thank you for giving me a chance to deny--and for accepting my denial."
"My dear Pendleton," Lorraine exclaimed, "you don't think I would have
made that request of you at the Hospital--to watch over Stephanie--to
protect her from herself--if I had doubted you or ever should doubt
you?"
"I shouldn't suppose so!" Pendleton answered.
Then he switched the conversation--it was too acutely personal--he was
writhing under it. He would much have preferred to tell Lorraine the
truth--and stand shamed. But he might not on Stephanie's account.
"I think I'll go in and telephone Cameron about the case, and ask him
to look after it," said Lorraine. "It needs a lawyer. It would have
been wiser, I admit, if I had had a lawyer from the start."
"_Before_ it started," amended Pendleton.
"Will you be here this evening?"
Pendleton nodded.
"Then I'll ask him to talk it over with you also. I'm very tired. I
think I'll go home presently, if you don't mind."
Pendleton wanted to take him by the shoulders and fling him into his
car--anything to be rid of him.
"Not in the least," he replied--"I'll talk it over with Cameron."
Presently Lorraine returned.
"I've told Cameron everything," he said. "He will be here about six
o'clock. I asked him to see you. I'll call you up to-morrow. Good by!"
After a moment, Pendleton arose and went into the house. Choosing a
magazine at random from the table, he crossed to a retired corner of
the big living-room and buried himself behind it--not to read, but to
think.
It was a peculiarly difficult situation; arising from causes simple
enough in themselves when taken separately, but extraordinarily
complicated when considered together. Stephanie, Gladys, Lorraine,
Amherst, Porshinger, Dolittle and himself--everyone a party acting
independently, so to speak, yet in effect acting together to attain the
present embarrassing condition. Naturally a woman was at the bottom of
it--she always is in such matters--and she would be the one to suffer
for all their foolishnesses and mistakes. Stephanie would be pilloried
because Porshinger and Dolittle and he himself had acted the cad--one
by nature, one because he was a malicious gossip, and one because he
was a natural born damn fool. The last was quite the most to blame
because he should and ought to have known better.
The more he pondered the situation, the more hopeless it became.
Amherst was out of it now except as an original cause. Lorraine was
only in it by right, and out of it on every other basis. Dolittle was
in it by reason of his disposition to meddle in the affairs of others;
but Porshinger and he were in it because they were guilty against
Stephanie. Technically Lorraine had a perfect right to prosecute
Porshinger--and Porshinger deserved to be prosecuted--but what of
himself? Who was the more guilty of the two? He had betrayed an implied
trust. It mattered not if Stephanie loved him--it mattered not that
she had no reproaches for him; he was guilty none the less, and had
only complicated the matter for her, for Porshinger had seen them--or
at least he knew. And Stephanie, the innocent cause of it all--of his
and Porshinger's audaciousness--was to be the real victim because of
Dolittle's babbling tongue and Lorraine's misdirected energy. The
whole thing, however, came back to Dolittle, so far as the present
complication was concerned. If he had not seen--or had been blind
though seeing--it would never have arisen.
However, none of these matters confronted them now. There was small
profit in searching for causes, or for whom to blame. Their business
was to meet a present condition in the best way possible--and there
appeared to be no best. All were equally bad. The more he thought over
it, the more hopeless it all was and the more futile every effort to
save Stephanie. She was bound to be smirched, take it whatever way one
would. If the prosecution was abandoned, then Dolittle's story would
be believed no matter how she treated Porshinger in the future. If the
prosecution was persisted in, then Porshinger's story of the willing
victim had to be met by Stephanie's story of violence--all the nasty
details threshed out for an eager populace--with Stephanie the real
defendant with all to lose and nothing to gain.--And if Porshinger
dragged him into it, by telling what he saw on the Criss-Cross piazza,
the verdict would scarcely be in doubt and the----
In disgust with himself, he sprang up and crossed the room to a distant
window. It was a lovely prospect that lay before him--the fields, the
trees, the close-cut fair-green of the course dotted with the players,
all under a lazy afternoon sky--but he did not see it. He saw only the
miserable situation into which he had put the woman he loved--and who
loved him--and whom he was utterly unable to help save in one way:
marriage. And she was married to another! whom she would have none of,
but who was determined on a reconciliation. Even if he acknowledged the
Criss-Cross affair to Lorraine, it would effect nothing for Stephanie's
salvation. Lorraine might be moved to divorce her, and that very
circumstance would establish Porshinger's defence and prove Dolittle's
nasty story. Guilty of the one, she would be deemed guilty of the
other. It was a dark prospect for her. Her rehabilitation, which had
appeared so sure, had suddenly been wrapped in blackness----
"Is it so very absorbing--I mean the prospect?" said a low voice behind
him.
