Chapter 26

MRS. BERKELEY HAMMOND ENTERTAINS

The heritage of the world comes at last to the pachyderms. Fate is never so unkind as to those who blindly resist her and into the lap of stoic and unimpressionable she pours the horn of plenty.

Trevelyan Morehouse had gone through life on the low gear. In fact he had no change of gears and needed none. He never "hit it up" on the smooth places or burned out his tires on the rough ones, and was therefore always to be found in perfect repair. He was a good hill climber and had a way of arriving at his destination no matter how difficult the going. When others passed him he let them go, and plodded on after them with solemn assurance, his gait so leisurely that rapid travelers had the habit of regarding his conservatism with undisguised contempt. And yet his perseverance, though inconspicuous, was singularly effective. He had won his way into the sanctorum of a big corporation and his advice, though never brilliant, was always sane and peculiarly reliable. He did not mind rebuffs and was so indifferent to indignities that people had ceased to offer them. Socially he could always be trusted to do the usual thing in the usual way and was therefore always much in demand by hostesses who required conventional limitations. In a word he was "the excellent Trevelyan." and the adjective fitted him as snugly as it did the well-known comestible with which it had come to be so comfortably and freely associated. His excellence lay largely in the fact that he did not excel. He was content with his subordinate capacity, wise in his confidence that all things would come to him in the end, if he only waited long enough.

The same rules which he found so successful in business he now applied to his affair of the heart, and plodded off in the wake of the fast flying Hermia, imperturbable and undismayed. His flowers had been sent to her with the regularity of the clock, his visits carefully timed, and his proposals renewed with a well-bred ardor. He had waited patiently through Hermia's short and sportive attachment for "Reggie" Armistead, and when their "trial" engagement reached its tempestuous conclusion, had stepped softly into the breach, rosy with hope and a definite sense that his time had come. Hermia liked him--had liked him for years. She had gotten used to him as one does to a familiar chair or an article of diet. He was a habit with her like her bedroom slippers or her afternoon tea. He was comfortable, always safe and quite sane, which she was not, and she accepted him in the guise of counselor and friend with the same cheerful tolerance that she gave to her Aunt Harriet Westfield or to Mr. Winthrop of the Pilgrim Trust Company.

When Hermia departed suddenly for Europe, her sportive idyl so suddenly shattered, Mr. Morehouse followed her in the next steamer. She had given him no definite encouragement, it was true, and yet he found reasons to hope that the time was at hand when she must make some definite decision. In Europe her brief disappearance from the scene of her usual activities had mystified him and her return to her hotel, shabby and uncommunicative, had aroused a chagrin and an anxiety quite unusual to him; but he had sat and waited her pleasure, survived her turbulent moods and had found his patience at last rewarded by her silent acquiescence in his presence, and by an invitation to accompany her to Switzerland, where she was to join her Aunt Julia and the children.

From the vantage point of his office window down town, where he now sat and viewed the bleak perspective of the city, his memories of the summer with Hermia seemed a strange compound of brief blisses and more enduring pangs. They had been much seen together and the announcement of their engagement which had appeared in the newspapers had not been surprising. Aunt Julia had favored his suit and Mrs. Westfield had given him to understand that it was time Hermia married. But the fact remained that Hermia had not accepted him. His insistence had always provoked and still provoked one of two moods--either resentment or mockery. She either dismissed him in a dudgeon or cajoled him with elusive banter. Why was he so impatient? There was plenty of time? Was he sure that he wanted to marry her? What did her really know about her heart of hearts? Perhaps, if he knew her better he might not want to marry her. He pleaded in patient calm. The world, it seemed, thought them engaged. Why shouldn't _he_ be permitted to think so. She only laughed at him and her heart of hearts had come to be the most profound enigma that it had ever been his fortune to study. So the prize, which he had thought most surely his own, still hung reluctantly upon the lip of the horn of plenty. It would not fall, and all the traditions of his experience forbade that he should jostle it. And so he only watched with patient eyes and a physical restraint which could only be described as "excellent."

