JANE SEES WITH NEW EYES
It was not until the hurrying Bansemer entered the door of Rector's
that the apprehension of having committed a senseless blunder came
to him.
"Good heavens!" he muttered, stopping short. "What a fool I'm
getting to be-meeting old Elias, in a place like this! The theatre
crowds--everybody in town will be here by eleven! Curse me, for a
hopeless ass! I must get him away at once!"
Grumbling at himself, he passed into the restaurant. Gabe offered
him the choice of various tables; he selected one which commanded
a view of the entrances and ordered a perfunctory "Scotch." Nervous
and anxious, he was more troubled than he cared to admit even to
himself. Fortunately, there were not many people in the cafe; and
his gaze, wandering about the place, soon halted before the small
alcove in the east end containing a table with wine glasses, in
waiting, set for a large party. The clock, back of the cigarstand,
said it was five minutes after eleven. Bansemer impatiently watched
the two doors leading to the street, and was beginning to wonder
whether the message had reached the old clerk, when presently, the
uncouth shape of Droom, appeared slinking through the so-called
ladies' entrance, with the shrinking attitude of one unaccustomed
to fashionable restaurants and doubtful of his reception. Bansemer
motioned to him.
"Just as soon as I can get my check," he was saying, at the same
time, beckoning to a waiter; "we'll move out of this. It will be
crowded in--I never thought, a stall at Chapin & Gore's will be
better. Here, waiter! My check! I'm in a hurry!--the devil!"
As the exclamation burst from his lips, there came down the narrow
steps and through a door quickly thrown open by a waiter, a number
of gay, fashionably dressed people, all smiling and trembling with
the cold. Immediately, this party attracted the attention of the
room. Waiters rushed hither and thither relieving the ladies of their
costly lace and fur wraps, and the men of their heavy overcoats.
Of the expected theatre-comers, these were the first to arrive;
but presently others followed, and soon the quiet cafe of the early
evening became transformed into one of bustle and excitement by
the eager, animated throng. With dismay Bansemer noticed that those
to whom his attention had been attracted were blocking his way to
the doors; escape was out of the question. Reluctantly, he returned
to his seat and ordered the clerk to take the one opposite him. Then,
scanning the party making its passage to the alcove, he perceived
three or four men whom he knew, and presently, to his surprise and
consternation-his son. The recognition was mutual, Graydon making
his way around a small table in order to affectionately greet him.
As he approached, his eyes fastened themselves on his father's
companion. With amazement, he recognised the queer figure of the
lanky, gangling Droom; but too kind-hearted and well-bred to allow
his features in the slightest degree to express the astonishment
which he felt at sight of such a comic incongruity, the young man
voiced a few kindly words to the old man, while from the table
in the alcove, where the smart, little supper party were seating
themselves, Miss Cable was smiling her cheery recognition to her
prospective father-in-law; then Graydon made his way back to his
seat by her side.
"Why did you come here?" asked Droom, feeling somewhat akin to the
proverbial fish out of water.
"Because I thought--I thought you couldn't find any other place,"
replied Bansemer, confusedly.
The unexpected arrival of his son and party had disturbed his usual
coolness; but with his order for supper his equilibrium returned,
and he went on to explain:
"I supposed you knew only two streets in town--Wells and South
Water."
"Humph! I know every street in town," Droom resented, drawing
himself up in his chair; and then bluntly: "What's happened?"
"Not so loud! Harbert's here, but---"
"Oho! Here?"
"In Chicago, yes--we'll talk about it later."
The present genial environment and convivial atmosphere were
producing a most inspiriting effect on the lawyer. The delightful
consciousness that the people with whom his son was supping were
of the smartest set in town for the moment had banished all fears
of exposure. From time to time he glanced proudly across to the
alcove table where the men were engaged in unfolding their napkins
and toying with their glasses, in lively anticipation of the enjoyment
to come; while the women, with the hope of eliciting admiration for
their hands and the sparkle of their rings, were taking off their
gloves and spreading out their fingers on the table cloth.
"Graydon seems to be right in the swim, eh, Droom?" he said. The
irony of it all appealed strongly to his sense of humour. "I don't
suppose you know those swells?" he added, patronisingly. Droom was
listening intently to the bursts of merriment which were enlivening
the restaurant. Like a small boy at a circus who fears that something
will happen that he will not see, he was continually turning his
head and letting his eyes travel critically over the company at
the neighbouring table.
At this speech of Bansemer's the eyes of the old clerk returned;
they expressed no little resentment at the inference.
