Part 14

"Mr. Amherst, I must beg of you not to use profane language," observed Mrs. Langham-Greene with dignity. "Well, where was I? oh, yes! well, when he disappeared from polite society and we were all obliged to give him the cold shoulder because he was so openly depraved--not like some people whom one _can_ know because they keep quiet about it--but he had no savoir faire, that is to say, no shame"----

"Mrs. Greene," shouted Amherst, "won't you please skip Ricossia and get to Miss Thayer?"

The widow reared herself like a black-and-golden snake, about to strike. Her green eyes gleamed; then she recollected herself and smiled, subtly.

"Dear Mr. Amherst, pray allow me to tell the story in my own way. I really cannot be interrupted in this abrupt fashion. I was coming to Miss Thayer. It seems that the wicked girl, instead of dropping him when he was found out, as all the rest of us did, continued to meet him secretly. He evidently was not sufficiently enamoured to pursue her very much, but you know how it is! a woman of that age who has never succeeded in marrying frequently loses all hope and simply doesn't care what she does; so she used to visit him at night in some awful slum where he lived"--

"What utter absurdity!"

"My dear Mr. Amherst," said the widow with angelic patience, "you may be sure that I should not readily believe such things of another woman. Unfortunately, however, the misguided girl was seen and recognized, not only by my butler but by people of her own class; people who could hardly believe their eyes and who, in their anxiety not to condemn her rashly, followed her home--at a safe distance, of course. Not that she went home, directly: I am told that her practice was to take a sleigh to a lonely part of Pine Avenue, dismiss it there and walk to her uncle's house. Very dangerous, too! fancy a lady walking alone after dark. Once, when I first lost my husband, I was compelled by some mischance to traverse two blocks one evening without an escort. Some men passed me and one of them made some remark about the 'bewitching widow.' I don't know how I ever reached home; but, as soon as I did, I retired, immediately. Next morning I sent for my doctor: he advised rest and plenty of light nourishment--what, you're going? Good evening, Mr. Amherst: so sorry we drifted into these unpleasant subjects. _Good_ evening!"

Ten minutes later Gerald rang the Thayers' bell.

"No, Miss Thayer is not at home. I don't believe she will be in to-night, for she is dining at Mrs. Hadwell's. Certainly, sir: I'll tell her."

*CHAPTER XXII*

*WHISPERING TONGUES*

"Whispering tongues can poison truth, And constancy dwells in realms above, And life is thorny--and youth is vain-- And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness on the brain." --_Coleridge_.

"Yes, the dear twins have gone at last. Whether or no they are leaving their young hearts here I can't say, but they are certainly carrying two very nice ones away with them. Except that the female one is chiefly ice; but really, Erma quite thawed toward the end. Odd that he preferred her to Agatha: she's no better looking and not half so popular--by the way, Lynn, talking of Agatha reminds me! what in the world have you done to Lighton?"

"My dear Del!"

"Refused him, again?"

"He has not, thanks be, compelled me to do so."

"Then what has happened? I've seen him six times with Agatha in the past ten days. Oh, Lynn, why can't you be sensible? To let such a thing slip through your fingers! Upon my word you make me feel sometimes like a donkey boy with a goad."

"And you, my love, make _me_ feel like Mephisto with a pitchfork."

"Oh, Lynn! And, at all events, if you don't want to marry him, now, why tell him so? You may be very glad of him a few years hence. Why not keep him hanging on?"

"Because, dear friend, I am neither a liar nor a cheat."

"Well, why aren't you? What's the use of trying to be honest in a world of liars and cheats? What do you expect to gain by it?"

"I really can't say. The reward of virtue, perhaps."

"The reward of virtue, dearest, is usually a whack over the head."

"So I have observed."

"Is that why you are so desperately anxious to obtain it?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you propose to do when it arrives?"

"Look and act as though it were the one thing on earth I had always longed for. Unless it is violent enough to stun me, in which case I shall set my teeth and say nothing."

"Lynn, you're a fool!"

"I have frequently suspected as much."

"And oh, Lynn, I chatter and chatter--and all the time there is something I must say to you."

"Say it."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No; but, whatever it may be, Del, hurry up and tell me. You know suspense is the one thing I can't bear."

"Will you let me ask you something?"