What did she mean by saying that if he knew her better he might not want to marry her? Vague doubts assailed him. Did he, after all, know her? What was this chapter of her life of which he knew nothing and to which she had so frequently alluded? Was it something which had happened to her in America? Or had it something to do with her disappearance last summer from Paris, after which she had returned sober and intolerant? He gave it up. He was always giving her up and then putting his doubts of her in his pocket with his neat handkerchief, plodding sedulously as before. He must wait. Everything that he had got in life had come from waiting and Hermia, his philosophy told him, must be no exception to the rule.

The winter drew on toward spring. Lent arrived, and society, quite bored and thoroughly exhausted, halted in the mad round of the "one-step" and turned to calmer delights. Country places in adjacent counties were opened and guests flitted from one house to the other in a continuous round of visits.

Mrs. Berkeley Hammond's invitations, whether to the big house near the Park or to Rood's Knoll, her place in the country, were much in demand. The Hammonds had unlimited means, the social instinct, worthy family traditions, and a talent for entertainment, a combination of qualities and circumstances which explained the importance of this family in the social life of the city. The mantle of an older leader who had passed had fallen comfortably on Mrs. Hammond's capacious shoulders and she wore it with a familiar grace which gave the impression that it had always been there. Conservative, the more radical called her, and radical, the conservative; but her taste and her _chef_ were both above reproach, and her dinners, whether large or small, had the distinction which only comes of a rare order of tact and discrimination. Nor were her hospitalities confined to the entertainment of the indigenous. Visitors to New York, foreign celebrities, literary, artistic or political, found within her doors a welcome and a company exactly suited to their social requirements. She liked young people, too, and contrived to let them know it, to the end that her dances, while formal, were gay rather than "stodgy," juvenescent rather than patriarchal.

The house at Rood's Knoll was a huge affair, of brick and timbered plaster, set in the midst of its thousand acres of woodland in the heart of the hills. Lent found it full of people and its gayety was reflected in other houses of the neighborhood whose owners, like the Hammonds, kept open house. There was much to do. March went out like a lion and the snow which kept the more timid indoors at the cards made wonderful coasting and sledding, of which latter these wearied children of fortune were not slow to take advantage. The ponds were frozen, too, and skating was added to the sum of their rural delights.

Hermia Challoner, who was visiting Caroline Anstell, joined feverishly in these pursuits, glad of the opportunity they afforded her of relief from her personal problems. There were some of her intimates here in the neighborhood, but she found greater security in the society of an older set of whom she had seen little in town and in the pleasure of picking up the loose ends of these acquaintanceships she managed to forget, at least temporarily, her sword of Damocles. Olga Tcherny was one of Mrs. Berkeley Hammond's house guests, but she had not been in evidence on either of the occasions when Hermia had called. There was some excitement over an evening which Mrs. Hammond was planning to take place in the country during the latter days of Lent. The invitations were noncommittal and merely mentioned the date and hour, but it was understood that "everyone" was to be there, and that an entertainment a little out of the ordinary was to be provided.

It was, therefore, with a pleasurable anticipation that Hermia got down from the Anstell's machine on the appointed evening, and followed her party into the great house. The rooms were comfortably filled, but not crowded, and it seemed that the women had done their best to add their share to the merely decorative requirements of the occasion. The ball-room lights shimmered softly on the rich tissues of their costumes, and caught in the facets of the jewels on their bared shoulders. Society was at its best, upon its good behavior, patiently eking out the few short days that remained to it of the penitential season. Hermia managed to elude the watchful Trevelyan and entered the ball-room with Beatrice Coddington and Caroline Anstell. Just inside she found herself face to face with the Countess Tcherny. She would have passed on, but Olga was not to be denied.

"So glad to see you, Hermia, dear," she purred, her eyes lighting. "It's really dreadfully unlucky how seldom we've met this winter. You're a little thinner, aren't you? But it becomes you awfully."

"Thanks," said Hermia. "I'm quite well."

"I hope you'll like the play, you know I--" and she whispered. "Nobody knows--_I_ wrote it."

"Oh, really," Hermia smiled coolly. "I hope it's quite moral."

"Oh, you must judge for yourself," said Olga, and disappeared.

The men, having searched the premises vainly for the bridge tables, resigned themselves to the inevitable and drifted by twos and threes into the ball-room, where they melted into the gay company which was not seated, or stood along the back and side walls, making a somber background for the splendid plumage of their dinner-partners.

