Langham-Greene saw that it would be dangerous to venture further. She
bade an affectionate farewell to her hostess and ordered a closed
sleigh.
"My dress is so thin," she explained, smiling.
As the sleigh drove away she crouched among the fur rugs and bit her
naked arms and writhed.
"I'll pay them for this," she whispered, catching her breath in torture.
"He sent for her--for her! and that little cat dared to tell me to my
face--oh, I can't reach her, not yet; but I can hurt her through her
friend, anyway. She really cares for the Thayer girl; it'll make
trouble with her pompous old husband when she insists on supporting
her--oh, I'll do what I can! it may help me to forget." She groaned.
"Oh, I can't bear it: I didn't mind his death as I mind this! it's like
losing him all over again--I'll pay her for what she's made me suffer
to-night! _I'll pay her!_"
*CHAPTER XXI*
*A LIE WHICH IS PART A TRUTH*
"A lie which is part a truth is ever the blackest of lies,
A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight."
--_Tennyson_.
Mrs. Langham-Greene's pretty town house possessed a drawing-room as
elegant as its mistress, and far less harmful. It was flanked by two
bay windows, admirably adapted for gazing on the peccadilloes of one's
neighbours, the while one ruminated contentedly on one's own virtues.
Here its fair owner loved to sit on winter afternoons, dispensing
excellent tea and gossip: and here one bright January day found her
brewing the witching potion for a waiting guest. This was no other than
Gerald Amherst, who happened to be painting the lady's portrait. When
the daylight faded she had insisted on his accompanying her home and
joining her in a cup of five o'clock tea. The fair widow was not an
especial favourite of the artist's; but his stock of excuses had been
exhausted on previous occasions and he had therefore submitted meekly.
Mrs. Langham-Greene was a woman who wore well, as the saying is. Her
figure was straight and supple as a girl of twenty's and her delicate
features had escaped the pinched look which frequently accompanies
thinness in a woman of fifty. Her skin had always been colourless and
now resembled fine ivory; her hair, which she wore parted in the middle
in the Madonna style, was only very slightly flecked with grey. Julia
Langham-Greene was a distinguished woman, an interesting woman, an
elegant woman. When, at thirty-five, she had first donned widow's
weeds, she had created such a furore that it was many years before she
found herself able to relinquish them. However, when a woman reaches
forty and finds herself capable of wearing pale blue and scarlet to
advantage--she usually does.
Mrs. Langham-Greene was now forty-seven, yet she could attend a fancy
dress ball attired in Nile green and pearls and look the part of Undine
to perfection. Small wonder, then, that she wished to transfer such
lasting charms to still more lasting canvas; and Amherst had attained
distinction as a portrait painter years before. She smiled delicately
on him now, as she sugared his tea and inquired in tones of melted honey
whether he took cream or lemon; and pondered inwardly how best to land
the shaft she held in store.
"You are too good," she purred, in response to a perfunctory compliment
on his part. "Far too good. Among so many young and pretty girls I
fear I must have been quite unnoticed. Miss Reed, for instance! What
regular features she has; quite ideal! What a pity that she has so
little conversation! and such poor taste in dress. And is it true that
her father has fits and that her mother was a house-maid before he
married her?"
"I never heard that," returned Amherst, opening his honest eyes in
amazement. "Miss Reed is a striking looking girl, but, to my mind, Miss
Ladilaw is far prettier."
"But so uninteresting, don't you think?"
"Not more so than the majority of very young girls."
"Still," pursued Mrs. Langham-Greene, thoughtfully, "she is a nice
lady-like little thing. I daresay she will marry young; she is so naive
and pretty. It is not likely that she will hang on year after year like
that poor, plain cousin of hers."
"Surely you don't mean Miss Thayer?"
"I mention no names," said the widow, archly: then her face dropped,
pathetically. "I should not like to say one thing about that poor,
misguided girl that might sound unkind,--poor creature, she has enough
to bear."
"I don't understand you," said Gerald, flushing angrily.
"Ah, you men are so gallant," commented the widow, smiling a little
sorrowfully. "I am told that the things gentlemen say about Miss Thayer
when they are alone could not be repeated in a lady's hearing."
"Whoever told you that, Mrs. Greene," replied Gerald, forgetting the
hyphened adjunct in his fury, "is an uncommonly first class liar. The
things that _gentlemen_ say about Miss Thayer could be repeated in the
hearing of St. Peter."