"Certainly, I do;" and leaning over the table and covertly indicating
with his long, bony finger the man at the head of the table, he
answered succinctly: "That's Fernmore--he's--"
A particularly loud burst of laughter cut him short. At the adjoining
tables conversation had abruptly ceased; heads were turned and
inquisitive eyes were fastened on the brilliant coterie at the
alcove table.
Few men in Chicago were better known or better liked than the stout,
florid complexioned, jovial-looking Billy Fernmore, the host of
this entertainment. His social adventures and the headlong follies
in which his fun-loving proclivities invariably enmeshed him were
only surpassed by his fondness for ridding himself of his unlimited
wealth.
To his inherited five millions marriage had added the colossal
fortune of a beautiful heiress, whose extravagances aggregated less
than his own solely through the limitations of her sex. Yet, were
it not for the self-imposed handicap of adhering strictly to the
somewhat old-fashioned precept that jewels should be acquired only
through affectionate beneficence, Mrs. Fernmore might have succeeded
in surpassing the princely prodigalities of her lord and master.
"It was this way," Billy was saying, in his own inimitable manner,
and awake to the realisation of having a "good one" to tell; "a
few days ago the lady of my house took wings for New York--a little
spree of her own, you understand. And, for Billy Fernmore, I kept
out of mischief, for a time, fairly well. After waiting days,
lamb-like, for her return, restlessness--;" and here Fernmore's
shameless affectation of the neglected husband became so irresistibly
funny that it provoked prolonged laughter from his listeners, even
Droom showing his yellow snags and stretching his mouth to the
fullest extent of the law, as he joined in the general chorus;
"restlessness gave way to recklessness, and in desperation I invited
a half dozen of the oldest and most distinguished widowers in town
to dine with me, at the hotel, where they were informed they were
to be honoured by the presence of a bevy of the season's prettiest
debutantes. My stars, but they were a fine collection of old
innocents!" Fernmore threw himself back in his chair and roared at
the recollection.
"Billy's a wonder when he's wound up!" Medford's whispered aside
to the lady on his right met with a simple nod of the head; for
despite Miss Clegg's well-feigned interest in Mr. Medford when Rigby
was present, on other occasions there was no pretence of enjoyment
of his society.
"Among those present--to use the correct phrase," said Billy, after
having refreshed himself with sufficient champagne to proceed; "were
two retired merchants, a venerable logician, a doddering banker,
and a half-blind college professor. Of course, I had to make some
excuse for Mrs. Fermnore's absence. For the life of me I cannot
now remember what yarn I told them; but they were too anxious to
be presented to the gay, young women not to swallow it--whole. The
old boys fairly swamped the girls with their senile attentions. It
was a lively supper party--my word! And they went home unanimously
declaring that the debutantes of the present day discounted, at
least in dash and go, the charmers of fifty years ago."
Amidst the confusion of peals of merriment which greeted the genial
raconteur, Miss Cable, to whom the story did not especially appeal,
whispered in awed tones:
"Graydon, who on earth is that queer, spectacular looking man with
your father?"
"Oh, that's Droom--isn't he a character? He's been with the governor
since I was a child. In those days his looks used to frighten me
almost to death. I fancy he's had a sad life, don't you know."
"There is something positively awful in his face," returned the
girl, as her eyes faltered and dropped to her plate on unexpectedly
meeting those of the subject of her remark.
"Sh-h!" came from Medford; and then: "Come, Billy--what's the
point--or the moral, as they say in novels?"
"Fernmore is a rattling good chap, at heart," Graydon was saying
to Jane; "but I can't stand that Med--"
"Yes, yes, go on, Mr. Fernmore," broke in several voices in eager
expectancy.
"The moral?" Billy's eyes were twinkling. "The joke, rather, is on
me. When Mrs. Fernmore reached home I thought it wise to say nothing
about the affair; but I had completely underestimated the persistency
of these rejuvenated venerables. They were not satisfied--wanted
to know more about the girls; and the next day in deep but joyous
simplicity, half a dozen old men asked their married daughters and
close friends at the clubs what family of Brown a certain debutante
belonged to; who was the father of Miss Jones; and how long had
the family of Miss Robinson lived in the city, together with a
lot of amazing questions. And failing to derive even the remotest
satisfaction from the Social Register, the women members of their
families besieged my innocent wife with more or less shocked inquiries
as to an entertainment of mine at which their aged relations were
present. Well, the game was up! I owned up--confessed to the girls
being actresses and begged for mercy."
"And I forgave him," supplemented Mrs. Fernmore, smilingly. "Boys
will be boys."
"Whew!" whistled Billy, in conclusion. "It was no end of a lark!
I would not have missed it for the world; but the old chaps will
never, never forgive me."