"_Tableaux-vivants_, for a dollar!" said Archie Westcott in bored desperation.

"Oh, rot!" blurted out Crosby Downs in contempt. "What's the use? They'll be havin' Mrs. Jarley's waxworks next--"

"Or the 'Dream of Fair Women'--"

"Or charades. Not a card in sight--or a cigar! Rotten taste--_I'd_ call it."

The music of the orchestra silenced these protests and a ripple of expectation passed over the audience as the curtain rose, disclosing a sylvan glade and a startled nymph in meager draperies hiding from a faun. The music trembled for a moment and then, as the nymph was discovered, broke into wild concords through which the violins sang tunefully as the chase began. It was not for some moments that the audience awoke to the fact that these must be the Austrian dancers whose visit to New York had been so widely heralded. Captured at last, the nymph was submissive, and the dance which followed revealed artistry of an order with which most of the spectators were unfamiliar. Even Crosby Downs ceased to grumble and wedged himself down the side wall where he could have a better view. The dance ended amid applause and the audience now really aroused from its lethargy eagerly awaited the next rise of the curtain.

The first part of the program, it seemed, was to be a vaudeville. A famous tenor sang folk songs of sunny Italy; two French pantomimists did a graceful and amusing _Pierrot_ and _Pierrette_; a comedian did a black-face monologue; and the first part of the program concluded with the performances of a young violinist, the son of a Russian tobacconist down town, whom Mrs. Berkeley Hammond had "discovered" and was now sending to Europe to complete his musical education. A budding genius, was the verdict, almost ready to blossom. The brief period of disquiet which had followed Hermia's meeting with Olga, had been forgotten in her enjoyment of the performance and in the gay chatter of her companions and of her neighbors back and front. When the curtain had fallen upon the violinist, there was a rustle of programs.

"'The Lady Orchestra,' some on back of her read aloud. 'Comedy with a Sting--' What's coming now? What's a 'Lady Orchestra'? Does anyone know?"

"A 'Lady Orchestra,' my dear Phyllis," said Reggie Armistead, "is an orchestra lady."

"An orchestra lady! I wonder what she plays--"

"The devil probably--he's your most familiar instrument."

"Reggie! I'm surprised at you. You know--"

The remainder of Miss Van Vorst's speech was lost to Hermia, who sat staring speechless at the stage curtain, her body suddenly ice-cold, all its blood throbbing in her temples. "The Lady Orchestra!" The words had fallen so lightly that their significance had dawned upon her slowly. This play--this "comedy with a sting" was about _her_--Hermia--and John Markham. Olga had written it, and was even now watching her face for some sign of weakness. Olga, De Folligny--and how many others? Terror gripped her--blind terror, every instinct urging flight. But this, she knew, was impossible. She stared hard at the red curtain, and swallowed nervously, sure now that, whatever the play revealed, she must sit until its end, giving no sign of the tumult that raged within her. The eyes of the audience burned into the back of her head, and she seemed to read a knowledge of her secret in every careless glance thrown in her direction. This was a vengeance worth of Olga--the refinement of cruelty.

"What is it, Hermia," she heard Caroline Anstell whispering. "Are you ill, dear?"

"Oh, no, not at all. Why do you ask?" coolly.

"I thought you looked a little tired."

"I--I think it's the heat," said Hermia. "Sh--Carrie, there goes the curtain."

If Hermia had been startled a moment ago, she now learned that she would have need of all her courage. The curtain revealed the market-place of a French town on a fête day. To the left a row of penny shows, a "man hedgehog," an "_homme sauvage_" and an Albino lady who told fortunes; to the right a platform backed by a canvas wall, surmounted by a sign in huge letters "Théâtre Tony Ricardo" flanked by rudely painted representations of the acts which were to be seen within. The setting was admirable and brought forth immediate applause form the audience, under which Hermia hid her gasp of dismay. There were even pictures like those which Philidor had painted, of Cleofonte breaking chains and of the child Stella flying in mid-air, and at one side the legend "Artistide Bruant, painter of portraits at two francs fifty--soldiers ten sous." Sure now of the scene which was to follow, but outwardly quite composed, Hermia listened carelessly to the dialogue, saw the acrobat appear, and the "Lady Orchestra," who was the guilty heroine of the piece, take her place upon the platform beside him. Here the resemblance to reality ceased, for the heroine was dark and _Aristide_ blonde and beardless, and yet this very discrimination on Olga's part seemed to point more definitely to Hermia even than if the characterization had been truthfully followed. The actors were professionals who had been well drilled in their parts and the plot developed quickly in the dialogue between _Madeleine_, the erring wife, and _Aristide_, the recreant husband, who had fled from fashionable Paris, met upon the road and joined this troupe of Caravaners that they might taste life together in rural simplicity and security. The dialogue was clever, if _décadent_, the situations amusing, the action rapid, the first act ending with the appearance of the irate wife of _Aristide_, and the disappearance of the guilty couple, just in time to avoid discovery.