"Anything--but I won't promise to answer."

"Will you answer me this? Have you ever cared for anyone?"

"Yes."

"Any man, I mean!"

"Yes."

"Much?"

"Very much."

"Enough--well, enough to do anything foolish for?"

"Enough to do things that you would consider would qualify me for a madhouse."

"Ah!"

Mrs. Hadwell drew a long breath and her face fell.

"You might have told me, dear," she said, gently.

"I couldn't, Del. But, anyway, it's not what you think. Why do you ask me all this?"

"Was that why you refused Lighton?"

"No--yes; I would have refused him, anyhow."

"But the other had something to do with it?" said Mrs. Hadwell, leaning forward, breathlessly.

Lynn said nothing but her face was sad. Although she felt that her secret must die with her brother she longed to-night for the sympathy which she could so easily obtain from this, her oldest and dearest friend.

"I--I would have liked to tell you, Del," she said in a low voice. "But--I had promised to tell no one. It was not that I didn't trust you. The circumstances were peculiar. I had others to consider."

"Oh, Lynn, Lynn, it was some one that you couldn't marry, then?" Mrs. Hadwell's voice rose almost to a wail.

"Yes. But, Del, the more you say, the less you understand. Let us talk of something else."

"Lynn, I can't! Oh, do tell me just one thing more: you know that you can trust me. Have you done anything that was unconventional? stupidly unconventional? that might expose you to scandalous comments if it were known?"

"I--yes, I am afraid I have. But don't talk of it, Del. I don't feel very cheerful to-night."

"But I must. Lynn, will you promise solemnly never again to do anything foolish--you know what I mean?--anything improper or reckless?"

Lynn was silent.

"Promise. Oh, Lynn, promise! You don't know what danger you're in. You have enemies; you are already talked about in certain circles. I won't ask a question, dear, not a question: only promise"----

"Del, I can promise nothing."

"You--you would do foolish things again?"

"Yes."

"But, why--oh, Lynn, why?"

It was some moments before Lynn answered and, when she did, her voice was hard.

"Because all my happiness on earth--everything in life that counts--depends on my outraging certain very sensible conventions. Don't worry if you can help it: I'm a fly, caught in the web of Fate: you can't help me, I can't help myself. If I--stopped, I should never forgive myself: I should never know another happy moment."

"Lynn, I see I shall have to tell you--and it's a thing I hate to do. There are stories afloat concerning you--I don't know what, exactly--coupling your name with that of Ricossia."

Lynn grew slowly white.

"Have you nothing to say, Lynn?"

"Nothing, Del."

"You won't explain--not even to me?"

"Del," said her visitor, suddenly, bending forward and gazing intently in Mrs. Hadwell's face, "if you had to face some personal trouble or misunderstanding, amounting to disgrace, even--or break a solemn and sacred oath--which would you do?"

"Break the solemn and sacred oath," returned Mrs. Hadwell, promptly and cheerfully.

"Ah," said Lynn, despairingly, "what's the use of asking you, Del? You have no conscience about those things."

"No, indeed; yet I am rich enough to afford one if I really wanted it. But you, my dear, have no business with so costly and useless an appendage. Can't you get rid of it--for the present, anyway? It's going to land you in a perfect sea of trouble; and, beyond, shining faintly, is that whack over the head of which we spoke. When you have tormented yourself sufficiently Society will hand you that; and then I suppose you will have nothing left to wish for?"

"Only death; and I'm pretty healthy!"

"And you will not explain? in spite of all I can say or do?"

"No, I'm very tired, Del. I'm going now, if you don't mind."

Half an hour later Amherst left Hadwell Heights, scowling unhappily. Miss Thayer had just left; she had had a headache and had returned early. He could not, in decency, call on her at her home after hearing this, much as he wanted to. He must wait until to-morrow.

