SOMETHING HAPPENS TO GERALD FOSLAND
There was something radically wrong with the Fosland household. Gerald’s
man had for years invariably said: “Good morning, sir; I hope you slept
well, sir.” This time he merely said: “Good morning, sir”; and he forgot
the salt. What was the matter with the house? With the exception of
William’s slip, the every morning programme was quite as usual. Gerald
arose, had his plunge, his breakfast, read his mail and his paper, went
for a canter in the Park, had luncheon at the Papyrus Club, and unless
his morning engagement slip had shown him some social duty for the
afternoon, he did not see Mrs. Fosland until he came down, from the
hands of William, dressed for dinner.
One can readily see that no deviation from this routine confronted
Gerald Fosland this morning. He had had his plunge and his breakfast,
his mail and his paper laid before him, and yet there was something
ghastly about the feel of the house. It was as if some one were dead!
Gerald Fosland made as radical a deviation from his daily life as
William had done. He left his mail unopened, after a glance at the
postmark; he left his paper unread, and he started for his canter in the
Park a full half hour early!
He arrived at the Papyrus Club a full half hour early, and sat in the
dimmest corner of the library, taking himself seriously in hand.
Somehow, he was not quite fit, not quite up to himself. It seemed
desperately lonely in the Club. There were plenty of fellows there, but
they were merely nodders. They were not the ones who came at his hour.
He brightened a shade as Tompkinson came in five minutes early. He was
about to wonder if all the world had started a trifle early this
morning, when he remembered that, ordinarily on his arrival, he found
Tompkinson there. He could not analyse why this should be such a relief
to him, unless it was that he found mere normality comforting to-day.
“Good morning, Fosland,” drawled Tompkinson. “Beautiful weather.”
“Yes,” said Gerald, and they sat together in voiceless satisfaction
until Connors came in.
“Good morning,” observed Connors. “Beautiful weather.”
“Yes,” replied Fosland and Tompkinson, and Connors sat.
“Depressing affair of Prymm’s,” presently remarked Tompkinson, calling a
boy for the customary appetiser.
“Rotten,” agreed Connors, with some feeling. All his ancestors had been
Irish, and it never quite gets out of the blood.
“I haven’t heard,” suggested Fosland, with the decent interest one
club-fellow should have in another.
“Wife went to Italy with the sculptor who made her portrait; Carmelli,
that’s the name. Intense looking fellow, you know. Prymm had him here at
the club.”
“You don’t tell me.” Gerald felt an unusual throb of commiseration for
Prymm. “Mighty decent chap.”
“Yes, Prymm’s all cut up about it,” went on Tompkinson. “Has a sort of
notion he should kill the fellow, or something of the kind.”
“Why?” demanded Connors, with some feeling again. Connors was a widower,
and Fosland suddenly remembered, though he could not trace a connection
leading to the thought, that Connors had not been a frequenter of the
club until after the death of his wife. “Prymm’s a thoroughly decent
chap, but he was so wasteful.”
This being a new word in such connection, both Fosland and Tompkinson
looked at Connors inquiringly.
“I hadn’t noticed.” This Tompkinson.
“Wasteful of Mrs. Prymm,” explained Connors. “She is a beautiful young
woman, clever, charming, companionable, and, naturally, fond of
admiration. Prymm admired her. He frequently intimated that he did. He
admired his horse, and an exceptional Botticelli which hung in his music
room, but his chief pleasure lay in their possession. He never
considered that he should give any particular pleasure to the
Botticelli, but he did to the horse.”
Gerald Fosland was aware of a particular feel of discomfort. Rather
heartless to be discussing a fellow member’s intimate affairs this way.
“It is most unfortunate,” he commented. “Shall we go down to lunch?”
In the hall they met Prymm, a properly set up fellow, with neatly
plastered hair and an air of unusually perfect grooming. He presented
the appearance of having shaved too closely to-day.
“Good morning,” said Prymm. “Beautiful weather.”
Inconsiderate of Prymm to show up at the club. A trifle selfish of him.
It put such a strain on his fellow members. Of course, though, he had
most of his mail there. He only stopped for his mail, and went out.
“You’ll be in for the usual Tuesday night whist, I dare say,” inquired
Tompkinson perfunctorily.
