To the fears already possessing Lady Barbara a new one had now been
added, freezing her blood and leaving her prostrate and helpless, like a
plant stricken by an icy blast.
There had been no sleep for her after Martha's revelations regarding
the presence of Felix in town, and turn as she would on her pillow, she
could not escape the dread of one hideous possibility--her meeting him
face to face, uncovering to his penetrating gaze her shame.
That he had had any other purpose in pursuing her across the sea than to
humiliate and punish her, she did not believe. No man, certainly no
man as proud as her husband, would forgive a woman who had trailed his
ancestral name in the mud, and made his family life a byword in clubs
and drawing-rooms. That Martha believed he could still love her was
natural. Such good souls, women of the people, who had always led
restrained and wholesome lives, would believe nothing else, but not a
woman of her own class. She had only to recall a dozen instances where
the bonds of marriage had been broken, with all the attendant scandal
and misery, to be convinced of what would befall her were she and Felix
to meet.
Her one hope was that her husband, baffled in his search, had left the
city, and that neither Martha nor Stephen would ever see him again.
Their inability to find him of late might mean that he had given up the
search, having found no trace of her during all the months in which
he had been trying to find her. Or it might mean that he, too, had
succumbed to the same poverty which she had endured and, being no longer
able to maintain himself in the great city, had sought work elsewhere.
As the thought of this last possibility suddenly took possession of her,
her heart gave a great bound of relief, and in the quiet that ensued,
a certain tenderness for the man whom she had wronged began to well up
within her. She recalled their early life and his unfailing generosity.
Never in all the years she had known him had he refused her the
slightest thing which could, in any way, add to her happiness. Indeed,
he had often denied himself many of the luxuries to which a man of his
tastes and training was entitled, in order to add to her store. Nor had
he ever restrained her in her whims or her extravagance, and never, in
any way, had he curtailed her freedom. She had been free to come and
free to go, and with whom she pleased. Her intimacy with Dalton had been
proof of all this, as well as her friendships with various men to whose
companionship many another husband might have objected. “All right,
Barbara,” was his invariable reply; “you will get over your youth one of
these days, and then you and I will settle down.”
Even when the financial crash had come, he had begged her to go with him
to Australia, where he had important family connections, and where he
could build up his fortunes anew. It was by no means certain, he had
told her, that he was entirely ruined. His father's estate, when all the
debts were paid, might still leave a surplus. There was some land just
outside of London, too, on the line of suburban improvement, and this,
with the title which had come to him with his father's death, would
doubtless, after a few years, enable them to return to England and
resume their former position. She remembered very well the night he had
pleaded with her, and she remembered, too, with a gripping at her heart,
her own contemptuous answer, and her departure the next morning for her
father's roof. And then the lie she had told!--that Felix had bluntly
announced to her his plan for raising sheep in Australia, ordering her
to get ready to go with him at once.
She recalled, too, this time with burning cheeks, a certain unsigned
letter, in an unknown hand, which had reached her after her flight with
Dalton, describing her husband as stunned and dazed by the blow,
the writer denouncing her for her desertion, and warning her of the
retribution in store for her if she remained with a man like the one
on whom she had staked her future happiness. She had laughed at its
contents and tossed it across the table to Dalton, who had read it with
a smile, caught it between a pair of tongs and, lighting a match, held
it over the flame until it was consumed.
Then--as, tortured by these recollections, she lay staring at the
dark--Martha's prediction, based on Stephen's, belief, that Felix would
kill Dalton at sight, rose up in her mind, and with it came another
great fear--one that, for a moment, stopped her heart from beating and
left her numb. In the quick succession of blows that Martha had dealt,
she had not fully grasped this part of the story. Now she did. That her
husband was capable of it she fully believed. Quiet, reticent men like
Felix--men who had served their country both in India and Egypt--men who
never boasted, who never discussed their intentions or plans until they
were carried out, were the men to take the law into their own hands when
their honor was involved, no matter who was hurt. Such a catastrophe
would not only bring to light her own misery, but the unavoidable
publicity would tarnish still further the good name of her people at
home. Even were only an attempt on Dalton's life made, and an official
investigation held--as she was convinced would be the case--the scandal
would be almost as bad. Rather than have this occur she would make
any sacrifice, even that of humiliating herself on her knees before
Felix--begging his forgiveness, not for the sake of the man she now
feared and detested, but for the sake of her father at home, and to
shield her own identity. She feared, too, for Felix. He, of all men,
should be saved from committing such an act.