He walked along Pine Avenue with his hands in his overcoat pockets. Lynn was the best girl that ever lived; but, after all, there was no smoke without fire, that was certain. She had committed some imprudence; what, he must find out before he took any steps to circumvent these slanders. Of course one thing was undeniable; she had bestowed a good deal of attention on Ricossia when she first met him. It was through her and her warm eulogies of his genius and beauty that he, himself, had first become interested in the young--but, after all, the boy couldn't live a year and he must not call him what he really was. What beauty he possessed! the beauty of the very devil! and how women did go mad over him! It wasn't wonderful if--

Then suddenly, like poison, Ricossia's low, bell-like laugh at their last meeting rang in his ears. And his words--what were they? He had said that Lynn was not attracted by him in the ordinary way--bah! any one a degree above a cur would say that. Lynn loved him, Amherst, that was certain; but there were different kinds and degrees of love. Had he not seen a kind sweet woman, a devoted wife and mother, leave home, husband, children, everything that made her life; had he not seen her ready to pay with a life-time of odium and desolation for the feverish joy of a few anxious months? Lynn had a stronger nature than the majority of women; that was nothing; she would be likely to go to greater extremes for that very reason. She was so sensible, so logical, so prudent--were they not the very women who forsook all caution when vitally interested? Ricossia was a boy, a child; yes, and had it not passed into a proverb, the love of a woman of thirty for a youth?--what was he thinking of? where had his fancies led him? Doubt Lynn! Lynn, whom he had known from a child!--yes, known! the mockery of the word! Who ever knew another human being? Strangers we wandered into life; strangers we left it; strangers we were, each to other, always; husband to wife, child to mother--above all, lover to beloved. He groaned as he walked, but no feeling of resentment toward his betrothed held place as yet. Lynn, as he had told her, was the one woman on earth to him: he would abide by her explanation. If--he turned cold and faint at the thought--if, in the past, she had been infatuated with that "half-devil and half-child," Ricossia; and, if she had done foolish things, mad things ... yes, even wrong things--he could forgive them, knowing that she loved him, and him only, now. After all, when one considered Ricossia's reputation, merely to be seen with him was enough; and she had, probably, traded unduly on her social position and good name. Perhaps it was nothing more than pity; the boy was dying and he was so young, so friendless. On the whole Amherst decided that he was probably acting like a fool; one might almost as well be jealous of a corpse as of Ricossia, who might be one at that moment for anything he knew to the contrary. With a sudden rush of compunction and self-reproach Amherst left Pine Avenue and, descending to the city, hailed a passing car. He would look the boy up; confound it all, the young fool might be dying a miserable death at this very moment while he maundered away like a simpleton in a melodrama. He would see how Ricossia was holding out, anyway; this last cold spell wasn't just the best thing for a consumptive, and he would like to see the cub spend his last months on earth in comparative comfort, whether he deserved to or not. And, perhaps--but no! he couldn't touch on that--not with him!

The car took him within a few blocks of his destination. He walked slowly on, feeling cheered and comparatively happy. When one has writhed in doubt and misery for a certain number of hours the reaction is usually strong; and Amherst wondered how he had ever come to attach so much importance to the babblings of a green-eyed tabby cat and the insults of a hound. He inhaled the clear night air with calm enjoyment; to-morrow he would see Lynn and then--and then--

He had nearly reached the Chatham when the door opened quietly and a woman descended the steps. As she advanced toward him she raised her head in a blind, unseeing sort of fashion. The light of a flickering gas jet shone clearly and pitilessly on her upturned face; a face which, though drawn and hollow-eyed, was strangely familiar--the face of his intended wife, Lynn Thayer.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*WHEN LOVE IS DONE*

"The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one-- Yet the light of the whole life dies When love is done." --_Old Song_.

"I love--but I believe in love no more."--_Shelley_.

Lunn recognized him almost immediately and stood quite still, looking into his face with a curious deliberation and intentness.

"One would almost think you had expected me," said Amherst, involuntarily. One seldom says what is uppermost in one's mind on these occasions.

"I think I did," said Lynn with equal quietness. "When I awoke this morning something told me that this would happen."

"There is a cab-stand a few blocks away," he continued, courteously. "May I take you there and see you into one?"

"I shall be--grateful for the attention," said Lynn, dully: then she laughed.

They walked in silence for a block or two.

"Have you anything to say to me, Lynn?" said Amherst at last.

"I--nothing!"

"You prefer to say nothing?"

Lynn was silent for a moment; then she spoke very distinctly.

"On the night that you asked me to marry you, I said all that I was at liberty to say."

"Ricossia is rather exacting, isn't he?"

The sneer escaped Gerald, wrung from him by his pain. Lynn started slightly but made no answer.