"My dear Mr. Amherst, you have lifted a weight from my mind. Is it
possible that there are men in this world so--so kindly that they
refrain from unpleasant comment on a woman of that kind even when the
refining influence of ladies' society"----
"A woman of that kind! Unpleasant comment! I don't know what in
the--what in thunder you can mean, Mrs. Greene; and, if you will kindly
inform me in as few words as possible"----
"I?"
Mrs. Langham-Greene drew her slender figure up haughtily and regarded
her interrogator with stately yet grieved amazement.
"_I? I_ repeat scandal--I spread scandal about another woman? a woman,
too, who, in spite of the fact, that she must be fully thirty, has not
yet been able to secure a husband to protect her? Indeed, Mr. Amherst,
you must not think that you can drag me into this. You quite forget
yourself if you suppose that I am willing to discuss such questionable
things. If you choose to delve into these unpleasant matters it shall
not be in my drawing-room."
Mr. Amherst surveyed her in silence.
"Pardon me, Mrs. Greene," he said, courteously, "but was not the matter
first referred to in your drawing-room, and by you?"
"If," said Mrs. Langham-Greene, rather sadly, "if I allowed an
expression of sympathy for the unfortunate girl to escape me, I did not
expect to be reproached for it, Mr. Amherst."
Amherst, despite his indignation, began to feel a little abashed. After
all, the woman _had_ done nothing but mention Lynn pityingly; but why
she or any one else should----
He pulled himself together and spoke, quietly.
"I gained the impression from what you said, Mrs. Greene, that there
were unpleasant rumours afloat concerning Miss Thayer. Won't you tell me
what they are?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Amherst," murmured the lady, distressfully. "I couldn't,
really."
"Can't you give me an idea of them?"
"But, Mr. Amherst, you must know something. Why, the very servants talk
of it. My butler and housemaid"----
"Yes? Not having the pleasure of either your housemaid's or your
butler's acquaintance, I am still grievously in the dark. Has anyone
else mentioned the matter to you?"
"Why, everyone. I supposed, of course, that you knew, that you had
heard of it long ago or, believe me, I should never have mentioned it.
Of course if it were another man--if it were even a gentleman--it would
not be quite so awful. But a villainous, sickly little foreigner like
Ricossia"----
"What?"
"There. You have actually dragged the name out of me," cried Mrs.
Langham-Green, indignantly. "I declare! Men are perfectly horrid.
They _will_ not let you be charitable and kind and keep things to
yourself. That poor girl! I suppose you will be just as hard on her as
all the others. I was so indignant, the other day, with Mr. Parham. He
said--but really I had better not repeat it"----
"Stop!"
Amherst rose to his feet, breathing heavily.
"Parham, was it? I'll remember that," he said in quiet, metallic tones.
"In the meantime, Mrs. Greene, you must tell me what you mean. What is
this story?"
"Oh, my dear Mr. Amherst, I _cannot_ spread scandal," cried his hostess,
anxiously. "Do sit down and have another cup of tea. Tea is so
soothing when one--I felt just as you do when I first heard it. It does
seem so strange that such a plain girl couldn't conduct herself like a
lady. Of course if she were at all good-looking so that people noticed
her and sought her out it might--oh, you're not going, already?"
"Yes, I'm going to hunt up Mr. Parham," said Gerald, searching blindly
for his hat.
"No, oh, no. Oh, but I insist. Well, rather than have you run off like
that I'll tell you the whole truth--all that I know, that is. It seems
that--you know that Miss Thayer and Ricossia were always together when
he came here first, two years ago. It was quite a joke; such a
difference in their ages, you know; and he so handsome and she, poor
girl, so plain! and it does seem as though it must be her fault, for
certainly he never appeared to encourage her"----
"Go on, for God's sake!"
"Mr. Amherst, I must beg of you not to use profane language," observed
Mrs. Langham-Greene with dignity. "Well, where was I? oh, yes! well,
when he disappeared from polite society and we were all obliged to give
him the cold shoulder because he was so openly depraved--not like some
people whom one _can_ know because they keep quiet about it--but he had
no savoir faire, that is to say, no shame"----
"Mrs. Greene," shouted Amherst, "won't you please skip Ricossia and get
to Miss Thayer?"
The widow reared herself like a black-and-golden snake, about to strike.
Her green eyes gleamed; then she recollected herself and smiled, subtly.
