Читать книгу The Unforgiving Offender - John Reed Scott - Страница 5

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Others than Pendleton had seen who was the occupant of the approaching Victoria. And the news spread like the wind, with a bustle and a buzz that swelled—grew louder and louder as the horses swung swiftly along the front and drew up at the entrance—suddenly to be hushed to a fearful calm as Montague Pendleton and Sheldon Burgoyne stepped out to meet her.

She saw the two men, and sat leaning on her sunshade, a smile on her lips, waiting—but without a glance toward the piazza and its expectant crowd:—a slender woman, gowned in white, with a great black hat topping auburn hair and shading a face that was almost flawless in its proud, cold beauty.

"My dear Stephanie, I am glad to see you!" said Pendleton.

"Do you mean it, Montague?" she asked, giving him her hand with a dazzling smile that softened her whole countenance and made it very tender.

"We do, indeed!" said Burgoyne, bowing over her other hand—while Pendleton took her sunshade.

There was a momentary pause. She looked from one to the other a bit questioningly—smiled again—and with a hand in each of theirs stepped lightly from the carriage.

"We have a table just around the corner—shall we go to it?" Pendleton suggested.

She shot him a glance from under her half-closed lids—a glance of appreciation and gratitude.

"If you don't mind," she replied—"I'm a bit afraid of these people."

They went slowly down the piazza; and the crowd, which had been dumb with amazement or curiosity or looking, suddenly began to talk like mad, and to occupy themselves with the tea things or with one another.

Mrs. Lorraine saw—and with a haughtily amused smile, with never a glance at any of them, with her head held high and her body turned a trifle so as to converse with Pendleton, she threaded her way between chairs and tables and people to the place reserved.

"Did you ever behold such brazenness!" exclaimed Mrs. Postlewaite when Mrs. Lorraine had passed.

"The shameless woman!" Mrs. Pearce echoed.

"It is a disgrace to the Club!" pronounced Mrs. Busbee.

"It is a disgrace to society!" declared Mrs. Porterfield. "What shall we do to manifest our disgust and disapproval?"

"Leave at once—it is positively contaminating to be near her," decided Mrs. Postlewaite.

And they went straightway—summoning their cars with much to-do and ostentatious show.

"Play! Play! be absorbed in the game—don't let on you've seen her!" whispered young Mrs. Carstairs, as Mrs. Lorraine drew near....

"I didn't know what to do—I was facing her," said her partner, Mrs. Chilten.

"It didn't matter greatly what you did," smiled Mrs. Burleston. "She didn't look at any one—she ignored us all."

"She doesn't care a rap what we do—and she has proved it by coming here," said Mrs. Westlake. "She has got pluck, all right."

"I should call it effrontery," said Mrs. Carstairs, "hardened effrontery."

"I think she is to be pitied," Mrs. Westlake remarked.

"Are you prepared to pity her by offering friendship?" Mrs. Carstairs asked.

"It doesn't look as if she were asking any one for either pity or friendship," was the answer. "Moreover, I've known Stephanie Lorraine a long time—and she isn't that sort."

"When a woman runs away from her husband with a man—and comes back, she isn't any sort, in my opinion," Mrs. Carstairs sniffed.

"I hope, for the honor of our sex, that your opinion isn't ours as a class," Mrs. Westlake smiled.

"On the basis of honor, Mrs. Lorraine could not be even considered," was the retort.

"I bid one on no trump—let us play cards and not fuss," interposed Mrs. Chilten.

"And every one will do as she thinks best, anyway," said Mrs. Burleston. "I bid two on hearts."

The men had been in a quandary.

Some timid ones had followed the women's lead and were looking elsewhere as Mrs. Lorraine went by—others, bachelors mainly, would have got up and bowed had she given them a glance, or even the encouragement of not ignoring them.

"I didn't know whether she would care to speak to me," said Devonshire. "Her attitude was not especially melting."

"The atmosphere on the piazza through the initial part of her progress wasn't calculated to thaw," remarked Smithers. "I never saw so icy a reception as the women gave her."

"They didn't have much on her," said Westlake. "She handed them as good as they sent—and handed it first. I'm for Mrs. Lorraine."

