But Bertha did not go abroad, and the season reached its height and its
wane, and, though Miss Jessup began to refer occasionally to the
much-to-be regretted delicacy of the charming Mrs. Amory's health, there
seemed but little alteration in her mode of life.
"I will confide to you," she said to Colonel Tredennis, "that I have set
up this effective little air of extreme delicacy as I might set up a
carriage,--if I needed one. It is one of my luxuries. Do you remember
Lord Farintosh's tooth, which always ached when he was invited out to
dinner and did not want to go,--the tooth which Ethel Newcome said
nothing would induce him to part with? My indisposition is like that. I
refuse to become convalescent. Don't prescribe for me, I beg of you."
It was true, as she had said, that the colonel presented himself at the
house less often than had been his wont, and that his visits were more
frequently for Janey than for herself. "You will never hold out your
hand to me when I shall not be ready to take it," he had said; but she
did not hold out her hand, and there was nothing that he could do, and
if he went to her he must find himself confronted with things he could
not bear to see, and so he told himself that, until he was needed, it
was best that he should stay away, or go only now and then.
But he always knew what she was doing. The morning papers told him that
she was involved in the old, unceasing round of excitement,--announcing
that she was among the afternoon callers; that she received at home;
that she dined, lunched, danced, appeared at charitable entertainments,
and was seen at the theatre. It became his habit to turn unconsciously
to the society column before he read anything else, though he certainly
found himself none the happier for its perusal.
But, though he saw Bertha less frequently, he did not forget Richard. At
this time he managed to see him rather often, and took some pains to
renew the bloom of their first acquaintance, which had, perhaps, shown
itself a little on the wane, as Richard's friendships usually did in
course of time. And, perhaps, this waning having set in, Richard was not
at first invariably so enthusiastically glad to see the large military
figure present itself in his office. He had reasons of his own for not
always feeling entirely at ease before his whilom favorite. As he had
remarked to Planefield, Philip Tredennis was not a malleable fellow. He
had unflinching habits of truth, and remorseless ideas of what a man's
integrity should be, and would not be likely to look with lenient or
half-seeing eyes upon any palterings with falsehood and dishonor,
however colored or disguised. And he did not always appear at the most
convenient moment; there were occasions, indeed, when his unexpected
entrance had put an end to business conferences of a very interesting
and slightly exciting nature. These conferences had, it is true, some
connection with the matter of the Westoria lands, and the colonel had
lately developed an interest in the project in question which he had not
shown at the outset. He had even begun to ask questions about it, and
shown a desire to inform himself as to the methods most likely to be
employed in manipulating the great scheme. He amassed, in one way and
another, a large capital of information concerning subsidies and land
grants, and exhibited remarkable intelligence in his mental investment
of it. Indeed, there were times when he awakened in Richard a rather
uneasy sense of admiration by the clearness of his insight and the
practical readiness of his views.
"He has always been given to digging into things," Amory said to
Planefield, after one of their interviews. "That is his habit of mind,
and he has a steady business capacity you don't expect to find."
"What is he digging into this thing for?" Planefield asked. "He will be
digging up something, one of these days, that we are not particularly
anxious to have dug up. I am not overfond of the fellow myself. I never
was."
Richard laughed a trifle uneasily.
"Oh, he's well enough," he said; "though I'll admit he has been a little
in the way once or twice."
It is quite possible that the colonel himself had not been entirely
unaware of this latter fact, though he had exhibited no signs of his
knowledge, either in his countenance or bearing; indeed, it would be
difficult, for one so easily swayed by every passing interest as Richard
Amory was, to have long resisted his manly courtesy and good nature. Men
always found him an agreeable companion, and he made the most of his
powers on the occasions which threw him, or in which he threw himself,
in Amory's way. Even Planefield admitted reluctantly, once or twice,
that the fellow had plenty in him. It was not long before Richard
succumbed to his personal influence with pleasurable indolence. It would
have cost him too much effort to combat against it; and, besides this,
it was rather agreeable to count among one's friends and supporters a
man strong enough to depend on and desirable enough to be proud of.
There had been times during the last few months when there would have
been a sense of relief in the feeling that there was within reach a
stronger nature than his own,--one on whose strength he knew he could
rely. As their intimacy appeared to establish itself, if he did not
openly confide in Tredennis, he more than once approached the borders of
a confidence in his moments of depression. That he had such moments had
become plain. He did not even look so bright as he had looked;
something of his care-free, joyous air had deserted him, and now and
then there were to be seen faint lines on his forehead.
