REDEMPTION.
At Poissy the three weeks had worn listlessly away. Margery yet
remained, though the time originally set as a limit for her visit had
passed. Monsieur and Madame Palffy were staying with some friends in
Dresden, whom Mrs. Carnby had never seen, but whom, under the present
circumstances, she whimsically described to Jeremy as being "in danger,
necessity, and tribulation."
Truth to tell, she had been forced to fall back upon her own invention
for means of amusement. She was chafing under a sense of helplessness in
a situation which she seemed totally unable to grasp, and a fierce
impatience against the social conditions which make it possible for a
man to shut off the women most deeply interested in him from the most
significant features of his life and conduct. She had spent a half-hour
in Margery's room on the morning of Andrew's departure, and there had
heard as much as she cared to about the conversation in the arbour. Upon
this problem she had brought to bear all her trained powers of
persuasion, and at the end had the satisfaction of bringing Margery to
a less intolerant attitude. The matter of inducing her to telegraph
Andrew a recall she had found more difficult.
"I wouldn't deceive you, my dear," she said. "I'm absolutely convinced
of the truth of what I say when I tell you that you've misjudged him. Oh
yes--I know the appearances are all against him. I thought just as you
do, until I had the courage to ask him out and out about the matter;
but, when I did, I soon saw that the circumstances were
unusual--extraordinarily so. He's been reckless, and, if he cares for
you as he pretends to, highly inconsiderate. But I believe, as firmly as
I do in my own existence, that in the main essentials he's innocent. Of
course, he's been going around with this woman--even _he_ doesn't deny
that; but the very fact that he admits it seems to me to prove that it
hasn't been as bad as you suppose. One may go a long way with a woman
without going too far. Why, Margery, I could bite my tongue off when I
think what I said to you last night. Just think!--I imagined I was
straightening things out, and giving you your cue! Instead, it appears
that I was only giving you a wrong idea, and putting everything into a
hideous mess. Why, you didn't give him a fighting chance! You piled on
him every accusation that came into your head, and then sent him off
before he had a chance to explain. Why didn't you ask him one straight
question, if that was what you wanted to know? He'd have answered
you--yes, and told you the truth! If there's one thing Andrew Vane is
not, it's a liar. I was sure of that before I'd known him two minutes."
"But there wasn't any need to ask him," broke in Margery. "He said of
his own accord that--that there is such a woman."
"And what else?" demanded Mrs. Carnby.
"That she wasn't any more to him than a bird that was singing near us;
that he'd never see her again if I asked him."
"And you sent him away after _that_! Good heavens, my dear, that was the
moment of all others when you should have said 'I believe you!' For he
was telling you the truth--I'll stake my intelligence on it. It was the
supreme evidence of his reliance upon you, the supreme test of your
love. And you failed. Appearances? Yes, of course! And what are
appearances? Nothing in the world but a perpetual reminder that we're
not omniscient. Margery--you've got to call him back."
Margery made no reply.
"You owe that much to him, and you owe it to me. We've both of us been
in the wrong, and you must give us a chance to set things right. If you
can't take him as he is, then ask him to tell you exactly what his
relations have been with this woman, and act on his answer as you see
fit. I can't criticise you for doing as you think right, if only you're
acting on the truth; but the truth you must have! At present you're
depending upon a lot of hearsay, upon the criminally thoughtless
cynicism of a gossipy old woman, and on your own rash conclusions. My
dear girl, you know I love you--love you better than anything in the
world, except Jeremy? Well, then, do this for me."
"Very well," answered Margery wearily, "but it's no use, Mrs. Carnby."
That morning she telegraphed Andrew to come back to her--and there was
no reply.
Thereafter the subject had not been mentioned either by the girl or her
hostess. For the first time there lay a little barrier of restraint
between them, which Mrs. Carnby, with all her tact, found it impossible
to pass, or even clearly to define. Her customary confidence in herself
stood back aghast. Any further interference, she knew, might well be set
down as idle meddling. She had done her best--and failed.