He turned quickly, with something of a start, and met Stephanie's
intimate little smile.
"I found it so," he replied, taking her hand.
She laughed softly--the beautifully modulated laugh that Pendleton
loved, and that had rung in his ears for many years.
"You were not looking at the prospect, my friend--confess it," she said.
"I was not," he admitted.
"You were thinking of--me; of the trouble I have been--and am--and
always shall be. Were you not, Montague?"
"No! I was not. I was trying to think of some way to help you out of
your trouble."
"And wishing I had never--come back!"
"You know better than that!" he smiled.
"Because there isn't any way to help me out of the trouble," she went
on. "I've got to take my punishment."
"You have already taken your punishment," he answered. "That which is
in prospect is not due you."
"I have incurred it none the less," she said. "It is but the result of
what has gone before. If I had not merited _that_ punishment, I would
not be threatened now. The one wouldn't have happened--and the other
wouldn't matter."
"You mean?"
"That Porshinger would never have been in a position to take advantage
of me--and that _you_----" she broke off with a fascinating smile.
"May I supply the rest?" he whispered.
"Do you think you can be trusted?" she asked.
"I'm afraid I can't be trusted for anything where you are concerned."
"Not even to defend?" she smiled.--"I'll trust you, Montague--for
anything."
"You see how I've betrayed your trust."
"Nonsense! we were equally culpable--equally indiscreet. Now we are to
be punished equally. You by your conscience, and I openly. Please think
no more about it."
"If only you were free!" he exclaimed.
"Which I'm not--and haven't any prospect of being. Like all vacillating
people, Lorraine has suddenly become possessed by a fixed idea, and
right or wrong he will cling to it until he dies. Why couldn't it have
been to divorce me, instead of to keep me? However, it is profitless
to wonder why, when to wonder won't make it any different." She gave a
little gesture of despair. "Do you think Lorraine will actually have
Porshinger arrested--or is it only an evanescent fancy?"
"He _has had_ him arrested--here. Within half an hour of his departure,
he was back with an officer and a warrant--and the officer has taken
Porshinger to the magistrate's."
"It's just as well, I suppose," she reflected. "We can have everything
out in court at once, and not have it in detachments forever. The more
I think of it, the better I like Lorraine's course--if I must fight;
and, as you have said, we can't avoid a fight if I am to have a shred
of reputation left. The Amherst affair well nigh damned me--only you
and Gladys and a few others, and my mother's position, enabled me to
regain a little of what I had lost--caused Society to suspend its final
judgment on me. Now if I'm guilty of this Porshinger matter, it will be
taken to show such a natural aptitude to go wrong--such a disposition
for the unmentionable that there is only one course open to me: to go
away and never return. So far as the town is concerned, I might just as
well be dead--better, indeed."
He nodded gravely. He, too, knew that it was as she had said. Even
Lorraine's attitude in the matter would have no effect. Society would
have none of her--she would have condemned herself.
"You are not going to lose," he encouraged. "It is not a pleasant
alternative to be sure, but it is the only one possible under the
circumstances, and we're going to carry it through. It may be a bit
unpleasant while it lasts, but it will soon be over--and all the
sympathy will be with _you_. Porshinger is such a contemptible cad that
no one of right mind will doubt you for a moment."
"No one of right mind _should_ doubt," she admitted--"but only the
future will reveal whether my past hasn't overcome their right minds."
"Why don't you forget your past--it's past!" he exclaimed.
"As I think you have said to me many times, Montague!" she smiled, "and
as you know is impossible."
"It is not just to yourself to remember what your friends have forgot."
"What my friends have _overlooked_, you mean--they can never forget."
"Then _you_ overlook it," he said.
"I wish I could," she replied.
"You can. It's simply a rule of action."
"Don't you think I try to act the part?" she said sadly. "It's try,
try, try all the time. I'm about worn out with trying."
"It succeeds, dear," he encouraged. "No one would ever know that you
are not as calm and unconcerned as you appear to be. Even I would be
deceived, if you yourself had not told me otherwise."
"I'm glad I've acted the part so well," she smiled. "I only hope I can
keep it up to the end--if there is ever to be an end."
