the
following morning. I wrote to her from Boston; I was there a week, and
she never replied to the letter."
"Maybe she didn't get it."
"Not likely; moreover, I passed her on Fifth Avenue last week--and she
never saw me."
"_Did_ she see you?" Gladys asked.
"Certainly she saw me; she looked straight at me."
"And _you_ didn't speak?"
"Of course I didn't speak."
"Wasn't it just as much in your place to speak as in hers?" Gladys
inflected.
"I thought not. My letter put it up to her."
"If she had received it. If not?"
"I'm assuming that she received it. Not many letters go astray."
"Why didn't you ask her if she had received it?"
"Would you?" he laughed.
"No--I think I wouldn't--but I'm a woman, you're a _man_."
"And my action was womanish, not mannish, you imply!"
She acquiesced with a nod and a smile.
"You might expect it from Stephanie--and excuse it; but I've not much
patience with you, Montague Pendleton!"
"I see you haven't!" Pendleton grinned. "Well, I'm properly humble and
contrite."
"According to your idea of the proper humbleness and contrition, I
suppose," Gladys retorted.
"Which, however, is beside the way," he suggested. "Let us get back on
the original road. I'll ask Stephanie if she received my letter, if
you'll do what you can to make her see reason in the Porshinger matter.
The latter is too sore a subject for me to broach, until you have had
your say."
"Aren't you unduly sensitive! She hasn't done anything but be nice to
him."
"She has done enough to provoke talk and 'set the old tabby-cats
mewing,' as Devereux says--he heard them mewing at the Croydens. I
don't like it, Gladys. Stephanie is hurting her chances for complete
rehabilitation because of a foolish notion, as you know, and----"
"I don't know that it is foolish," Gladys interrupted.
"Well it is, nevertheless--and because of her quarrel with me. She's
headstrong and a bit wilful and we must look out for her--you and I."
"Which _you_ proceed to do by quarrelling with her."
"I was justified in quarrelling with her--you should have heard what
she said. However, I admit that in this instance justification isn't an
excuse. I'll apologize and make a fresh start--if she will let me."
"She'll let you!" laughed Gladys.
"Has she mentioned our quarrel to you?" he asked eagerly.
"Not a word--but if you show the proper spirit, she'll be only too glad
to make up. I know it--trust me. You are the one man, Montague, whom
she will permit to advise her."
"She didn't permit it--she resented it."
"Because you went at it in the wrong way. Stephanie Lorraine is the
easiest girl in the world to manage if you handle her right--but if you
don't----" an expressive shrug ended the sentence. "I think she has
become more so, since the Amherst affair--which is entirely natural."
"I know it. I should have made every allowance for her," Pendleton
concurred. "I'll fix it up with her if she will let me."
Miss Chamberlain smiled satisfiedly.
"She will let you, never fear, as I said before." She drank the last
of her tea and put down the cup. "I just learned today," she said,
"that shortly after Stephanie's return a resolution was introduced, by
one of Lorraine's friends on the Board of Governors, requesting her
resignation; that after a desperate fight it was held over until the
next meeting--when it was voluntarily withdrawn by the mover. Is it
true?"
"It is true--but I didn't know it had got out," he answered.
"I heard it only this morning. It was pretty well kept--for a Board
secret."
"Yes--about four weeks overtime. Why is it that some one on the Board
always leaks?"
"Why is it that almost everyone on the Board leaks?" she amended. "Talk
about women not being able to keep a secret. If there is anything more
gossippy and leaky than a man's club, I should like to know it."
He smiled tolerantly, with a good-natured air.
"Different sexes, different minds," he replied.
"But the same delight in gossip!" she retorted. "However, to return to
the road, as you would say. What caused Lorraine's friend to have a
change of heart, do you suppose?"
"Lorraine's accident and Stephanie's visit to him at the Hospital
occurred on the same evening the Governors met. The postponement of the
resolution was owing, I understand, to a hard fight by a couple of her
friends on the Board. The subsequent action of the proposer was due to
these facts--and to Lorraine's request."
"I see," nodded Miss Chamberlain. "Altogether that first visit to
the Hospital--and the subsequent one--were the two wisest, most
politic things Stephanie ever did. They accomplished more for her
rehabilitation than she could have effected in a year's time. Even the
Queen P's were mollified and were disposed to be nice--which Stephanie
hasn't let them be yet, however. She _is_ a bit wilful, Montague."
"She may be wilful in her resolve not to accept Lorraine's offer of
reconciliation," said Pendleton. "What is your opinion?"
"On the ground of expediency, it would be better, beyond all question,
for her to accept," said Gladys, "but if it were I--I'd die first. I
fancy Stephanie is of the same mind."
"I fancy she is," Pendleton agreed.
Just then Stephanie herself appeared in the doorway.