"Dear Mr. Amherst, pray allow me to tell the story in my own way. I
really cannot be interrupted in this abrupt fashion. I was coming to
Miss Thayer. It seems that the wicked girl, instead of dropping him
when he was found out, as all the rest of us did, continued to meet him
secretly. He evidently was not sufficiently enamoured to pursue her
very much, but you know how it is! a woman of that age who has never
succeeded in marrying frequently loses all hope and simply doesn't care
what she does; so she used to visit him at night in some awful slum
where he lived"--
"What utter absurdity!"
"My dear Mr. Amherst," said the widow with angelic patience, "you may be
sure that I should not readily believe such things of another woman.
Unfortunately, however, the misguided girl was seen and recognized, not
only by my butler but by people of her own class; people who could
hardly believe their eyes and who, in their anxiety not to condemn her
rashly, followed her home--at a safe distance, of course. Not that she
went home, directly: I am told that her practice was to take a sleigh to
a lonely part of Pine Avenue, dismiss it there and walk to her uncle's
house. Very dangerous, too! fancy a lady walking alone after dark.
Once, when I first lost my husband, I was compelled by some mischance to
traverse two blocks one evening without an escort. Some men passed me
and one of them made some remark about the 'bewitching widow.' I don't
know how I ever reached home; but, as soon as I did, I retired,
immediately. Next morning I sent for my doctor: he advised rest and
plenty of light nourishment--what, you're going? Good evening, Mr.
Amherst: so sorry we drifted into these unpleasant subjects. _Good_
evening!"
Ten minutes later Gerald rang the Thayers' bell.
"No, Miss Thayer is not at home. I don't believe she will be in
to-night, for she is dining at Mrs. Hadwell's. Certainly, sir: I'll
tell her."
*CHAPTER XXII*
*WHISPERING TONGUES*
"Whispering tongues can poison truth,
And constancy dwells in realms above,
And life is thorny--and youth is vain--
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness on the brain."
--_Coleridge_.
"Yes, the dear twins have gone at last. Whether or no they are leaving
their young hearts here I can't say, but they are certainly carrying two
very nice ones away with them. Except that the female one is chiefly
ice; but really, Erma quite thawed toward the end. Odd that he preferred
her to Agatha: she's no better looking and not half so popular--by the
way, Lynn, talking of Agatha reminds me! what in the world have you done
to Lighton?"
"My dear Del!"
"Refused him, again?"
"He has not, thanks be, compelled me to do so."
"Then what has happened? I've seen him six times with Agatha in the
past ten days. Oh, Lynn, why can't you be sensible? To let such a thing
slip through your fingers! Upon my word you make me feel sometimes like
a donkey boy with a goad."
"And you, my love, make _me_ feel like Mephisto with a pitchfork."
"Oh, Lynn! And, at all events, if you don't want to marry him, now, why
tell him so? You may be very glad of him a few years hence. Why not
keep him hanging on?"
"Because, dear friend, I am neither a liar nor a cheat."
"Well, why aren't you? What's the use of trying to be honest in a world
of liars and cheats? What do you expect to gain by it?"
"I really can't say. The reward of virtue, perhaps."
"The reward of virtue, dearest, is usually a whack over the head."
"So I have observed."
"Is that why you are so desperately anxious to obtain it?"
"Not exactly."
"What do you propose to do when it arrives?"
"Look and act as though it were the one thing on earth I had always
longed for. Unless it is violent enough to stun me, in which case I
shall set my teeth and say nothing."
"Lynn, you're a fool!"
"I have frequently suspected as much."
"And oh, Lynn, I chatter and chatter--and all the time there is
something I must say to you."
"Say it."
"Do you know what it is?"
"No; but, whatever it may be, Del, hurry up and tell me. You know
suspense is the one thing I can't bear."
"Will you let me ask you something?"
"Anything--but I won't promise to answer."
"Will you answer me this? Have you ever cared for anyone?"
"Yes."
"Any man, I mean!"
"Yes."
"Much?"
"Very much."
"Enough--well, enough to do anything foolish for?"
"Enough to do things that you would consider would qualify me for a
madhouse."
"Ah!"
Mrs. Hadwell drew a long breath and her face fell.
"You might have told me, dear," she said, gently.
"I couldn't, Del. But, anyway, it's not what you think. Why do you ask
me all this?"
"Was that why you refused Lighton?"
"No--yes; I would have refused him, anyhow."
"But the other had something to do with it?" said Mrs. Hadwell, leaning
forward, breathlessly.