"So are all the men, I fancy—but we would better not let our wives know it!" laughed Devonshire.

Smithers nodded. "They take her—conduct as a reflection on themselves."

"It is a queer trait in woman—a queer trait," reflected Westlake. "Something is radically wrong with them, it seems to me, when they have no pity for their kind. A man will condone the indiscretion, but a woman never. Why is it?"

"And those who have themselves broken over and have not been found out, are the most unforgiving," added Devonshire. "It's mighty queer!"

"It was a mighty kind thing for Pendleton and Burgoyne to do," said Westlake. "I felt like applauding."

"So did I," echoed the others.

"And it doesn't detract a bit from the bravery, that Pendleton is said at one time to have been in love with Stephanie Mourraille," remarked Smithers.

"It rather increases it—and proves its truth," said Westlake. "As for Burgoyne, he evidently is going to take her as he left her—cut out the interim. However it is, it was a classy thing to do. I shall tell them so."

"I wouldn't," Devonshire advised. "You might say it to Burgoyne but I should be shy of saying it to Pendleton. It is not the sort of praise that will appeal to him, I fancy—it is at the expense of the woman, you know."

"H-u-m!" Westlake reflected. "I hadn't thought of that—but it's a pretty fine spun reason."

"All the same, I wouldn't," was the reply.

Just then a servant delivered a message to Burgoyne and he arose and went into the Club-house.

Mrs. Lorraine, Pendleton, and he had been keeping up a rapid fire of small talk, without a reference to that which was uppermost in their own and everyone's mind. It obtruded itself at every turn of the conversation and everything that was said seemed in some way to hint at it. It was a relief when Burgoyne left—it gave them time to catch their breath, so to speak.

Pendleton drew out his case, selected a cigarette with great deliberation, chose a match from the box on the table in front of him, struck it, and very carefully made a light.

She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, as one does who has been subjecting them to strain and needs to rest them. Then the tension of her nerves relaxed a trifle—she opened her eyes, to encounter Pendleton's looking at her questioningly.

"Well?" she said, with her sweet smile. "What—is it?"

"What is what?" he answered.

"What is it that you want to know?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"What is it then I can tell you?"

"Whatever you wish to tell me."

"What would you soonest know? Ask—I am willing that you should. I shall be glad to answer—you."

"I was wondering, Stephanie," he said, after a pause. "I was wondering—why you did it?"

For a little time she did not reply.

"Why I—went off with Garret Amherst, you mean?" she said low.

"Good Lord, no!" he exclaimed. "That is your own affair. I meant why you came to this place of all others in town, this afternoon."

"A fit of bravado," she answered. "I had already done so much that a trifle more didn't matter. Moreover, I was curious to see what"—she made a slight motion of her hand toward the crowd on the piazza—"they would do. I saw!" she added with a bit of a laugh.

"Was it wise to try them all together?" he asked. "Wouldn't it have been better to let them make up their minds gradually rather than to force them to a decision in a moment?"

"Of course—I know it, but I've been so much a fool lately that I'm reckless—I reckon it is in the blood. My father lost his life climbing mountains, you know. Mine takes a different form, that's all—I run to the unconventional. Run is a good word, isn't it?" she smiled.

"Yes—particularly the run back," said Pendleton.

"You think so?" she demanded.

"I'm sure of it, Stephanie—perfectly sure of it."

"What did I run back to?" she asked.

"Lorraine, if you want him!"

"I don't know that I want him," she shrugged—"and I don't think he'll have me. Harry Lorraine is a weak, vacillating fool—that's why I left him. If he had the strength of a man—just an ordinary man—he could have saved me from Amherst. He would have taken me from him, at any rate; he could have found us at any time. My mother knew where I was—after the first two weeks."

"I thought as much," Pendleton commented.

"He wrote me three letters—at intervals. In the first, he was coming over to kill Amherst on sight."

"He had the right idea."