As the gentleman finished, Bansemer was looking at Droom with
amusement. The old clerk was shaking his head in a manner that
signified disapproval.
"How's that for doings in swagger society, eh, Droom? If anyone
but Billy Fernmore had done that, he would have been ostracised
forever. Nothing like millions--"
"I don't believe true aristocrats would do that," interrupted Droom,
half angrily.
"These are the aristocrats--money aristocrats; the others have lost
the name--forgotten. Come, let's go over yonder--we can talk there."
Bansemer called for the bill and settled it; then slowly rising,
ostentatiously waved his adieus to the alcove and deserted the
scene for Chapin & Gore's Droom meekly followed him employer.
For some time, neither spoke. In their stall, each was busy with
his own thoughts and speculations.
"I think I've made a mess of it with Mr. Cable," began Banseemer.
"She---"
"I wouldn't mention names," cautioned Droom, with a look at the
top of the partition.
"She's very likely to fight back, after all."
"What was your demand?"
"Money," said Bansemer, quietly.
"Humph!" was Broom's way of saying he lied.
"Harbert has a purpose in coming here, Elias. We must prepare for
him."
"We are as well prepared as we can expect to be. I guess it means
that we'll have to get out of Chicago."
"Curse him!" snarled Bansemer. "I don't care a rap about myself; but
it will be all up with Graydon if anything--er--unpleasant should
happen to me," said Bansemer, with a wistful glance at his glass.
Then, in subdued tones, he told of the meeting with Harbert. Droom
agreed that the situation looked unpleasant, and all the more
so in view of what Eddie Deever had mentioned in connection with
the Marshal's office. He repeated the story as it had come from
the babbling, youngster's lips, utterly deceived by the guileless
emissary from the office downstairs.
"What do you expect to do?" he asked, studying the tense face of
his employer.
"I'm going to stand my ground," said Bansemer, steadily drumming
on the table with his stiff fingers. "They can't prove anything,
and the man who makes a charge against me will have to substantiate
it. I'll not run a step."
"Then," said Droom, coarsely, "you must let Mrs. Cable alone. She
is your danger signal. I tell you, Mr. Bansemer, she'll fight if
you drive her into a corner. She's not a true aristocrat. She comes
of a class that doesn't give up."
"Bah! She's like the rest. If Harbert doesn't get in his nasty
work, she'll give in like all the others."
"I thought you said you'd do nothing to mar the happiness of
Graydon," sneered Droom.
"I don't intend to, you old fool. This affair is between Mrs.
Cable and me. If she wins, I'll give up. But, understand me, I'm
perfectly capable of knowing just when I'm beaten."
"I only know your financial valour," said Elias drily.
"That's all you're expected to know, sir."
"Then, we won't quarrel about it," said the other with his sweetest
grin.
"Umph! Well, pleasantries aside, we must look ourselves over
carefully before we see our New York friend. He must not find us
with unclean linen. Elias, I'm worried, I'll confess, but I'm not
afraid. Is there anything that we have bungled?"
"I have always been afraid of the chorus-girl business. I don't
like chorus girls." Bansemer, at another time, would have smiled.
It was past midnight when the two left the stall and started
in separate ways for their North Side homes. The master felt more
secure than when he left the home of David Cable earlier in the
night. Elias Droom said at parting:
"I don't like your attitude toward Mrs. C. It's not very manly to
make war on a woman."
"My good Elias," said Bansemer, complacently surveying himself in
the small mirror across the stall, "all men make war on women, one
way or another."
He did not see Droom's ugly scowl as he preceded that worthy through
the doorway.
The next morning Bansemer walked down the Drive. It was a bright,
crisp day and the snow had been swept from the sidewalks. He felt
that a visit from Harbert during the day was not unlikely and he
wanted to be fresh and clear-headed. Halfway down he met Jane Cable
coming from the home of a friend. He never had seen her looking so
beautiful, so full of the joy of living. Her friendly, sparkling
smile sent a momentary pang of shame into his calloused heart,
but it passed with the buoyant justification of his decision to do
nothing in the end that might mar his son's happiness.
She was walking to town and assured him that she rejoiced in his
distinguished company. They discussed the play and the supper party.
"Now that I'm engaged to Graydon, I'm positively beginning to grow
sick of people," Miss Cable declared and as they all declare at
that age and stage.
"Well, you'll soon recover," he smiled. "Marriage is the convalescence
of a love affair, you know."
"Oh, but most of the men one meets are so hopelessly silly-tiresome,"
she went on. "It's strange, too. Nearly all of them have gone to
college-Yale, or Harvard."