"There is a great deal of responsibility to be borne in a matter like
this," he said to Tredennis, "and it wears on a man." To which he added,
a few seconds later, with a delightfully unconscious mixture of
petulance and protest: "Confound it! why can't things as well turn out
right as wrong?"
"Have things been turning out wrong?" the colonel ventured.
Richard put his elbows on the table before him, and rested his forehead
on his hands a second.
"Well, yes," he admitted; "several things, and just at the wrong time,
too. There seems a kind of fate in it,--as if when one thing began the
rest must follow."
The colonel began to bite one end of his long mustache reflectively as
he looked at the young man's knitted brow.
"There is one thing you must understand at the outset," he said, at
length. "When I can be made useful--supposing such a thing were
possible--I am here."
Richard glanced up at him quickly. He looked a little haggard for the
moment.
"What a steady, reliable fellow you are!" he said. "Yes, I should be
sure of you if--if the worst came to the worst."
The colonel bit the ends of his mustache all the way home, and more than
one passer-by on the avenue was aroused to wonder what the subject of
his reflections might be, he strode along with so absorbed an air, and
frowned so fiercely.
"I should like to know what the worst is," he was saying to himself. "I
should like to know what that means."
It was perhaps his desire to know what it meant which led him to
cultivate Richard more faithfully still, to join him on the street, to
make agreeable bachelor dinners for him, to carry him off to the
theatres, and, in a quiet way, to learn something of what he was doing
each day. It was, in fact, a delicate diplomatic position the colonel
occupied in these days, and it cannot be said that he greatly enjoyed it
or liked himself in it. He was too honest by nature to find pleasure in
diplomacy, and what he did for another he would never have done for
himself. For the sake of the woman who rewarded his generosity and care
with frivolous coldness and slight, he had undertaken a task whose
weight lay heavily upon him. Since his first suspicions of her danger
had been aroused he had been upon the alert continually, and had seen
many things to which the more indifferent or less practical were blind.
As Richard had casually remarked, he was possessed of a strong business
sense and faculty of which he was not usually suspected, and he had seen
signs in the air which he felt boded no good for Richard Amory or those
who relied on his discretion in business affairs. That the professor had
innocently relied upon it when he gave his daughter into his hands he
had finally learned; that Bertha never gave other than a transient
thought--more than half a jest--to money matters he knew. Her good
fortune it had been to be trammelled neither by the weight of money nor
the want of it,--a truly enviable condition, which had, not unnaturally,
engendered in her a confidence at once unquestioning and somewhat
perilous. Tredennis had recalled more than once of late a little scene
he had taken part in on one occasion of her signing a legal document
Richard had brought to her.
"Shall I sign it here?" she had said, with exaggerated seriousness, "or
shall I sign it there? What would happen to me if I wrote on the wrong
line? Could not Laurence sign it for me in his government hand, and give
it an air of distinction? Suppose my hand trembled and I made a blot? I
am not obliged to read it, am I?"
"I think I should insist that she read it," the colonel had said to
Richard, with some abruptness.
Bertha had looked up and smiled.
"_Shall_ you insist that I read it?" she said; "I know what it says. It
says 'whereas' and 'moreover' and 'in accordance' with 'said agreement'
and 'in consideration of.' Those are the prevailing sentiments, and I am
either the 'party of the first part' or the 'party of the second part';
and if it was written in Sanskrit, it would be far clearer to my
benighted mind than it is in its present lucid form. But I will read it
if you prefer it, even though delirium should supervene."
It was never pleasant to Colonel Tredennis to remember this trivial
episode, and the memory of it became a special burden to him as time
progressed and he saw more of Amory's methods and tendencies. But it was
scarcely for him to go to her, and tell her that her husband was not as
practical a business man as he should be; that he was visionary and too
easily allured by glitter and speciousness. He could not warn her
against him and reveal to her the faults and follies she seemed not to
have discovered. But he could revive something of Richard's first fancy
for him, and make himself in a measure necessary to him, and perhaps
gain an influence over him which might be used to good purpose.
Possibly, despite his modesty, he had a half-conscious knowledge of the
power of his own strong will and nature over weaker ones, and was
resolved that this weak one should be moved by them, if the thing were
possible.