"It can always have a certain end, Stephanie," he whispered.
"Thank you, Montague; I'll not pretend that I don't understand--nor
that I----" she broke off, and looked by him and out to the distant
horizon. "It is no use for us to discuss the impossible," she said
softly.
"It is going to be the probable," he declared.
"Then wait until it _is_ the probable."
"And then it is going to be the _fact_."
She shook her head--but an adorable smile came into her soft blue eyes.
"You seem very sure, my friend," she whispered.
"I am very sure, dear," he replied. "Very sure, indeed."
"You must not call me dear," she reminded him.
"Dearest, then," he amended.
"Nor dearest, either."
"Darling!"
"Worse still."
"Sweetheart!"
"Not even sweetheart."
He sighed.--"You're very hard to please!"
"Do you think so?" she asked naïvely.
"In the matter of names, I mean."
"Appellations of friendship were better."
"But it isn't friendship!" he laughed.
"Not friendship?"
"Well, call it friendship, if _you_ please. I'll call it something
else."
"A riddle!" she exclaimed.
"To which the answer is found on the next page--shall we turn it?"
"Do you think it wise?" she asked--"wise to turn the new page before we
have finished the old?"
"No, it is _not_ wise," he answered slowly. "You are right,
_Stephanie_. You see I call you simply Stephanie, but it is hard to
have to read what doesn't interest me."
"If it is hard to have to _read_, what do you think it is to have to
live it?" she asked.
"It must be hell!" he replied.
"It _is_ hell," she admitted--"hell of my own making--that is what
hurts."
"Don't let it hurt, Stephanie," he pleaded, taking her hand. "It will
all come right very soon--very soon, I'm persuaded."
"By what?"
"By the natural turn of events--they can't go against you much longer."
"The only turn that would help me would be for Porshinger to die
suddenly--and Lorraine to become reasonable and give me my freedom."
"If Porshinger were to die suddenly," he repeated thoughtfully. "Yes,
that might clarify the matter very much. Unfortunately Porshinger isn't
cultivating death these days--he has quit shooting wells, you know."
"And he hasn't any cause to shoot himself," she remarked.
"He has plenty of causes but he won't recognize them!" Pendleton smiled.
The Postlewaite carriage drove up with a flourish, and Mrs. Postlewaite
descended with heavy dignity and becoming condescension. Her arrival
was an event at the Club-house--only equalled by the arrival of the
other Queen P; and she was fully aware of the fact.
The doorman and a couple of "buttons" danced out--and continued
to dance during the royal progress inward--while a crowd of her
satellites, who were on the piazza, rushed forward to meet her.
"It is very amusing--Mrs. Postlewaite's assumption of greatness,"
Pendleton remarked.
"Not half so amusing as Society's according it to her," Stephanie
returned.
"Bluff and arrogance wins mostly."
"If one has the requisite manner and cool nerve to carry them off," she
amended.
"I don't see anything wanting in the lady immediately in our fore!"
Pendleton smiled. "Only in her case, she has been doing it so long
it has become part of her life--she actually does it naturally and
by arrogation of divine right. It must be pleasant to have such a
comfortable feeling about one's self."
Mrs. Postlewaite, in her progress down the piazza, glanced casually in
and saw them.--She paused, considered an instant; then facing around,
and dismissing her attendants she came over to the window.
"Stephanie, dear!" she purred, in her most gracious tones, "will you
come out a moment. I've something I want to tell you."
_Stephanie, dear!_
It was the evidence of the return of the royal favor--the piazza had
heard it--the entire Club-house would know it in a moment--it would
spread like the wind.
Even Stephanie's equanimity was startled into a calm surprise, which
showed in her face and in her heightened color. And coming _now_--of
all times!
"Certainly, Mrs. Postlewaite," Stephanie answered.
"And bring Montague along. I want him to hear it too," the _grande
dame_ went on.
"What does it mean?" Stephanie whispered, as she and Pendleton passed
toward the door.
"You heard what she called you: 'Stephanie, dear'?"
"Yes!"
"Then there isn't much doubt."
"But at this juncture!" she marvelled.
"Mrs. Postlewaite knows the exigencies and the juncture too, never
fear. The turn has come, sweeth--I mean, Stephanie."
She shot him a bewildering smile; the next moment they stood in "the
presence."