"My dear Jane, they are the unfortunate sons of the rich. You can't
blame them. All Yale and Harvard men are not tiresome. You should
not forget that a large sprinkling of the young men you meet at
the pink teas were sent to Yale or Harvard for the sole purpose
of becoming Yale and Harvard men-nothing more. Their mothers never
expected them to be anything else. The poor man sends his son to
be educated; the rich man usually does it to get the boy away from
home, so that he won't have to look at him all the time. I'm happy
to say that I was quite poor when Graydon got his diploma."
"Oh, Graydon isn't at all like the others. He is a man," cried
Jane, her eyes dancing.
"I don't mean to say that all rich men's sons are failures. Some
of them are really worth while. Give credit unlimited to the rich
man's son who goes to college and succeeds in life in spite of his
environment. I must not forget that Graydon's chief ambition at
one time was to hunt Indians."
"He couldn't have got that from his mother," said she accusingly.
Bansemer looked at her sharply. He had half expected, on meeting
her, to observe the first sign that the Cable family had discussed
him well but not favourably. Her very brightness convinced him that
she, at least, had not been, taken into the consultation.
"I am afraid it came from his horrid father. But Graydon is a good
boy. He couldn't long follow the impulses of his father. I dare
say he could be a sinner if he tried, too. I' hate an imbecile.
An imbecile to my mind is the fellow without the capacity to err
intentionally. God takes care of the fellow who errs ignorantly.
Give me the fellow who is bright enough to do the bad things which
might admit him to purgatory in good standing, and I'll trust him
to do the good things that will let him into heaven. I often wonder
where these chaps go after they die--I mean the Yale and Harvard
chaps who bore you. It takes a clever chap to have any standing
at all in purgatory. Where do they go, Jane? You are wise for your
years and sex. There surely must be a place for the plain asses?"
"Oh," said she, "I suppose they have a separate heaven, just as
the dogs have."
"No doubt you're right," he agreed, smiling, "but think how bright
the dogs are as a rule."
"Bobby Rigby says a dog is worth more than his master. People will
steal a dog, he says."
"I saw him at your house last night. Did you meet Mr. Harbert?"
"No. Mother said he came in with Bobby."
"How is Mrs. Cable this morning? I think she--er--complained of a
sick headache last night?"
"She has such a frightful headache that she couldn't get up this
morning."
"Indeed? Will you carry my respects and sympathy to her?"
"Thank you, yes. But why don't you come in and see us, Mr. Bansemer?"
"In a day or so, gladly."
Bansemer was not approached by Harbert that day nor the next--nor
any other day soon, in fact. It was not until after the third day had
expired that he heard from Mrs. Cable. Her silence was gratifying
and significant; it meant that she was struggling with herself--that
she had taken no one as yet into her confidence. He was too wary
to feel secure in his position, however. He abandoned every case
that could not be tried in the cleanest light and he destroyed his
footprints in those of the past more completely than ever. David
Cable was disposed to be agreeable when they met, and Rigby's manner
had lost the touch of aloofness. Altogether the situation did not
look so dark as it had on the night of the blizzard.
He guessed at Mrs. Cable's frame of mind during the three days
just past by the tenor of her message over the telephone. She did
no more than to ask him to drop in before five for a cup of tea;
but he saw beyond the depth of her invitation.
He went and had a few minutes alone with her because he was shrewd
enough to drop in before five. No one else came until after that
hour had struck. He was studiously reserved and considerate. There
was nothing in his manner to indicate that he was there as anything
more than the most casual sipper of the beverage that society brews.
It was left for her to make the advances.
"We must come to an understanding," she said abruptly. "I cannot
endure the suspense, the uncertainty--"
Bansemer raised his brows with grave condescension.
"Then you have not confessed to Mr. Cable?" he asked, with perfect
unconcern. "Do you know, I was rather hoping that you would have
saved me the trouble of doing so."
"It means so much to--"
"Ah, I see you find it hard to lose the ground you have gained
socially." He stirred his tea steadily.
"It isn't that--I don't care for that. It's for Jane and David. I
can only offer to buy your silence; nothing more," she said with
hurried words. "I own shares in the railroad; they're worth twenty
thousand dollars. Will you take them?"
"My dear," he said, leaning quite close to her, "I am not seeking
to blackmail you as you seem to imagine. I have only tried to tell
you that I love you."
"Oh," she exclaimed, with a shudder of disgust. His face was quite
close to hers; she could feel his warm breath on her cheek and she
drew away quickly. His hand hovered close to hers as it lay in her
lap.
There was an eye-witness to this single picture in the brief scene.
Jane had started downstairs. From the upper steps she could look
into the drawing-room below. She could not help seeing Bansemer's
fervent attitude; she heard nothing that he said. The girl paused
in surprise; a feeling as of dread--she could not explain--crept
over her. A chill struck into her heart.