With this a sudden resolve born of her fears and shattered nerves took
possession of her. She would not only see her husband whenever he
came, but she would send word in the morning to Stephen to redouble his
search, leaving no stone unturned until he was found.
Nothing of all this did she say to Martha, who helped her dress,
watching the dark circles beneath the eyes. Breakfast over, she silently
took her seat by the window, drew from the big paper box at her feet her
several pieces of lace, including the mantilla, and began to work.
As she held up to the light the ragged tear in the Spanish lace, and
noted the width and length of the gash in its delicate texture, her
heart sank. She saw at a glance that she could not finish it before
closing time, even if she devoted the whole day to its repair. Better
complete, thought she, the other and smaller pieces--one a fichu of
Brussels lace, and the others some embroidered handkerchiefs on which
she was to place monograms. These she would finish and take to Mangan.
When he saw how tired she was, he would accept her excuses and give her
another day for the large and more important piece. She did not have to
leave the house until four o'clock, and as Martha was to be out most of
the day, she could work on without distraction of any kind.
When, at noon, Martha left her, with a caressing pat of the hand,
promising to be back in time for supper, the anxious, weary woman picked
up her needle again, her fingers darting in and out like shuttles, her
shoulders aching with the strain, her mind still intent on the problems
which had tortured her all night, and only rousing herself when the
clock in a neighboring tower struck four. Then she gathered up her work,
wrapped the whole in the same sheet of tissue-paper in which the several
pieces had been packed, and, adjusting her hat and cloak, started for
Rosenthal's.
Mangan, who was in charge of the department, had been waiting for her
in a small room off the repair shop, and as he caught sight of her frail
figure making her way toward him, rose to greet her. “Well, I'm glad
you've come,” he began, as she reached his desk. “Brought that Spanish
piece, didn't you? Ought to have had it last night.”
She tried to smile, but his face was too forbidding. “No, I am sorry to
say that--”
“You didn't! What have you done with it?”
“I could not finish it. I have brought everything else. I will have it
for you in the morning.”
Mangan looked at her curiously, a smirk of suspicion crossing his narrow
fox face. “Oh! You'll bring it to-morrow, will you?” he sneered. “Well,
do you know that to-morrow's New Year's Eve and that this mantilla's
got to be delivered to-night? They have been telephoning all day for it.
To-morrow, eh? Well, don't that make you tired! It does me.”
An indignant protest quivered through her, but she dared not show
resentment. Only within the last few months had she been subjected to
these insults, and only her helplessness had compelled her to bear them.
“I am very sorry,” she answered simply, and with a certain dignity. “I
have not been very well. I have done all I could. The damage was greater
than I expected. Some of the threads must be entirely restored.”
“What time to-morrow?” Every kind of excuse known to the shop-worker
had been poured into his ears. Very few of them contained a particle of
truth.
“Before noon, if I can; certainly by four o'clock.”
“Four o'clock?” he roared. He had already made up his mind that she was
lying, but there was no use in his telling her so, nor would any time
be gained by taking the work from her and handing it over to another
employee.
“Four means eight, I guess. What's the matter with ten o'clock? I got
to have that sure, and no monkeying. Can't you brace up and jam it
through?”
“I will try.” Her cheeks were burning under the sting of his coarse
lashes.
“Try! You bet you'll try! Better get home right away. Give me that
bundle--I'll have it checked up, so you won't lose no time.”
She bit her lip, her whole nature in revolt, but she made no reply. Too
much was at stake for her to show anger at such coarseness. She had no
rights that he was bound to respect. She was only one of his work-girls,
and her short experience had shown her that but few of her associates
received better treatment from him.
“Thank you,” was all she said as, with downcast eyes, she picked her way
through the crowded workroom, down the long, steep staircase reserved
for employees and so on to the street. There she caught a Third Avenue
car and sank into a seat near the door, encroaching upon her small
reserve of pennies to reach home the sooner. She saw but too clearly
that not only did her present position depend on her returning the
mantilla at the earliest possible moment, but that, exhausted as she
was, she must utilize the few remaining minutes of daylight as well as
the earlier hours of the morning to keep her promise. To work long
at night she knew was impossible. She had not the eyes to follow the
intricacies of the meshes with no other light than that afforded by
Martha's kerosene lamp. She had tried it before, and had been forced to
stop.