She saw Gladys, and smiled and came toward her--not seeing Pendleton,
who had his back toward her and was hidden by the tall chair in which
he was sitting.
"Hello!" said Gladys.--"Come and join me in a cup of tea."
Pendleton slowly arose and turned--and Stephanie stopped short with a
smothered exclamation!
XVII
DOLITTLE'S TALE
She recovered herself instantly--and took Pendleton's outstretched hand.
It was a lifeless hand she gave him, however. It said plainly to him
that it was offered out of respect to the conventionalities and nothing
more. And her smile was as purely formal as the handshake. There was no
warmth in either.
"I did not mean to intrude," she remarked.
"Intrude!" marvelled Gladys.--"Why what an idea, Stephanie! Montague
and I are not--now if I were someone else, it might be apropos. This
tea is cold--let me order another pot."
Pendleton went over and pushed the bell.
"I don't care for any tea, thank you," said Stephanie.--"I'm going to
town in a moment."
"I'll ride with you, if you wait a few minutes until I telephone,"
offered Gladys. "I may be able to hasten it if I call up at once.
Excuse me a moment!" and she hurried into the house.
Pendleton repressed a smile and bowed.
"Won't you sit down, Mrs. Lorraine?" he suggested.
She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly, and took the chair he
offered her.
"This is an awkward situation, Mr. Pendleton," she observed, "but it
will last but a moment--and if you will bear with me, I'll see that it
doesn't happen again."
"Suppose I want it to happen again--many times," he said, leaning
forward.
Another shrug of the shapely shoulders.
"You're asking me to believe impossibilities," she returned.
"I'll make them very real, if you will promise to try to believe them."
A third time the shoulders did duty.
"I suppose Miss Chamberlain has been made aware of the state of affairs
and is trying to give you a chance to apologize," she remarked.
"And I take the chance.--I apologize, Stephanie! most sincerely and
humbly apologize."
"For what?"
"For anything I did or said that I shouldn't."
"That you shouldn't," she repeated.--"Who is to be the judge of what
you _shouldn't_ have done or said? That was just the point on which we
split--you thought you should and I thought you shouldn't."
"I am willing to let _you_ be the judge," he replied.
"Then you confess that you went beyond all bounds?"
"I will."
"And were arbitrary and dictatorial?"
"I will."
"And unkind in your inferences and conclusions?"
"Even that I will confess.--You know that I had no intention of being
either unkind, nor arbitrary, nor dictatorial."
"I know only what you said at the time, Mr. Pendleton; from it there
was no other conclusion to draw. However, it won't profit us to discuss
it now--you've apologized; I accept the apology on the condition that
you don't offend again."
"But I'm going to offend again. At least, I'm going to speak frankly
about a matter, in the hope that you'll not be offended--but that if
you are offended you'll be warned nevertheless--and heed the warning.
Shall I proceed?"
"You may use your own judgment," she returned.
"First, I want to ask if you received my letter, written from Boston
the day after our--quarrel?"
"I did not."
The servant came with the tea and toast, and placed them on the table.
"How many lumps, Mrs. Lorraine?" the man asked, sugar tongs poised.
"I'll serve it--you may go!" said Stephanie. Then she looked at
Pendleton. "Did you write me a letter?"
"I most assuredly did!" he replied.
"Do you care to tell me what was in it?"
"It was mainly an apology for what had occurred the previous evening."
"What else was in it?"
He smiled--"Nothing much--just a word or two of--regard."
She poured the tea, and broke off a bit of toast.
"I think," she remarked, examining the toast critically, yet watching
Pendleton the while furtively from under the long lashes, "I think
that letter alters the proposition somewhat. You did the decent thing
promptly--and I'm sorry I didn't know it. I too said things that I
didn't mean--and if you'll forgive _me_, Montague," holding out her
hand to him, with a bewitching smile, "we will start afresh."
"If I'll forgive you, sweetheart!" he exclaimed.
She withdrew her hand and held up a warning finger--though the smile
still lingered undimmed--then she nodded ever so slightly.
"My dear Stephanie, I'll forgive _you_ anything when you look at me
like that!" he breathed.
"I'm always ready to look at you like that, if you won't find fault
with me when I've been abominable," she whispered.--"No, stay where you
are--you forget we're on the Club-house piazza."
He made a motion of resignation and sank back in his chair.
"I should not have said it if we hadn't been there--and broad day
besides," she observed.
He smiled his answer.
"Moreover, Montague, you know that all such little demonstrations are
strictly forbidden," she warned.
"When will they be permitted?" he demanded, leaning close to her.
"Who knows?" she answered. "Who can read the future--such a future as
mine, my friend."
"I will essay it," he replied.
She laughed softly.
"_You_, Montague!" she said.
"Yes--may I try it?"
She shook her head. "It wouldn't be wise. It might raise false hopes;
and a football of fate hasn't any right to hopes--they are too
expensive of disappointment."