Day by day she saw Margery grow paler and thinner. The old gaiety was
slipping from her, flashing forth at more and more infrequent intervals,
like the flame of an untended lamp, brightening more feebly, ever and
anon, before it dies away. But there was nothing to be said or done. The
little touches of endearment and sympathy with which women often fill
the place of words, passed between them, but too often these negative
interpreters of their hidden thoughts caused the girl's eyes to fill. At
Mrs. Carnby's earnest entreaty, she prolonged her visit, and was glad of
the seclusion of the villa, the long idle days, the evenings at
billiards or backgammon with Jeremy, and the still warm nights when,
through sleepless hours, reverie had free rein. Curiously enough, and
despite Andrew's neglect of her, her former tenderness for him returned
and grew. The first passion of her resentment having passed, she was
learning to make the ample and even obstinate allowances of the woman
who has seen love in her grasp, and had it snatched away. At the moment
of her rejection of him, there had been nothing within her range of
vision but the spectre of cruel and humiliating wrong. But now a
thousand little appealing reminiscences came back to woo and to persuade
her. The old days at Beverly; the boy-and-girl companionship wherefrom
had sprung the first flower of her love; the high hopefulness of their
young attitude; the bashful acknowledgment of unspoken understanding
with which they parted; the long months of separation, when her
unhappiness in her new surroundings was silver-shot with prescience of
his coming; that coming itself, and the joyous significance of it--all
these worked upon her night and day. She was learning to forget the
little hints of gossip whereby she first began to doubt him, and even
the terrible frankness of Mrs. Carnby's words, which had seemed to
confirm all her worst suspicions. She felt that if only she had been
given the time which now was hers, she would have been able to adjust
these matters, reduce the gossip to its proper place of insignificance,
and see, as now she saw, the vast and supreme importance of their love.
Now it was herself, not him, she blamed for his silence. She had indeed
not "given him a fighting chance." She had insulted him, and, at the
end, sent him about his business with a heartless sneer. Mrs. Carnby's
words came back to her--"love is little more than forgiveness on the
endless instalment plan!"--and she had not been willing to forgive him,
even when perhaps there had been nothing to forgive. She would turn
restlessly, watching the dawn brightening against her window. Ah, kind
God, what would she not forgive him now! What difference could anything
that had been make, if only she could hear his voice again, and see him
bending over the music of "The Persian Garden," and know that for all
time he was hers!
"Each morn a thousand roses brings, you say:
Yes--but where leaves the rose of yesterday?"
Mrs. Carnby was not alone in her perception of the change in Margery.
Jeremy mentioned it, one night, as they were dressing for dinner.
"I hope there's nothing gone wrong with Margery, Louisa."
"I hope not," retorted his wife, dragging savagely on the comb.
"Then you've noticed?"
"I've noticed--yes. It's the Tremonceau woman."
"The--"
"The most beautiful _cocotte_ in Paris, my poor Jeremy. Thank God, _you_
have to be _told_ these things! It's the old story, no more admirable
because, this time, it's a friend of ours who's making a fool of
himself. If I had my way, I'd have sign-boards stuck up at every gate of
Paris, with a finger pointing inward, and the inscription 'Mud Garden.
For Children Only.' Faugh!"
"But you don't suppose--"
Mrs. Carnby faced her husband, her hands upon her hips, assuming a kind
of brazen effrontery.
"I don't suppose, Jeremy Carnby, that a Paris _cocotte_ affects the
company of a rich young American for the sake of his _beaux yeux_. I
don't suppose that a good-looking boy in his twenties affects the
company of Mirabelle Tremonceau for the pleasures of her conversation. I
don't suppose that the loveliest and purest girl on earth is going to
survey with emotion the unspeakable folly of the man she cares for. And
I don't suppose the man she cares for is likely to be any different from
the majority of men, who decide upon marriage principally because
they're tired of the other thing. I don't suppose _anything_ except
what's logical, and natural--and perfectly disgusting!"
"Do you mean--Vane?" asked Jeremy.
"Yes--_bat_!" said Mrs. Carnby.
Jeremy wisely made no reply.