"I should ask your pardon," Amherst went on, presently. "I had no right to say that. I do not even know that it is Ricossia on whom you paid this late call. Possibly you have other friends in the Chatham."

"I have not."

"It--it is Ricossia?"

She threw back her head and laughed.

"Exactly--it is Ricossia. And, by the way, Mr. Amherst, although I know that when one does an unconventional thing, 'gentlemen' are quite justified in insulting one; yet, as there is a policeman on the next corner, and as even a homeless cur isn't obliged to stand still while some one throws a rock at it--will you leave me?"

"No. Lynn, forgive me. I'm crazy; I don't know what I'm saying. If it were anyone else--if it were any other man--anyone, anyone but that villainous little blackguard"----

"Stop!"

Lynn turned on him like a tigress, her eyes blazing with fury.

"How dare you call him that?" she cried. "A genius! a god of beauty! and dying at that! What sort of man do you call yourself to insult first the woman who was to have been your wife and then a dying man."

Amherst gasped and caught his breath in painful amazement.

"Oh, my God!" he groaned like a hurt animal, "how you must love him, Lynn!"

They had passed the cab-stand now and had turned toward home, but neither noticed this. Amherst's face was ghastly and his steps unsteady; but Lynn walked erect and stately like a sable figure of doom.

When some blocks had been traversed in silence Amherst spoke, slowly and humbly.

"Lynn, I should not have spoken as I did. We're all human and I'm not your judge. If I didn't love you--if I hadn't believed that you loved me--I should not have been so harsh. Will you let me walk home with you? We probably shan't see one another again very soon and there is so much I want to say."

"No."

"You won't let me? You compel me to--very well, I'll go to Ricossia, then; I'll make him listen to reason and, and if he won't, I'll"----

"Gerald!"

Lynn's voice was alive with a sudden, horrible fear.

"Gerald," she said swiftly, clasping his arm with her hands, "you loved me once, didn't you? For the sake of that, because of that, will you do me a favour? Deal with me, alone. I'm strong, I can stand anything. Say what you please to me, do as you think best--but let him alone. He's so young, he--he's so weak--and he's dying, Gerald, dying. He may be dead, to-morrow. While he lives, let him alone. Oh, Gerald, promise me!"

Amherst could not speak for a moment. When he did his voice had altered.

"Lynn," said he, gently, "why did you promise to marry me?"

"Because I loved you, Gerald."

"You still say that--now?"

"Yes. My love for him was quite another thing. I can't explain, and I don't expect you to understand."

"I see--I think I see. The other was a--well, a sort of obsession."

"Exactly. You could hit on no better word."

"Yet you believed that you loved me. You think that you could care for two men at once?"

She moistened her dry lips and spoke, feebly.

"If I had not been so alone in the world, Gerald, I might have loved several. There are so many different loves, you know; differing in kind and in degree. The love for a father, for a son, for a brother"--her face lightened with sudden hope,--"that was really what I felt for him, Gerald; the love that a mother has for a son, the love that a sister has for a brother--don't you, oh, can't you, understand? I loved you in quite another way--it's so different--and, if I tried to explain any more, I should break a solemn oath--I should bring a curse on my head"----

Amherst's face lit with a sudden, heated gleam. He turned and spoke fiercely.

"Lynn! Don't insult my intelligence by telling me stuff of that sort, but listen! Promise that you'll never see him again, and that you'll do your best to forget him! Promise that he'll be nothing to you in the future! and I'll forgive all the rest. Come to me! I want you. I won't ask you a question, not a question. Marry me to-morrow and I'll kill the first man--or woman--who breathes a word against you. Lynn!"

She held her breath and looked at him as though fascinated.

"Lynn! Promise!"

She spoke, slowly and with difficulty.

"Until he dies, Gerald--my life is his."

"Then"----

Amherst's face flushed, a dark, purplish flush, ugly to see.

"You prefer him then to reputation, honour, common sense and decency." His breath came heavily. "You prefer him--to me!"

As slowly and deliberately as before she answered him.

"I love you--as a woman loves the man she means to marry. I love L--Ricossia--as I love no other being on God's earth--as I do not believe any other man was ever loved from the beginning of time. You say rightly. I prefer him--and the oath at which you sneer--to reputation--honour--common sense--decency--and you! Good-bye, Gerald; try to forget me."