"How do you know what I shall read?" he asked.
"You wouldn't venture to read anything that wasn't nice."
"I'll read what I see," said he;--"and the first thing I see is far
from nice."
She regarded him a moment thoughtfully--and he waited.
"What is it?" she asked finally.
"It is--Porshinger!" he answered--and braced himself for the explosion.
And it came--though not in the way he had anticipated.
"Porshinger! Porshinger!" she cried tensely--her sensitive nostrils
aquiver, her eyes flashing, her cheeks suddenly aflame. "I hate him!--I
hate him! He's a beast, Montague, a beast!"
"There isn't a doubt of it, sweetheart," he said soothingly. "I rejoice
that you have found him out at last."
"I _always_ knew it--but I didn't think he would dare try his ways with
me."
"What did he do, dear?" Pendleton asked--"was it at the Croydens' last
night?"
"Yes--in the conservatory.--He--kissed me by force--and repeated it at
least half a dozen times before he released me.--I did nothing to tempt
him, Montague--_absolutely nothing_!"
"Except to be nice to him," Pendleton added quietly--"which _he_ isn't
able to understand."
"Isn't able to understand in Stephanie Lorraine--with her past!" she
said bitterly.
"That is the bounder in him," he explained.
"He thought, because I went wrong with Amherst, that every man could be
an Amherst--if he only had the opportunity!" she exclaimed.
"Did he say _that_?"
"He laughed and said: 'Why struggle so--no one sees us?'"
"He _is_ a beast!" Pendleton gritted.
"And when I did break from him, he caught me back again, saying: 'You
didn't struggle so the other night with Pendleton,' and kissed me again
and again, whispering:--'aren't mine just as sweet and worth as much as
his?'"
"My God!" cried Pendleton.--"Did he see me that night at Criss-Cross?"
"I think so--at least the day after, when he came there to dine, he let
me infer from what he said that he had seen--I never told you, because
I might have been wrong--and I didn't want to worry you."
For a brief space Pendleton did not trust himself to answer, if indeed
he had the power, so overcome was he by shame and anger, and the rush
of hatred that well nigh choked him. Then it passed, and he was cool
and calm--preternaturally so, indeed--though the intensity of his
feelings was betrayed by the flashing of his eyes. His first words were
a confession of his own atrocious error.
"My poor Stephanie! I am shamed beyond words--to have brought this
thing upon you by my folly."
"You are not responsible--it's myself," she said evenly. "Do you think
that he would have dared it but for the Amherst affair?"
"I gave him courage--I am guilty too," he objected.
"You don't know the man. He thinks everything must bow before
him--thinks he can buy anyone if he but have a chance--thinks every
woman has her price--and that I am openly for sale. He can't understand
that what a woman may do once, she would burn at the stake rather than
do again. He's a beast! Montague, a beast!"
"A human beast unfortunately--whom one can't kill with impunity,"
Pendleton reflected. "Moreover, I doubt if it would be wise to kill
him."
"Good Heavens! No!" she cried.
"Neither do I know just how the matter ought to be handled. Of course,
you will ignore him in the future----"
"I shall never _see_ him!" she declared.
"But if he sees you--forces himself upon you----"
"He would not dare."
"He _would_ dare! He is vile enough to dare anything--to do anything.
He has no notion of decency nor of right when it crosses his purposes.
He has neither conscience nor shame. He is what you styled him: a
beast--a vicious beast, I should add."
"What would _you_ do with a vicious beast of his kind who forces
himself upon you?" she asked.
"I should take care to have some one always with me," he replied
slowly--"and I should appeal instantly for protection, if he made the
slightest attempt to intrude."
"And suffer him to circulate some horrible tale about me?"
"You have to chance that," Pendleton answered. "If he does, your
friends will then be in a position to make such a protest as he will be
apt to remember."
"Meanwhile, the harm will be done," she replied.
"If he _can_ harm you," he observed. "You're a trifle too sensitive of
your position, dear. It is not what it was--when you returned. Surely
your word is equal to Porshinger's."
"Many will be glad to believe his story--whatever it is," she
protested. "You see, I was friendly with him--and my past is--not in my
favor."
"Those who believe it, you won't any longer want to know; nor need you
care for them--you will be well rid of them. And your past is _past_;
don't let it worry you, sweetheart. You're obsessed by it."
"I'm afraid I don't know just what obsessed means, Montague," she said,
with a wan little smile.
"You attach undue importance to it; you've--got it on the brain, so to
speak," he explained.
"I see," she said slowly. "Maybe I have it on the brain--but it's very
natural under all the circumstances--and when I'm trying to live down
my past. It's dreadfully hard, Montague, dreadfully hard for a woman to
live down her past. You men can never know how hard it is--you have no
past."
"You make it harder than it is, Stephanie," he said, "though I think
that no one knows it except me--you conceal your feelings marvellously
well."