So it was that when, at the end of the three weeks, Mr. Thomas
Radwalader came down to spend the day, he found his hostess in a fine
glow of suppressed impatience. She seized the first moment when they
were alone to question him. They were old friends. He never laid claim
to much in the way of morality in the presence of Mrs. Carnby, and it is
a characteristic of this attitude that the person adopting it is
frequently his own worst critic, and has more credit allowed to him than
he deserves. Even the devil is not so black as he is painted, and if he
will have the audacity to do most of the painting in question himself,
he is more than likely to find that, in the opinion of others, his
complexion will be comfortably free from blemishes. Radwalader's smooth
assumption of an indefinite kind of laxity, set at ease rather than
aroused Mrs. Carnby's suspicions of him.
"He can't be so _very_ bad," she told herself, "or he wouldn't talk so
much about it."
For unnecessary admissions are a sedative to gossip, just as unnecessary
concealments are a stimulant.
"How's Mr. Vane?" demanded Mrs. Carnby abruptly.
"Why, I was about to ask you," answered Radwalader. "I thought he was
quite a _protege_ of yours. I've not seen much of him, myself, of late.
He's made new friends, and of course I was never much more than a
preliminary guide to Paris. I fancy he can find his own way about,
nowadays."
"I'll warrant he can!" exclaimed Mrs. Carnby, "and into society none too
good, at that!"
"How so?"
"Oh, don't tell me you don't know what I mean! Of course, you're bound
to shield him. You men always do that, don't you? You put your
intoxicated friends to bed, and send discreet telegrams to their wives,
to say they've been called out of town on business. That's not
forgery--it's friendship. And when one of you's going to the bad, the
rest of you stand around and say: 'Poor old chap! Don't let his family
suspect what _we_ know.' Oh, I wasn't born yesterday, Radwalader! You
may as well tell me what I want to know: it isn't much. Is he still
trotting about with that Tremonceau woman?"
"Now, Mrs. Carnby!" protested Radwalader. "Is that a fair question?"
"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Carnby dryly, "but you've answered it already,
so never mind! Let me tell you that I'm quite through with Andrew Vane.
He didn't even have the grace to answer a telegram that Margery Palffy
sent him, three weeks ago, asking him to come down."
"Three weeks ago?" repeated Radwalader reflectively. "But, Mrs. Carnby,
he was here three weeks ago. We all were--don't you remember?"
"Naturally I remember," said Mrs. Carnby impatiently, "but there were
urgent reasons for his return. Now, don't tell me you don't know
_that_!"
"Know it? How _should_ I know it? Vane doesn't confide his private
affairs to me. Do you mean that--"
"I mean that Margery had made a great mistake, in the course of a
conversation they had on the last evening he was here--a mistake which
imperilled the happiness of them both, and which it was of the utmost
importance to set right. At the time, perhaps, he showed himself to be
the victim of an unjust accusation; but since, he has shown himself to
be a cad. If you've never known--but I'd not have believed it of
you--that Margery was in love with him, and that he's pretended to be in
love with her, then it's time you did!"
"What a pity!" observed Radwalader. "I wish I'd known all this before: I
might have done something. But, after all, it's just as well. It
wouldn't have done for Miss Palffy to humiliate herself; and the little
Tremonceau--"
"Is his mistress?" put in Mrs. Carnby.
"Of course," said Radwalader, with a skilful sigh. "There's no doubt
whatever about that."
"I'd have wagered a good bit on his innocence!"
"When you wager anything on the innocence of a young man who's been the
close companion of Mirabelle Tremonceau for six weeks or so," answered
Radwalader, "it's nothing less than a criminal waste of money."
"Then he's not only a cad," said Mrs. Carnby angrily, "but a liar as
well; and, as I've said already, I'm through with him!"
She was more than astounded when, two mornings later, a telegram was
handed her at the breakfast-table. It was from Andrew, and requested
permission to come down at once and spend one night.
"I think I'll leave you to answer that," she observed to Margery, who
was alone with her at table, Jeremy having gone up to town by the early
train. "The boy's waiting."
She tossed the despatch across the table as she spoke.
She was more astounded still when Margery looked up at her with the
first spontaneous smile which Mrs. Carnby had seen upon her lips for
many days.