"Stephanie, dear," began Mrs. Postlewaite, without any preliminary,
"I have heard of Mr. Dolittle's nasty tale of what he saw last night
in the Croyden conservatory; I have also heard of Harry's prompt
prosecution of that unspeakable Porshinger, and I want to tell you
that I and Mrs. Porterfield are ready to testify in your behalf. We
were on the little balcony overhanging one side of the room; we saw
Porshinger make the attempt, your indignant repulse, your seizure
again, your freeing yourself, and then your making him take you back to
the ball-room. The last was delightful! I saw it all, my dear--and I'm
proud of Harry Lorraine, because he chose to believe your story rather
than that horrid Dolittle's, and to prosecute Porshinger instead of a
disgraceful use of physical violence."
"You're very kind, Mrs. Postlewaite," Stephanie replied--"very kind----"
"Not at all, my dear, not at all! We shall take particular care to tell
it. It is fortunate we happened to see everything, and so can vouch for
your story in the face of Dolittle's scandalous tale and Porshinger's
lie--he will lie, of course. Now, if you don't mind, we will let
by-gones be by-gones--and start fresh." She laid her hand intimately on
Stephanie's arm. "And we'll have tea together here to bind it--just we
three. Will you, my dear?"
"Of course, I will, Mrs. Postlewaite!" Stephanie responded, with a
happy little laugh. The Porshinger episode was over--the victory was
theirs.
Just then, from somewhere downstairs, came a voice calling so loudly
the whole piazza heard:--
"I say, fellows, do you know that Amherst is in town--got back this
morning? I shouldn't be surprised if the damn scoundrel would actually
have nerve enough to come up here and ask us all to take a drink!"
Pendleton deliberately leaned forward and took Stephanie's hand in
his--and held it, with a reassuring pressure.
"As you were saying, Mrs. Postlewaite," he remarked, "I hear that the
Croyden ball was a charming affair, though I was so unfortunate as to
miss it."
XXI
OBSESSED
When tea was over Mrs. Postlewaite arose.
"Come around soon and see me, Stephanie!" she smiled, and with an
intimately gracious nod, she resumed her progress down the piazza.
"Where is Gladys?" Pendleton asked.
"On the other side, playing Auction, I think; don't disturb her,
Montague--and if you will call my car, I'll go home. I've had about
enough excitement for one afternoon." She breathed a sigh of intense
relief. "The last is very gratifying, isn't it, my friend?"
"Mrs. Postlewaite and Mrs. Porterfield, of all others!" exclaimed
Pendleton. "The best witnesses you could possibly have. It's too lucky
for words! Your rehabilitation is effected and Porshinger is undone.
He will be cut by everyone and expelled from the Clubs. It is a social
Waterloo for him."
"But it doesn't relieve _you_ of his revenge," she objected. "It will
make him all the more determined to square off."
"Don't let that bother you, dear--I mean, Stephanie!" he laughed.
"You're free of him--he won't try his dirty tricks on you--and I'm a
man, and it doesn't matter. I can meet him half way and then some. In
fact, I'm hoping he will be kind enough to give me the opportunity."
"I'm afraid for you, Montague--indeed I'm afraid!" she repeated.
"Nonsense, little woman. Don't you worry about me--I tell you there is
no need. _You're_ out of it now.--I admit I _was_ mightily concerned
for you; that is why I didn't favor Gladys' and your scheme to placate
him: because it involved you. He could have made it most unpleasant--as
he did--and as he didn't, thanks to Mrs. Postlewaite."
He put her in her car, with the courteous deference he always had for a
woman--were she but a beggar who accosted him on the street--and which
was always just a shade more courteous and more deferential to _her_.
"When shall I see you again?" he asked, as he bent over her hand.
"This evening, if you wish!" she smiled, with just the faintest
pressure of her fingers.
"You are very good," he murmured. "I most assuredly _do_ wish."
"I'll expect you then--at nine, Montague. I want to--talk
over--matters--Amherst, you know."
"At nine!" he answered, and the car rolled away.
Pendleton went in through the Club-house, and out again on the east
piazza where Miss Chamberlain was playing Auction. She saw him coming
and motioned to a chair beside her. Mrs. Postlewaite was a little way
off, holding her usual court. Gladys glanced toward her and smiled.
"We all know it, Montague," she said. "Everyone in the Club-house and
on the links knows it--and it has been telephoned to town, I dare say:
Mrs. Postlewaite asked Stephanie to have tea with her here. It's the
sensation of the--year."
"And for a sensation mighty satisfactory," Pendleton returned.