Nor was this all. There were other duties he undertook, for reasons best
known to himself. He became less of a recluse socially, and presented
himself more frequently in the fashionable world. He was no fonder of
gayety than he had been before, but he faced it with patience and
courage. He went to great parties, and made himself generally useful. He
talked to matrons who showed a fancy for his company, and was the best
and most respectful of listeners; he was courteous and attentive to both
chaperones and their charges, and by quietly persistent good conduct
won additional laurels upon each occasion of his social appearance.
Those who had been wont to stand somewhat in awe of him, finding nothing
to fear on more intimate acquaintance, added themselves to the list of
his admirers. Before the season was over he had made many a stanch
friend among matronly leaders of fashion, whose word was law. If such a
thing could be spoken of a person of habits so grave, it might have been
said that he danced attendance upon these ladies, but, though such a
phrase would seem unfitting, it may certainly be remarked that he walked
attendance on them, and sought their favor and did their bidding with a
silent faithfulness wonderful to behold. He accepted their invitations
and attended their receptions; he escorted them to their carriages,
found their wraps, and carried their light burdens with an imperturbable
demeanor.
"What!" said Bertha, one night, when she had seen him in attendance on
the wife of the Secretary of State, whose liking for him was at once
strong and warm; "what! is it Colonel Tredennis who curries the favor of
the rich and great? It has seemed so lately. Is there any little thing
in foreign missions you desire, or do you think of an
Assistant-Secretaryship?"
"There is some dissatisfaction expressed with regard to the Minister to
the Court of St. James," was his reply. "It is possible that he will be
recalled. In that case may I hope to command your influence?"
But, many a time as he carried his shawls, or made his grave bow over
the hand of a stately dowager, a half-sad smile crossed his face as he
thought of the true reason for his efforts, and realized with a generous
pang the depth of his unselfish perfidy. They were all kind to him, and
he was grateful for their favors; but he would rather have been in his
room at work, or trying to read, or marching up and down, thinking, in
his solitude. Janey entertained him with far more success than the
prettiest _débutante_ of the season could hope to attain, though there
was no _débutante_ among them who did not think well of him and admire
him not a little. But the reason which brought him upon this brightly
lighted stage of action? Well, there was only one reason for everything
now, he knew full well; for his being sadder than usual, or a shade less
heavy of heart; for his wearing a darker face or a brighter one; for his
interest in society, or his lack of interest in it; for his listening
anxiously and being upon the alert. The reason was Bertha. When he heard
her name mentioned he waited in silent anxiety for what followed; when
he did not hear it he felt ill at ease, lest it had been avoided from
some special cause.
"What she will not do for herself," he said, "I must try to do for her.
If I make friends and win their good opinions I may use their influence
in the future, if the worst should come to the worst, and she should
need to be upheld. It is women who sustain women or condemn them. God
forbid that she should ever lack their protection!"
And so he worked to earn the power to call upon this protection, if it
should be required, and performed his part with such steadfastness of
purpose that he made a place for himself such as few men are fortunate
enough to make.
There was one friendship he made in these days, which he felt would not
be likely to fade out or diminish in value. It was a friendship for a
woman almost old enough to have been his mother,--a woman who had seen
the world and knew it well, and yet had not lost her faith or charitable
kindness of heart. It was the lady whom Bertha had seen him attending
when she had asked him what object he had in view,--the wife of the
Secretary of State, whose first friendly feeling for him had become a
most sincere and earnest regard, for which he was profoundly grateful.
"A man to whom such a woman is kind must be grateful," he had said, in
speaking of her to Agnes Sylvestre. "A woman who is good and generous,
who is keen, yet merciful, whose judgment is ripe, and whose heart is
warm, who has the discernment of maturity and the gentleness of
youth,--it is an honor to know her and be favored by her. One is better
every time one is thrown with her, and leaves her presence with a
stronger belief in all good things."
It had, perhaps, been this lady's affection for Professor Herrick which
had, at the outset, directed her attention to his favorite; but, an
acquaintance once established, there had been no need of any other
impetus than she received from her own feminine kindliness, quickness of
perception, and sympathy. The interest he awakened in most feminine
minds he had at once awakened in her own.
"He looks," she said to herself, "as if he had a story, and hardly knew
the depth of its meaning himself."
But, though she was dexterous enough at drawing deductions, and heard
much of the small talk of society, she heard no story. He was at once
soldier and scholar; he was kind, brave, and generous; men spoke well of
him, and women liked him; his past and present entitled him to respect
and admiration; but there was no story mentioned in any discussion of
him. He seemed to have lived a life singularly uneventful, so far as
emotional experiences were concerned.