When she reached the cross street leading to Martha's door, she hurried
from the car, caught her skirts in her hand, a habit of hers when
nervously hurried, and, summoning up all her strength, sped on, mounting
the narrow, rickety steps with but a pause for breath on the last
landing. Once there, she took her latch-key from her pocket and unlocked
the door, leaving it on the jar, as she knew Martha might come in at any
moment.
As she entered the humble apartment, its restful seclusion, after her
experience with Mangan, sent a thrill of thankfulness through her. One
after another the several objects passed in review--the kettle singing
on the stove, its ample bed of coals warming the room; her own tiny
chamber, leading out of the one large room, with its small iron bedstead
and white cotton quilt; the table with its lamp; the pine shelves with
the few pieces of china, and even the big paper box in which her work
was delivered and later returned to the shop, either by wagon or special
messenger, and which Martha, before she had gone out, had placed on a
chair near the door to keep it out of the dust. All told her of peace
and warmth and comfort.
She lighted the lamp, picked up the box containing the mantilla,
and half raised the lid, intending to place the contents on her
sewing-table, but, catching sight of the kettle again, she let the box
lid drop from her hands. She was chilled from the ride in the car, the
water was boiling, and it would take but a minute to make herself a cup
of tea. This would give her renewed strength for her task. Hardly had
she drained her cup when she became conscious of a step on the stairs--a
steady, firm step. Not Martha's nor that of the boy. Nor that of the
expressman who often sought Martha's apartment.
As it approached the landing, a sickening faintness assailed her.
She had heard that step before.
It was Felix!
Her hour of trial had come!
He would find the door ajar, stride into the room with that quiet,
self-contained manner of his; and she must face him and stand ashamed!
For a brief instant she wavered, her resolution of the morning, to throw
herself at his feet, put to flight by a sense of some impending terror.
Should she spring forward and shut the door before he reached it,
refusing to admit him until Martha came, or should she creep noiselessly
into her room and lock herself in, remaining silent until he should
leave the premises, believing no one at home? While she stood, half
paralyzed with fear, the door moved gently, almost stealthily, swinging
back half its width, and a man in cape-coat, and slouch hat drawn dose
over his eyes, stepped into the room.
Lady Barbara gave a piercing shriek, sprang from her seat, and staggered
back, grasping a chair to keep her from falling. “How dare you, Guy
Dalton, to--”
The intruder loosened the top button of his cape, watching, meanwhile,
the terrified woman, and, with a sneer, said: “Oh, stop that, will you?
I've had enough of it. You thought you could get away, did you? Well,
you can't, and the sooner you find that out the better for you.” He
glanced coolly around the room. “So this is where you are, is it?--a
rotten hole, anyhow. You might better have stayed where you were. Does
Rosenthal pay you enough to keep this up, or is somebody else footing
the bills? Now, you get your things on and be quick about it.”
She had been edging toward her bedroom door all this time, her eyes
glaring into his with the fierceness of a cornered animal, muttering
as she stepped--one word at a time:
“You--have--no--right--to--come--in--here.”
“I haven't, haven't I? I'd like to know who has a better right?” he
returned angrily.
“No, you have not.” She was moving an inch at a time, keeping a chair
between herself and Dalton, her eyes watching his every expression, her
right hand stretched along the wall.
“Still at it, are you? Well, get through, and hurry up. I'll go where I
please, and you'll come when I want you. Everybody is inquiring for you
down at the house, and I promised them you would be back to-night, and
you will. You were a fool to leave. It's a lot better than this. From
what I heard last night, from one of Rosenthal's girls, I thought you
had moved into something palatial.”
She had reached the bedroom door now, and her hand was on the knob.
“Yes--that's right,” he said, mistaking her purpose, “get into your
wraps, and--”
The door closed with a sudden bang, and the inside bolt was pushed
tight.
Dalton stood with his hands in his pockets. “Oh, that's the game, is
it?” he called, in a loud voice. He saw he had been outwitted, and an
oath escaped him. He saw, too, that the door was a heavy one, and the
effort to force it might bring in the neighbors. “Well, there's no
hurry. I can wait,” he added savagely, “but if you know what's good for
you, you'll come out now.”
She had sunk down on her bed, hardly daring to breathe. Her only hope
now lay in Martha, and she might not come back for an hour.
Dalton sauntered away from the door and began an inspection of the room.