"Those of us who have been for Stephanie all through can take
courage--our course has been approved by the ultimate authority,"
Gladys observed. "If we hadn't been staunch for our friend, the Queen
wouldn't have come around."
"She'll hear you, Gladys," warned Mrs. Burleston.
"Let her--I would confide the same thing to her, if she asked me.--I've
never come under her authority. I'll double your three hearts, Helen."
"By!" said Miss Tazewell, after a pause to consider whether she should
take her partner out of it.
"By!" said Miss Rutledge promptly.
"I'll go back--your lead, Gladys," said Mrs. Burleston.
There was silence until the last card fell--Mrs. Burleston had made
good her contract.
"That's ninety-six below, and a hundred above, and simple honors," said
Miss Chamberlain, as she put down the score. "You had a bully hand,
Helen."
On the next deal, Miss Rutledge was the declarant. Gladys spread out
her cards; then, with a significant look at Pendleton, arose and moved
out to the rail.
"What else have you to tell me?" she said, as he joined her.
"How did you know?" he smiled.
"I guessed it--from your manner!" she laughed. "A woman's intuition, if
you please."
"It's more than tea for Stephanie," he said. "You have only part of
it.--The Porshinger matter is won."
"He has plead guilty!" she marvelled.
"Better than that."
"What--better! How can that be?"
"Mrs. Postlewaite and Mrs. Porterfield witnessed the whole episode, and
have voluntarily come to Stephanie's assistance--to deny Dolittle's
story, and with an offer to testify against Porshinger."
"Oh, delightful!" Gladys cried. "The Queen P's actually witnessed the
whole occurrence?"
"Yes--from the little balcony which, you know, runs along one side of
the conservatory."
"Does Lorraine know it?"
"No."
"Where is Stephanie?"
"Gone home."
She looked at him thoughtfully.
He looked at her and smiled.
"I'm sorry for you, Montague.--Lorraine will be the more determined
than ever on a reconciliation."
"I've a bit more news," he replied seriously. "I was so pleased with
the Postlewaite matter it clean escaped me, for the moment.--I've just
heard that Amherst is back."
"Here--in town!" she cried.
"So I understand--he arrived this morning."
She held up her hands helplessly.
"What a complication!" she breathed.--"What will Lorraine do, do you
suppose?"
"I give it up," he replied, with a shake of his head. "No one can
depend on him for anything--but if he is still of the mind he was this
afternoon, it would be just as well for him and Amherst not to meet."
"We're waiting, Gladys!" came Mrs. Burleston's voice.
"Coming!" Gladys replied.--"You'll do your best to keep them apart,
Montague?"
"Yes--I'll do what I can; but I may have a devil of a job, and then
not succeed. Lorraine's himself again, you know--which means he is as
erratic as a crazy man. However----"
"Where is he now, do you know?"
"He said he was tired and was going home."
"Then let us hope he'll stay there until morning," she said.
"And that some kind friend won't call him up and put him wise," he
added--and they went back to the game.
"Montague, will you either stay here or go away--_far_ away, that is,"
Dorothy Tazewell requested--"down to the grill-room would be about
right."
"Wherefore this happy consideration!" Pendleton laughed.
"So we can continue our game, stupid, without the attendant
interruption of having Gladys desert us every time she's dummy."
"By which I might infer----" Pendleton began.
"Whatever you wish that is complimentary--or otherwise; it's a free for
all.--Two royal!" and she smiled at him with roguish demureness.
"I'm squelched," said he, with affected sadness. "I _was_ just about to
ask you all to take dinner with me here this evening, but of course it
is out of the question now. I'm awfully sorry it happened, you know.
It's the----"
"Go 'long with you, Montague!" Mrs. Burleston exclaimed. "How can one
remember the cards while that sirenly seductive voice of yours is
playing on the diapason."
"Yes, run along, Montague!" agreed Dorothy--"or you'll have to pay my
losses; it's a quarter of a cent a point, too, and I can't afford to
lose."
"Me for the tall timber," he declined.
"Mercy! Montague," Gladys exclaimed. "One would think you were Warwick
Devereux."
"I was wondering if anyone would recognize the impersonation!"
Pendleton laughed.--"What is it," he asked, as a servant stopped beside
him and stood at attention.
"Mr. Cameron is waiting in the grill-room, sir," the man replied.
Pendleton nodded in dismissal.
"How about having the dinner to-morrow evening?" he asked.--"Good!
That's very nice indeed--will seven-thirty be convenient? All
right--seven-thirty it is."