"Nevertheless," she used to say, when she gave a few moments to
sympathetic musing upon him, "nevertheless"--
She observed his good behavior, notwithstanding he did not enjoy himself
greatly in society. He was attentive to his duties without being
absorbed in them, and, when temporarily unoccupied, wore a rather weary
and abstracted look.
"It is something like the look," she once remarked inwardly,
"_something_ like the look I have seen in the eyes of that bright and
baffling little Mrs. Amory, who seems at times to be obliged to recall
herself from somewhere."
She had not been the leader of this world of hers without seeing many
things and learning many lessons; and, as she had stood giving her
greeting to the passing multitude week after week, she had gained a
wonderful amount of experience and knowledge of her kind. She had seen
so many weary faces, so many eager ones, so many stamped with care and
disappointment; bright eyes had passed before her which one season had
saddened; she had heard gay voices change and soft ones grow hard; she
had read of ambitions frustrated and hopes denied, and once or twice had
seen with a pang that somewhere a heart had been broken.
Naturally, in thus looking on, she had given some attention to Bertha
Amory, and had not been blind to the subtle changes through which she
had passed. She thought she could date the period of these changes. She
remembered the reception at which she had first noted that the girlish
face had begun to assume a maturer look, and the girlish vivacity had
altered its tones. This had happened the year after the marriage, and
then Jack had been born, and when society saw the young mother again the
change in her seemed almost startling. She looked worn and pale, and
showed but little interest in the whirl about her. It was as if suddenly
fatigue had overtaken her, and she had neither the energy nor the desire
to rally from it. But, before the end of the season she had altered
again, and had a touch of too brilliant color, and was gayer than ever.
"Rather persistently gay," said the older woman. "That is it, I think."
Lately there had been a greater change still and a more baffling one,
and there had appeared upon the scene an element so new and strange as
to set all ordinary conjecture at naught. The first breath of rumor
which had wafted the story of Planefield's infatuation and the Westoria
schemes had been met with generous displeasure and disbelief; but, as
time went on, it had begun to be more difficult to make an effort
against discussion which grew with each day and gathered material as it
passed from one to another. The most trivial circumstance assumed the
proportions of proof when viewed in the light of the general too
vivacious interest. When Senator Planefield entered a room people
instantly cast about in search of Mrs. Amory, and reposed entire
confidence in the immediately popular theory that, but for the presence
of the one, the absence of the other would have been a foregone
conclusion. If they met each other with any degree of vivacity the fact
was commented upon in significant asides; if Bertha's manner was cold or
quiet it was supposed to form a portion of her deep-laid plan for the
entire subjugation of her victim. It had, indeed, come to this at last,
and Tredennis' friend looked on and listened bewildered to find herself
shaken in her first disbelief by an aspect of affairs too serious to be
regarded with indifference. By the time the season drew toward its close
the rumor, which had at first been accepted only by rumor-lovers and
epicures in scandal, had found its way into places where opinion had
weight, and decision was a more serious matter. In one or two quiet
establishments there was private debating of various rather troublesome
questions, in which debates Mrs. Amory's name was frequently mentioned.
Affairs as unfortunate as the one under discussion had been known to
occur before, and it was not impossible that they might occur again; it
was impossible to be blind to them; it was impossible to ignore or treat
them lightly, and certainly something was due to society from those who
held its reins in their hands for the time being.
"It is too great leniency which makes such things possible," some one
remarked. "To a woman with a hitherto unspotted reputation and in an
entirely respectable position they should be impossible."
It was on the very evening that this remark was made that Bertha
expressed a rather curious opinion to Laurence Arbuthnot.
"It is dawning upon me," she said, "that I am not quite so popular as I
used to be, and I am wondering why."
"What suggested the idea?" Laurence inquired.
"I scarcely know," she replied, a little languidly, "and I don't care so
much as I ought. People don't talk to me in so animated a manner as they
used to--or I fancy they don't. I am not very animated myself, perhaps.
There is a great deal in that. I know I am deteriorating
conversationally. What I say hasn't the right ring exactly, and I
suppose people detect the false note, and don't like it. I don't wonder
at it. Oh, there is no denying that I am not so much overpraised and
noticed as I used to be!"
And then she sat silent for some time and appeared to be reflecting, and
Laurence watched her with a dawning sense of anxiety he would have been
reluctant to admit the existence of even to himself.