During the _entr'acte_, though the restless guests moved about, Hermia sat rooted to her chair, fascinated with horror. Her body seemed nerveless and she feared that if she rose her limbs would not support her, or, if they did support her, she must fly like a mad thing from the house. And so she sat, a fixed smile frozen on her lips, greeting those who approached her. Beatrice Coddington left her seat, and Trevvy Morehouse made haste to fill it. He had never seemed so welcome to Hermia as at the present moment, and his patient mien and quiet commonplaces did much to restore her composure; so that when the bell rang for the curtain of the second act, she was laughing with a brave show of enjoyment at Reggie and Phyllis, who seemed at the point of severing their amatory relations. Hermia was prepared for anything now. If her breach of conventions had found her out, there was no one, not even Olga, who would look at her and say that she was showing the white feather.

She could see the play to its end now, for from Reggie's program she had learned that the setting for the second act was the interior of a shooting lodge in the forest, and when the curtain rose she was not surprised at the setting of the stage, which represented, as accurately as possible, the house of the Comte de Cahors, in the forest of Écouves. The approach of the injured wife, discovered in time by the refugees through the half-opened shutter, gives _Aristide_ time to help the fictitious orchestra lady up a stair to the garret, where she is in concealment during the dramatic interview between husband and wife, which ends in the woman seizing a loaded rifle with the intention of killing both herself and her husband. In the struggle which ensues for the possession of the weapon, the gun is discharged, there is a cry overhead and the figure of _Madeleine_ is seen to rise, opening the trap-door, and then to fall the length of the stairs, at the feet of the woman who has been wronged.

The scene was admirably done and carried the audience to its conclusion in breathless silence. The lights of the ball-room, fortunately lowered, had hidden the pallor of Hermia's face but she realized, when they suddenly blazed, that Trevvy Morehouse was looking at her curiously, that her fingers were ice-cold and that, when she spoke a word or two in reply to his anxious query, her voice was strangely unfamiliar. As the applause ceased, there was a general movement toward the supper-room. Hermia rose stiffly and moved as in a dream. Was it her own conscience that told her that Carol Gouverneur was looking at her strangely? Or that there was meaning in the glance and laughter of Mrs. Renshaw and Archie Westcott as she passed them? She tried to smile carelessly, but her muscles would not obey her. Would she never reach the door? People stopped and spoke but she only nodded and passed on, intent upon the shadows of the hallway, where the lights glowed dimly and the gaze of these people would no longer burn past her barriers, searching out the innermost recesses of her heart, which they read according to the hideous lie which Olga had told. A comedy with a sting, she had called it, and the sting meant for Hermia, had poisoned the air with its venom. She leaned heavily on Trevvy's arm but she did not hear what he was saying; and, as they passed the door into the hall, two men, neither of whom she knew, followed her pale face with their glances. Was it her tortured imagination that made her hear one of them say to the other after she had passed, "That's the girl--?"

What girl? Not herself? She gasped a question to Trevvy. He smiled gaily.

"Yes--they were pointing you out. Do you wonder that I'm so proud?"

Hermia stopped and faced him. She learned in that moment that the thing he had dreamed was impossible.

"Please order Mrs. Anstell's machine for me," she said quickly. "I'm going at once."

"Are you ill? Shall I go with you?"

"No--I want to go alone--alone--" she gasped.

Vaguely troubled, he followed her anxiously to the door of the dressing-room, but did her bidding.