"Please ask him to come," she said.
"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Carnby, "_do_ be careful! Remember how
much has happened. If only you'd let me advise you!"
"You've advised me once already, fairy godmother," said Margery,
laughing.
"Heaven help me, so I have!" replied her hostess. "Do you mean it,
Margery?"
"I was never more in earnest," answered the girl, turning suddenly grave
again.
So Mrs. Carnby sent the required answer.
All that morning she was more puzzled than ever she had been in the
whole course of her life. It was certain that the girl's mood had
changed. The doubtful shadow in her eyes had given place to a clear glow
of confidence, and her laugh was free from any suggestion of restraint.
That in itself was curious. Depression, melancholy, even resentment,
were to be expected as a result of the news that Andrew Vane was on the
point of entering her life once more. Of late he had shown himself in a
more unfavourable light than ever, and yet in her eyes, her smile, her
light-hearted animation there was something akin to a suggestion that he
had been fully exonerated from suspicion, rather than freshly and more
significantly subjected to it. She was emphatically happy--and Mrs.
Carnby could not comprehend. The thought, indeed, came to her that the
explanation which Andrew had denied her, these three weeks past, had
been given to Margery, in some fashion as yet unexplained. But this
theory was wholly incompatible with his bearing when he arrived at noon.
He looked wretchedly ill, and was prey to a visible embarrassment. He
took her hand, but did not meet her eyes, and the credit she was
beginning to accord him gave way, once more, to anger. As a result, her
greeting was conspicuously cool. After dinner he and Margery played
billiards, while Jeremy dozed, with the _Temps_ over his placid face,
and Mrs. Carnby did more to ruin a piece of embroidery than she had done
to further it in the past six months. Suddenly the good lady retired to
her room, with a violent and fortuitous headache. She had relinquished
any attempt to fathom the situation: she had frankly thrown up the
sponge!
"Shall we take a walk in the garden?" asked Andrew.
When they were alone with the silence and the stars, his hand sought
hers.
"Margery!"
"Andy!"
"I've simply come to say good-by, my dear. You were quite right: I'm not
worthy of you. I'm going back to the States as soon as I can get away.
All I want you to remember is this: I've been careless--reckless--wholly
at fault from the beginning to the end--but I've loved you always, my
dearest--always--always! I won't go into all the miserable details.
Paris has made a fool of me, that's all. I'm not the first idiot to
throw away his chance of happiness because of the big city over there,
and I'm not the first to pay the penalty I deserve. Once, perhaps, I had
the right to demand something at your hands; but now I've no right to
ask for anything. I ask for nothing! I've come to beg for your
forgiveness, and to say good-by. Will you forgive me, Margery?"
"I want to ask you just one question," said Margery steadily. "When I
accused you of--of _that_--the other night, was I right or wrong?"
"Wrong," said Andrew Vane; "but now--"
Suddenly she leaned toward him, stopping his speech with her soft and
open palm.
"I've thought of another question," she said. "Do you love me--now?"
"Love you?" answered Andrew. "Ah, Margery!"
"Then I wish to hear no more. The past is the past, do you hear? I love
you! I've learned much in these few weeks. I love you, and I need you.
You can't leave me now. I've been so weary for you, my love! Ah,
whatever there has been between us in the past, don't let anything stand
between us now!"
"But you don't understand," faltered Andrew. "Things have changed. There
is much that you have to forgive me--much that I have to explain--"
"As to what I have to forgive you," answered Margery, "I think there is
also much for you to forgive me; and as to what you have to explain--oh,
explain it later, Andy--explain it, if you like, when we--"
"Are married!" exclaimed Andrew. "No! Things must be made clear now.
I've transgressed, my love--transgressed beyond hope of forgiveness.
What would you say if you knew--?"
"I know already!" answered the girl. "I know more than you think--and I
forgive it all. Oh, Andy, _don't_ make it too hard for me! Help
me--won't you?"
Suddenly, with a realization of what all this meant, he opened his arms,
as to a child, and, like a confiding child, she went into them.
"I love you," she whispered. "That's all--I love you!"
"My love--my love--_my love!_" said Andrew.