The box on the chair came first. He lifted the lid and drew out the
mantilla. “Rather good, this--wonder how she got hold of it--Oh, yes, I
see, she must be repairing it. There are her work-basket and the spools
of black silk.”
He turned to the box again and read the name of “Rosenthal” stencilled
on the bottom. “So that is what she is doing--they did not tell me what
she worked at.” He spread out the mantilla again and looked it over
carefully. Then a smile of cunning crossed his face. “Just what I want,”
he said, folding it up and tucking it inside his capacious cape.
He now made a tour of the room, his tread like that of a cat, lifted the
plates on the dresser as if in search of something behind them, rummaged
through the work-basket, opening and turning the leaves of a book lying
on the table. So occupied was he that he did not hear Martha's noiseless
step nor know that she had entered the room.
For a moment she stood watching his every movement. The man she saw was
well-knit and rather handsome, not much over thirty, with clean-shaven
face, drooping eyelids, and a hard-set lower jaw. She had a suspicion
that it might be Dalton, but was not sure, never having seen him but
once, when he was much younger.
“Who do you want to see?” she asked at last, in a firm voice.
Dalton wheeled sharply, and took her in with one comprehensive glance.
He had always prided himself on never having been outwitted or taken
unawares, and that Lady Barbara could lock herself in her room, and that
this woman could creep up behind him unobserved, rather nettled him.
“I don't know that it is any of your business, my good woman,”
he answered, his insolence increasing as he noticed how mild and
inoffensive she appeared to be; “but if it makes any difference to you,
I will tell you that I am waiting for my wife.”
“Where is she?” Martha's voice was clear and incisive, with a ring of
determination through it that, for the moment, disconcerted him.
Dalton pointed to the bedroom door.
Martha stepped across the room and tried the knob. “Open the door, Lady
Barbara. It's Martha. Who is this man?”
The bolt shot back and Barbara's frightened face peered out. “Oh, thank
God you have come!” she moaned, her teeth chattering. “It is Mr. Dalton.
I ordered him from the room, and he would not go, and--”
“Oh, it's Mr. Guy Dalton, is it?” Martha cried, facing him. “The man
who's been a curse to you ever since you met him. I know every crook and
turn of you--you ought to be ashamed of yourself to treat a woman as you
have treated Lady Barbara O'Day. Now, sir, this is my room and you can't
stay in it a minute longer. There's the door!”
Dalton laughed a dry, crackling laugh. “You are a regular virago, are
you not, my dear woman?” he said. “Quite refreshing to hear your defense
of a woman on whom I have spent every shilling I had. Now, do not get
excited--cool down a bit, and we will talk it over--and while we are at
it, please make me a cup of tea. It is about my hour. When my wife comes
to her senses, as she will in a minute, she will get over her tantrums
and think better of it.”
Martha strode straight toward him until her capacious body was within a
few inches of his shirt-front, her hands tightly clinched. “Don't make
any mistake, Mr. Dalton. Your airs won't go here. My brother Stephen
looks after me and after Lady O'Day, and he and another man you wouldn't
care to meet are looking after you.”
She called to her mistress: “Lock and bolt that door on you, and don't
open it until I tell you.”
Again she confronted Dalton, her contempt for him increasing as she
caught the wave of anxiety that swept his face at her reference to the
men who would help her. “Now, you can have just one minute to leave this
room, Mr. Dalton,” she cried, throwing back the door. “If you're over
that time, the policeman on the block will help you down-stairs.”
Dalton hesitated. The allusion to Stephen, whoever he might be, and to
the other man, disturbed him. That the woman knew more of his history
than she was willing at that time to tell was evident. That she was
entirely in earnest, and meant what she said, and that it would be more
than dangerous for him to defy her, should she appeal to the police for
help, were equally evident.
“Of course, my dear woman,” he said, with assumed humility, his eyes
glistening with anger, “if you do not want me to stay, I suppose I shall
have to go. I did not come to make any fuss; I only came to take my wife
home where I can take care of her. She seems to think she can get along
without me. All right--I am willing she should try it for a while. She
has my address, which is more than I had when she left me without a word
of any kind.”
He slid his hand under his cape to assure himself that the mantilla
was safe and out of sight, picked up his hat, and stepped jauntily out,
saying as he went down the staircase: “Next time, she will come to me.
Do you hear? Tell her so, will you?”