"Yes—and I'd have blessed him if he had only done it!" she exclaimed. "But instead he sent a second letter casting me off finally. And then another—that whined and plead and threatened and sneered, and ended by leaving me in doubt what he meant to do. I didn't care, of course, but a woman likes to think of the man she married as strong enough to do something in such a crisis. She wants to respect the man she has left, so she can respect the other man more. And they both failed, Montague, they both failed miserably. Lorraine as a husband was poor enough, but Amherst was—beyond words. I came to despise him. You remember one day at Granger's, when I came in with him; and later I asked you how you liked him—you always spoke plainly to me, I think—and you said, 'He is a mongrel—a vicious mongrel'; and I was indignant, and left you abruptly—remember the episode? Well, I've remembered it many times—for he has shown it. He is a mongrel—a vicious mongrel, Montague. Had Harry Lorraine found us out then and even beaten him, I would have thrown my arms around my husband's neck for very joy. But he didn't. Instead of coming—he wrote!—wrote! Instead of descending as an avengeful Jove he indited epistles! Can you imagine anything more ridiculously absurd?"

"No," said Pendleton, "I can't even imagine it—but different men, different minds, and different methods."

"And Amherst was worse," she went on. "I know that you think I ought to have realized it before—I went off. I didn't—until it was too late. He is too immaculate—too nice—too everything. Most men can wear their clothes and be careful about their personal appearance without seeming to be—without obtruding it on their wives or mistresses. Amherst, I soon discovered, could not. That was the first thing to get on my nerves. Then his—habits began to grow natural and—disgusting. He is only veneered—and the veneer is very thin." She hesitated—flushed. "And he was a—brute.—A miserable brute, Montague—and the break came at last. We had quarrelled, and quarrelled, and quarrelled for months—every time longer and bitterer than the others. That last night it was dreadful, and I ran into another room and locked the door. I would leave him in the morning, I decided. I was at breakfast when he walked in and said:

"'I'm going back to Mrs. Amherst. I advise you to go back to Lorraine, if he will take you. I sail from Cherbourg to-morrow. I have your transportation, if you wish to accompany me to New York.'

"I positively laughed with joy. 'If Mrs. Amherst wants you she is welcome to you, heaven knows!' I answered. 'I'm charmed to be rid of you, nor will I trouble you for the transportation. I prefer henceforth to pay my own way, thank you!'

"He wavered a moment—and hesitated. I ate my rolls and drank my coffee. Then he held out his hand.

"'Good-bye!' he said.

"'Good-bye!' I answered, and nodded as indifferently as I would to a chance acquaintance and just touched his fingers.

"He turned and went out. That is the last time I've seen him. I sailed on the Celtic three days later, and came straight home—to my mother's house, that is. I told her everything. I have told you, Montague; I owed it to you because of old times, and because you have not forgotten them. It was a brave thing you did, you and Burgoyne—though I fancy that you led off and he only followed after. But to not another shall I ever voluntarily open my lips on this matter."

"That is the wisest course, I think," he approved.

"There is no excuse for my conduct, according to the standards of society," she admitted—"nor shall I attempt to excuse it. My defence is worthless, as a defence. When I left with Amherst I was never coming back. We were to be married as soon as we were free. We thought both the others would divorce us at once. At least that was what I thought—and what Amherst said. I realize now that it was only a subterfuge with him; he wanted to get me off for a while and try me. It's nice to think, isn't it? And when he had tried me for a few months, he tired of me and tossed me aside like an old toy. I ought to have known that I was simply a new plaything for him, and was to last as long."

"You poor child!" said Pendleton. "Your mistake was in not appraising Amherst at his proper value. He is pure cad; and you didn't know it until—after."

She shook her head.

"He showed me only his nice side," she said. "I thought him the most fascinating, the most gallant, the most dignifiedly handsome man that I had ever met. Did the men know him for a cad?"

"Some of them did."

"Did you?"

He nodded.

"If you had only warned me!" she sighed.

"What good would it have done? You would have scorned advice—resented it. Though I think I would have risked it had I the least notion of whither you were tending."

"I wish you had risked it!" she exclaimed. "It might have made me realize what I was doing. I had no one but Lorraine to depend on."

"You had yourself, Stephanie."

"Myself was the one thing I ought not have had," she replied. "Lorraine should have taken me away—out of temptation. If need be he should have knocked me down with a club like a cave man and dragged me out of Amherst's clutches."