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*MRS. LANGHAM-GREENE PAYS HER DEBT; AND MRS. WAITE, HERS*

"The long-necked geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise Because their natures are little." --_Tennyson_.

Estelle Hadwell was sitting by a blazing fire in her husband's library when she heard voices in the hall below, followed by the banging of a door. Then Mr. Hadwell called loudly:

"Estelle! are you there?"

"Yes, dear," replied his wife, somewhat surprised. "Have you visitors?"

"Yes. Mrs. Langham-Greene and Mrs. Tollman are here. Can you come down?"

"Yes, indeed!" replied Mrs. Hadwell with effusion. She rose slowly from her chair by the fire, grimacing disgustedly as she did so. The library was so nice and Mrs. Greene so horrid and Mrs. Tollman such a bore.

She hurried down and advanced with extended hands and a delighted smile. She had got as far as "A most delightful surprise--an unexpected pleasure!" when she caught sight of her husband's face.

"Henry!" she exclaimed in genuine consternation. "What in the world is it?"

Her husband was standing with his back to the fireplace and a portentous frown on his brow, looking, as Mrs. Hadwell reflected to herself, for all the world like the British Matron in trousers.

"Henry, what is it?" she asked, again.

"These ladies," returned Mr. Hadwell with a majestic wave of his hand, "can tell you better than I."

Estelle glanced from one to the other, wonderingly. Mrs. Tollman, a stout, pleasant-faced woman, wore a somewhat distressed expression and sat stiffly upright. Mrs. Langham-Greene, delicately lovely in dark blue velvet and ermine, leaned gracefully back in an easy chair, her fine features composed to an expression of decorous sorrow. Neither lady made any immediate effort to enlighten her hostess until Mrs. Greene swept a meaning glance at her companion from beneath her long, light lashes. Then Mrs. Tollman spoke.

"It's such a delicate matter, Mrs. Hadwell," she said in a flurried way. "I disliked coming to you about it, very much; but Mr. Hadwell insisted, saying that only an eye-witness could convince you."

"Of what?"

"This is so hard on us, both," Mrs. Langham-Greene murmured, soothingly. "And it was so careless of me to mention the poor thing; for then Mr. Hadwell simply dragged the whole story out of me. I am most distressed, I am indeed!"

"But at what, dear Mrs. Greene?" cooed her hostess.

"Oh, at the whole affair--the poor girl so well connected and all! and Ricossia so common and dreadful."

"Oh, some new scandal about young Ricossia," exclaimed Mrs. Hadwell with sudden enlightenment and a corresponding sinking of the heart.

"But he is not common; no one could call him that. Dreadful, certainly; but rather fascinating in his way, don't you think?"

"Apparently others have found him so," drawled the older lady, meaningly.

"What others?"

Mrs. Langham-Greene looked deliberately at Mrs. Hadwell and spoke, regretfully.

"I am afraid, dear Mrs. Hadwell, that your friend, Miss Thayer"----

"How dare you say so?"

"Estelle," said her husband, reprovingly, "is it likely that these ladies would speak without proper authority?"

"Very likely indeed," thought their hostess, but her heart was sick within her. Lynn's interest in Ricossia; her lack of interest in other men; her sorrow, her preoccupation, her confession of having outraged propriety; all these ranged as witnesses against her in her friend's heart.

"I knew--I told Mr. Hadwell that you would take it in just this way," murmured the widow, sympathetically. "So he insisted that we bring an eye-witness to convince you. Of course the thing has been going on for an indefinite space of time; but, just lately, Mr. and Mrs. Tollman, when returning home late one night, saw Miss Thayer leaving the Chatham. They followed her. She took a sleigh to Pine Avenue, dismissed it there and walked home. Isn't it so, Mrs. Tollman?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Tollman, fluttering. "It is undeniably true. But I don't know how it ever got out, for I only told my most intimate friends about it."

"That was cheaper than having it printed in the 'Daily News' and certainly quite as effective."

Mrs. Hadwell had lost her usual calm and diplomacy.

"Really," she continued with a sudden burst of candour, "really how I do hate women! They're every bit as nasty as men, and nothing like so nice into the bargain. I wish I need never see a woman again--except Lynn."