It was as if she had awakened from a sweet sleep to look out upon
a bleak, horrid morning.
Involuntarily she shrank back, quite beyond the actual vision but
not free from it. She stood straight and tense and silent at the
top of the stairs, her hand clasping the rail. She could hear her
heart throbs plainly. There was no mistaking the picture as it had
burst upon her unsuspecting eyes. With a quavering smile she tried
to throw it from her. But cold and damning there arose to support
her apprehensions the horrid stories of Mrs. Blanckton and her
affair with Rellick. With her own eyes she had seen Rellick talking
to Mrs. Blanckton just as Bansemer was talking to her mother in
the dim doom below. The Blanckton scandal, as everyone knew, was
one of the most infamous the city had known. Jane, with other girls,
had been shocked by the boldness of the intrigue; she had loathed
Rellick for his unprincipled love-making; she had despised and
denounced Mrs. Blanckton. Here now was her own mother listening
just as Mrs. Blanckton had listened; here was James Bansemer talking
just as Rellick had talked. A great fear, a dark uncertainty, welled
up in her heart.
It was not until the butler admitted other callers that she found
the courage to turn her eyes toward the drawing-room. She was never
to forget the dread that grew with the thought of what she might
have seen had she remained a voluntary witness during the minutes
which followed her first look below. That single vision effected a
sharp, complete change in Jane Cable's life. From that moment she
never saw the world as it had appeared to her before.
Although she succeeded in, hiding the fact, it was difficult
to approach and greet James Bansemer with the naturalness of the
unsuspecting. His manner was beyond reproach, and yet, for the
first time, she saw the real light in his black eyes. She talked
to him as if nothing had happened to make her distrustful, but no
self-control in the world could have checked the growth of that
remorseless thing called suspicion. For her own sake, for her
mother's, for Graydon's, she tried to put it down. Instead, it grew
greater and stronger as she looked into his eyes, for in them she
saw the light that heretofore had escaped her notice.
And this was the father of the man whom she was to marry, the one
whom she loved with all her heart and soul! This, the man who would
degrade her own mother! Her mother--she looked at her with a new
question in her eyes. She looked for the thing which had marked Mrs.
Blanckton. It was not there, and she rejoiced in that discovery.
Her mother did not possess the bold, daring, defiant air of the
other woman. Hers was tender, sweet, even subdued; the girl clutched
hopefully at this sign and began to build upon it.
Half a dozen people came and went. James Bansemer was the last to
leave. He met the girl's tense, inquiring look from time to time,
but he could not have felt its meaning. There was nothing in her
voice which might have warned him, although it sounded strained and
without warmth on her own ears. In spite of herself she wondered
how he would act in saying good-bye to her mother. Although she
tried with all the might of her will to look away, she could not
take her eyes from the pair as Bansemer arose to depart.
His manner was most circumspect. The handclasp was brief, even
formal and there was no look in his eyes to indicate the presence
of anything but the most casual emotions. After his departure,
Mrs. Cable turned to Jane and complained of a frightful headache
and went to her room to lie down for a while before dinner. Jane's
gaze followed her steadily as she ascended the stairs. Then she
walked to the window and looked out upon the street, a hundred
perplexities in her mind.
Her father was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, looking
down the darkening street. His cab was turning the corner below,
showing that he had been standing there for longer than a minute.
She watched him with interest. What had happened in the street to
hold his interest so closely? It was Jane who opened the door and
let him in. As she kissed his cold cheek she noticed the frown on
his brow and caught the strange gleam in his eyes. His greeting
was less warm than usual, and he went to his room upstairs without
removing his hat or coat below. But not before he sent a quick,
keen glance about the drawing-room to find if James Bansemer had
been the single visitor of the afternoon.
"Where is your mother?" he asked from the stairs, without looking
back.
"She has just gone to her room," Jane replied, a chill shooting
through her veins. Some strange, unnatural impulse compelled her
to add, as if the explanation were just and necessary: "We have
had a lot of people in drinking tea, and mother has a headache."
She watched him ascend the steps and turn into his smoking-room.
The door closed sharply and a wave of inexplicable relief rushed
over her. Her hands were cold. She went to the fireplace and held
them out to the blaze. Her ears were alert for sounds from above--alert
with a strange fear which choked her with its persistence. She
dreaded the opening of her father's door and his footsteps as they
crossed to her mother's room. She waited for these sounds, minute
after minute, but they did not come. The fire would not give warmth
to her hands; the chill seemed to spread. In her new consciousness
she felt that a tragedy was just begun.