“Oh yes,” remembered Fosland, and was thoughtful for a moment. “No, I
don’t think I can come. Sorry.” He felt the eye of Connors fixed on him
curiously.
On Fosland’s book was a tea, the date filled in two weeks ago; one of
those art things to which men are compelled. Arly had handed it to him,
much like a bill for repairs, or a memorandum to secure steamer tickets.
He drove home, and dressed, and when William handed him his hat and
gloves and stick he laid them on the table beside him, in his lounging
room, and sat down, looking patiently out of the window. He glanced at
his watch, by and by, and resumed his inspection of the opposite side of
the street. He stirred restlessly, and then he suddenly rose, with a
little smile at himself. He had been waiting for word from Mrs. Fosland,
that she was ready. For just a few abstracted moments he had forgotten
that he was to pay the social obligations of the house of Fosland
entirely alone.
He picked up his hat and gloves and stick, and started to leave the
room. As he passed the door leading to Arly’s apartments, he hesitated,
and put his hand on the knob. He glanced over his shoulder, as a guilty
conscience made him imagine that William was coming in, then he gently
turned the knob, and entered. A tiny vestibule, and then a little
French-grey salon, and then the boudoir, all in delicate blue, and sweet
with a faint, delicate, evasive fragrance which was like the passing of
Arly. Something made him stand, for a moment, with a trace of feeling
which came to awe, and then he turned and went out of the terribly
solemn place. He did not notice, until afterwards, that he had tiptoed.
Gerald Fosland had never been noted for brilliance, but he was an
insufferable bore at the art tea. People asked him the usual polite
questions, and he either forgot that they were talking or answered about
something else, and he entirely mislaid the fragments of art
conversation which he was supposed to have put on with his ascot. Nearly
every one asked about Arly, and several with more than perfunctory
courtesy. He had always known that Arly was very popular, but he had a
new perception, now, that she was extremely well liked; and it gratified
him.
Occupied with his own reflections, which were not so much thought as a
dull feeling that he was about to have a thought, he nevertheless felt
that this was a rather agreeable gathering, after all, until he
accidentally joined a group which, with keen fervour, was discussing the
accident to Prymm. He had a general aversion to gossip anyhow, and
shortly after that he went home.
He wrote some letters, and, when it grew dark, he rang for William.
“I shall remain in for dinner to-night,” he observed, and mechanically
took up the evening paper which the quiet William laid before him. A
headline which made his hand tremble, caught his eye, and he dropped the
paper. Prymm had shot himself.
No tragedy had ever shaken Gerald Fosland so much as this. Why, he had
met Prymm only that noon. Prymm had said: “Good morning, beautiful
weather.” For a moment Fosland almost changed his mind about remaining
in for dinner, but, after all, the big panelled dining room, with its
dark wainscoting and its heavily carved furniture and its super-abundant
service, was less lonely than the club. The only words which broke the
silence of the dim dining room during that dinner, were: “Sauce, sir?”
Gerald took his coffee in his lounging room, and then he went again to
Arly’s door. He turned before he opened it, and tossed his cigarette in
the fireplace. He did not enter by stealth this time. He walked in. He
even went on to the dainty blue bedroom, and looked earnestly about it,
then he went back to the boudoir and seated himself on the stiff chair
in which he had, on rare occasions, sat and chatted with her. He
remained there perhaps half an hour. Suddenly he arose, and called for
his limousine, and drove to Teasdale’s. They were out, he was told. They
were at Mr. Sargent’s, and he drove straight there. Somehow, he was glad
that, since they were out, they had gone to Sargent’s. He was most
anxious to see Lucile.
“Just in time to join the mourners, Gerald,” greeted Ted. “We’re doing a
very solemn lot of Gailing.”
“I’ll join you with pleasure,” agreed Gerald, feeling more at home and
lighter of heart here than he had anywhere during the day. Lucile seemed
particularly near to him. “Have you any intimation that Gail expects to
return soon?”
“None at all,” stated Aunt Helen, with a queer mixture of sombreness and
impatience. “She only writes about what a busy time they are having, and
how delightfully eager her friends have been about her, and how popular
Arly is, and such things as that.”
“Arly is popular everywhere,” stated Gerald, and Lucile looked at him
wonderingly, turning her head very slowly towards him.