Lynn said nothing but her face was sad. Although she felt that her
secret must die with her brother she longed to-night for the sympathy
which she could so easily obtain from this, her oldest and dearest
friend.
"I--I would have liked to tell you, Del," she said in a low voice.
"But--I had promised to tell no one. It was not that I didn't trust
you. The circumstances were peculiar. I had others to consider."
"Oh, Lynn, Lynn, it was some one that you couldn't marry, then?" Mrs.
Hadwell's voice rose almost to a wail.
"Yes. But, Del, the more you say, the less you understand. Let us talk
of something else."
"Lynn, I can't! Oh, do tell me just one thing more: you know that you
can trust me. Have you done anything that was unconventional? stupidly
unconventional? that might expose you to scandalous comments if it were
known?"
"I--yes, I am afraid I have. But don't talk of it, Del. I don't feel
very cheerful to-night."
"But I must. Lynn, will you promise solemnly never again to do anything
foolish--you know what I mean?--anything improper or reckless?"
Lynn was silent.
"Promise. Oh, Lynn, promise! You don't know what danger you're in.
You have enemies; you are already talked about in certain circles. I
won't ask a question, dear, not a question: only promise"----
"Del, I can promise nothing."
"You--you would do foolish things again?"
"Yes."
"But, why--oh, Lynn, why?"
It was some moments before Lynn answered and, when she did, her voice
was hard.
"Because all my happiness on earth--everything in life that
counts--depends on my outraging certain very sensible conventions.
Don't worry if you can help it: I'm a fly, caught in the web of Fate:
you can't help me, I can't help myself. If I--stopped, I should never
forgive myself: I should never know another happy moment."
"Lynn, I see I shall have to tell you--and it's a thing I hate to do.
There are stories afloat concerning you--I don't know what,
exactly--coupling your name with that of Ricossia."
Lynn grew slowly white.
"Have you nothing to say, Lynn?"
"Nothing, Del."
"You won't explain--not even to me?"
"Del," said her visitor, suddenly, bending forward and gazing intently
in Mrs. Hadwell's face, "if you had to face some personal trouble or
misunderstanding, amounting to disgrace, even--or break a solemn and
sacred oath--which would you do?"
"Break the solemn and sacred oath," returned Mrs. Hadwell, promptly and
cheerfully.
"Ah," said Lynn, despairingly, "what's the use of asking you, Del? You
have no conscience about those things."
"No, indeed; yet I am rich enough to afford one if I really wanted it.
But you, my dear, have no business with so costly and useless an
appendage. Can't you get rid of it--for the present, anyway? It's
going to land you in a perfect sea of trouble; and, beyond, shining
faintly, is that whack over the head of which we spoke. When you have
tormented yourself sufficiently Society will hand you that; and then I
suppose you will have nothing left to wish for?"
"Only death; and I'm pretty healthy!"
"And you will not explain? in spite of all I can say or do?"
"No, I'm very tired, Del. I'm going now, if you don't mind."
Half an hour later Amherst left Hadwell Heights, scowling unhappily.
Miss Thayer had just left; she had had a headache and had returned
early. He could not, in decency, call on her at her home after hearing
this, much as he wanted to. He must wait until to-morrow.
He walked along Pine Avenue with his hands in his overcoat pockets.
Lynn was the best girl that ever lived; but, after all, there was no
smoke without fire, that was certain. She had committed some
imprudence; what, he must find out before he took any steps to
circumvent these slanders. Of course one thing was undeniable; she had
bestowed a good deal of attention on Ricossia when she first met him.
It was through her and her warm eulogies of his genius and beauty that
he, himself, had first become interested in the young--but, after all,
the boy couldn't live a year and he must not call him what he really
was. What beauty he possessed! the beauty of the very devil! and how
women did go mad over him! It wasn't wonderful if--
Then suddenly, like poison, Ricossia's low, bell-like laugh at their
last meeting rang in his ears. And his words--what were they? He had
said that Lynn was not attracted by him in the ordinary way--bah! any
one a degree above a cur would say that. Lynn loved him, Amherst, that
was certain; but there were different kinds and degrees of love. Had he
not seen a kind sweet woman, a devoted wife and mother, leave home,
husband, children, everything that made her life; had he not seen her
ready to pay with a life-time of odium and desolation for the feverish
joy of a few anxious months? Lynn had a stronger nature than the
majority of women; that was nothing; she would be likely to go to
greater extremes for that very reason. She was so sensible, so logical,
so prudent--were they not the very women who forsook all caution when
vitally interested? Ricossia was a boy, a child; yes, and had it not
passed into a proverb, the love of a woman of thirty for a youth?--what
was he thinking of? where had his fancies led him? Doubt Lynn! Lynn,
whom he had known from a child!--yes, known! the mockery of the word!