"Again what good would that have done? You would only have panted for Amherst the more, and have gone to him at the first opportunity."

"It would have saved me—and I would have seen Amherst then for what he is—a coward."

He shook his head.

"You think now that you would, but I doubt it," he replied. "No one can say what would have happened, if what did happen hadn't happened. Moreover, while as you know I have little enough respect for Lorraine, yet hadn't he the right to suppose you would do the conventional thing rather than the unconventional? Did he have any cause to suspect you and Amherst?"

"I think not," she admitted—"more than that I was nice to Amherst; and that, in public, he seemed to be fond of me in a well-bred way. You never would have suspected, Montague?" she asked.

"I never gave it a thought; because I considered you—not that sort. The last one, indeed, who would be led into any such foolishness, Stephanie."

"You thought me too calm and cold, doubtless?"

"Not exactly. I thought you too indifferent to men, and much too fond of Society."

"And you didn't know how fascinating Garret Amherst could be—when he wished."

"It's an accomplishment he doesn't waste on men," smiled Pendleton.

"I wonder if he has played his fascinating way with Mrs. Amherst?" she reflected.

"This evening's Telegraph says that they have gone to Europe together."

She laughed lightly.

"You see," she said. "He is already rehabilitated. No one blames the man for long. It rather adds to his attractiveness indeed—particularly with the woman. He comes back, and all his clubs receive him; Society blinks its eyes a bit, looks shocked and welcomes him. Yet it raises its hands in horror at me! Society never seems to realize that a woman cannot commit the unpardonable sin alone—a man has got to be her accomplice."

"It's rotten philosophy, Stephanie, but it's the way of the world," he said.

"It's the way of the world and I was aware of it, you mean," she replied. "Certainly, I knew it before and I know it now—but I didn't think of it at the time. Look at these dear people—pretending not to notice me, yet watching covertly like a cat a mouse. And you're coming in for your share, too, Montague. They are simply perishing from curiosity—to know what we are talking about. They will hold you up to know, when I'm gone."

He smiled and raised his shoulders a trifle.

She knew well that none would venture to mention the matter to him.

"I'm going, now," she said. "Will you escort me down this path of sweet charity flanked by gentle spirits, Mr. Pendleton?"

"I would ask you to dine with me to-night but unfortunately I'm promised to the Emersons—Burgoyne and I."

"They are getting on!" she remarked. "Two years ago and they would not have had the nerve to ask you. It's the daughter, I suppose?"

"You mean that she is the reason for my dining with them—or the reason for their coming on?" he asked.

"The latter largely, the former possibly," she replied with an amused look.

"Miss Emerson is a very pretty girl," he said.

"Beauty with money is a valuable asset for marriage with some needy scion of the aristocracy," she observed.

"It is not confined to the needy in her case," he replied.

"I beg your pardon, Montague," she apologized.

"Oh, I'm not affected!" he laughed. "Since you wouldn't have me, I've retired."

"You never gave me the chance to have you—you never asked me!" she laughed back.

"No—you were too occupied with Lorraine to give me the opportunity to ask you."

"Lorraine?" she inflected contemptuously.

"You didn't say it that way then," he replied.

"No—I was too blind to see." She arose. "I am going," she said; and went down the crowded piazza with the same contemptuously ignoring smile as at her coming.

As they neared the entrance—the eyes of all whom they had passed upon them, the eyes of all those who were yet before them busy elsewhere—a tall, good-looking young fellow sauntered out from the Club-house and met them, face to face, before the door.

It was Harry Lorraine!

For an instant husband and wife confronted each other—while the onlookers gasped, and gaped, and were silent. Never had they thought to witness such a scene! Even Pendleton hesitated, uncertain what would be Mrs. Lorraine's course. Assuredly it was a most unfortunate contretemps—a trying moment.

She, however, did not seem to mind it in the least—the smile still lingered on her lips as she paused and looked the man, whom she had sworn before God's altar to love and to cleave to, calmly in the face. It was a look of inquiry—is it to be an armed neutrality, or is it to be war?

Then suddenly Lorraine's face changed. His startled surprise vanished—he saw only the woman who had shamed him and disgraced herself; and without a word, either of reproach or of greeting, he turned from her and went back into the house.