“What do you hear from Arly?” she inquired, holding up her hand as if to
shield her eyes from the fire, and studying him curiously from that
shadow.
“Much the same,” he answered; “except that she mentions Gail’s
popularity instead of her own. She had her maid send her another
trunkful of clothing, I believe,” and he fell to gazing into the
fireplace.
“I am very much disappointed in Arly,” worried Aunt Helen. “I sent Arly
specifically to bring Gail back in a week, and they have been gone nine
days!”
“I’m glad they’re having a good time,” observed Jim Sargent. “She’ll
come back when she gets ready. The New York pull is something which hits
you in the middle of the night, and makes you get up and pack.”
“Yes, but the season will soon be over,” worried Aunt Helen. “Gail’s
presence here at this time is so important that I do not see how she can
neglect it. It may affect her entire future life. A second season is
never so full of opportunities as the first one.”
“Oh nonsense,” laughed Jim. “You’re a fanatic on match-making, Helen.
What you really mean is that Gail should make a choice out of the
matrimonial market before it has all been picked over.”
“Jim,” protested Mrs. Sargent, the creases of worry appearing in her
brow. Her husband and sister had never quarrelled, but they had
permitted divergences of opinion, which had required much mutual
forbearance.
“A spade is a spade,” returned Jim. “I think it’s silly to worry about
Gail’s matrimonial prospects. Whenever she’s ready to be married, she’ll
look them all over, and pick out the one who suits her. All she’ll have
to say is ‘Eeny-meeny-miny-moe, you’re it,’ and the fellow will rush
right out and be measured for his suit.”
“Just the same, I’d rather she’d be here when she counts out,” laughed
Lucile.
“So would I,” agreed Jim; “but, after all, there are good men
everywhere. Girls get married out in the middle-west as well as here,
and live happily ever after.”
“They grow fine men out there,” stated Mrs. Sargent, with a
complimentary glance at her husband. She had never wavered in her
opinion of that fine man.
“Right you are,” agreed Sargent heartily. “They have not the polish of
eastern men perhaps, but they have a strength, and forcefulness, and
virility, which carries them through. There are men out there, stacks of
them, who would appeal to any bright and vivacious woman, sweep her off
her feet, carry her away by storm, and make her forget a lot of things.
If any handsome woman is unappreciated in New York, all she has to do is
to go out to the middle-west.”
Lucile, listening to the innocently blundering speech of Gail’s proud
uncle, watched Gerald with intense interest. She could scarcely believe
the startling idea which had popped into her head! Gerald’s only
apparent deviation from his normal attitude had consisted in
abstractedly staring into the fire, instead of paying polite attention
to every one, but that he had heard was evidenced by the shifting glance
he gave Sargent. Otherwise he had not moved.
“You scare me,” said Lucile, still watching Gerald. “I’m not going to
leave Gail out there any longer. I’m going to have her back at once.”
Gerald raised his head immediately, and smiled at her.
“Splendid,” he approved. “Fact of the matter is,” and he hesitated an
instant, “I’m becoming extremely lonesome.”
Even Ted detected something in Gerald’s tone and in his face.
“It’s time you were waking up,” he bluntly commented. “I should think
you would be lonely without Arly.”
“Yes, isn’t it time,” agreed Gerald, studying the matter carefully. “You
know, both having plenty of leisure, there’s never been any occasion for
us to travel separately before, and, really, I miss her dreadfully.”
“I think I’ll have to get her for you, Gerald,” promised Lucile,
removing her hand from in front of her eyes, and smiling at him
reassuringly. She could smile beautifully just now. The incredible thing
she had thought she detected was positively true, and it made her
excitedly happy! Gerald Fosland had been in love with his wife, and had
never known it until now!
“If you can work that miracle, and bring Gail back with her, you’ll
spread sunshine all over the place,” declared Jim Sargent. “It’s been
like a funeral here since she went home. You’d think Gail was the most
important section of New York. Everybody’s blue; Allison, Doctor Boyd;
everybody who knew her inquires, with long faces, when she’s coming
back!”
“What do you propose?” inquired Mrs. Helen Davies, with a degree of
interest which intimated that she was quite ready to take any part in
the conspiracy.
“I have my little plan,” laughed Lucile. “I’m going to send her an
absolutely irresistible reminder of New York!”