Who ever knew another human being? Strangers we wandered into life;
strangers we left it; strangers we were, each to other, always; husband
to wife, child to mother--above all, lover to beloved. He groaned as he
walked, but no feeling of resentment toward his betrothed held place as
yet. Lynn, as he had told her, was the one woman on earth to him: he
would abide by her explanation. If--he turned cold and faint at the
thought--if, in the past, she had been infatuated with that "half-devil
and half-child," Ricossia; and, if she had done foolish things, mad
things ... yes, even wrong things--he could forgive them, knowing that
she loved him, and him only, now. After all, when one considered
Ricossia's reputation, merely to be seen with him was enough; and she
had, probably, traded unduly on her social position and good name.
Perhaps it was nothing more than pity; the boy was dying and he was so
young, so friendless. On the whole Amherst decided that he was probably
acting like a fool; one might almost as well be jealous of a corpse as
of Ricossia, who might be one at that moment for anything he knew to the
contrary. With a sudden rush of compunction and self-reproach Amherst
left Pine Avenue and, descending to the city, hailed a passing car. He
would look the boy up; confound it all, the young fool might be dying a
miserable death at this very moment while he maundered away like a
simpleton in a melodrama. He would see how Ricossia was holding out,
anyway; this last cold spell wasn't just the best thing for a
consumptive, and he would like to see the cub spend his last months on
earth in comparative comfort, whether he deserved to or not. And,
perhaps--but no! he couldn't touch on that--not with him!
The car took him within a few blocks of his destination. He walked
slowly on, feeling cheered and comparatively happy. When one has writhed
in doubt and misery for a certain number of hours the reaction is
usually strong; and Amherst wondered how he had ever come to attach so
much importance to the babblings of a green-eyed tabby cat and the
insults of a hound. He inhaled the clear night air with calm enjoyment;
to-morrow he would see Lynn and then--and then--
He had nearly reached the Chatham when the door opened quietly and a
woman descended the steps. As she advanced toward him she raised her
head in a blind, unseeing sort of fashion. The light of a flickering
gas jet shone clearly and pitilessly on her upturned face; a face which,
though drawn and hollow-eyed, was strangely familiar--the face of his
intended wife, Lynn Thayer.
*CHAPTER XXIII*
*WHEN LOVE IS DONE*
"The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one--
Yet the light of the whole life dies
When love is done."
--_Old Song_.
"I love--but I believe in love no more."--_Shelley_.
Lunn recognized him almost immediately and stood quite still, looking
into his face with a curious deliberation and intentness.
"One would almost think you had expected me," said Amherst,
involuntarily. One seldom says what is uppermost in one's mind on these
occasions.
"I think I did," said Lynn with equal quietness. "When I awoke this
morning something told me that this would happen."
"There is a cab-stand a few blocks away," he continued, courteously.
"May I take you there and see you into one?"
"I shall be--grateful for the attention," said Lynn, dully: then she
laughed.
They walked in silence for a block or two.
"Have you anything to say to me, Lynn?" said Amherst at last.
"I--nothing!"
"You prefer to say nothing?"
Lynn was silent for a moment; then she spoke very distinctly.
"On the night that you asked me to marry you, I said all that I was at
liberty to say."
"Ricossia is rather exacting, isn't he?"
The sneer escaped Gerald, wrung from him by his pain. Lynn started
slightly but made no answer.
"I should ask your pardon," Amherst went on, presently. "I had no right
to say that. I do not even know that it is Ricossia on whom you paid
this late call. Possibly you have other friends in the Chatham."
"I have not."
"It--it is Ricossia?"
She threw back her head and laughed.
"Exactly--it is Ricossia. And, by the way, Mr. Amherst, although I know
that when one does an unconventional thing, 'gentlemen' are quite
justified in insulting one; yet, as there is a policeman on the next
corner, and as even a homeless cur isn't obliged to stand still while
some one throws a rock at it--will you leave me?"
"No. Lynn, forgive me. I'm crazy; I don't know what I'm saying. If it
were anyone else--if it were any other man--anyone, anyone but that
villainous little blackguard"----
"Stop!"
Lynn turned on him like a tigress, her eyes blazing with fury.