Part 2

"That would be a calamity," Burgoyne answered. "However, we'll hope for the best."

"Are you thinking of entering the lists?"

"Go to, again! I said I'm interested for our friend!"

"How?"

"To see if Miss Emerson is worthy of the distinguished honor in store for her."

"What earthly good will your 'seeing' do, if you don't tell Devereux what you think?"

"None in the world, my friend!--It's pure----"

"Curiosity," Pendleton interjected. "I thought that you had overcome your early affliction by travel."

"Which is worse--curiosity or a grouch?" laughed Burgoyne.

"Neither is worse--they both are reprehensible and to be avoided. I'll make you a proposition--I'll get rid of my cynicism, pessimism or grouch, if you will get rid of your curiosity, or interest in the affairs of others, as you term it. Is it a bargain?"

"It is!--but we'll have to go to the Emerson dinner!" Burgoyne stipulated.

Again silence. Presently Burgoyne spoke--a trifle low.

"I see Harry Lorraine is here--how does he take it?"

"You mean the loss of his wife? Like a ninny. He has backed and filled until he has lost all sympathy. One day he thinks he will, the next day he thinks he won't. Either he should have got a gun and chased Amherst to the ends of the earth and shot the life out of him, or he should instantly have filed his suit for divorce. To my mind, he has only one course open now--to take her back and let by-gones be by-gones--if _she_ will take him."

Burgoyne glanced at the other thoughtfully. Rumor had it that Pendleton himself was very fond of Stephanie Mourraille before she married Harry Lorraine; but rumor often lied, and he had not been here to verify it himself. He knew that she was a handsome, dashing woman, somewhat self-willed and given to having her own way, but amenable to influence and altogether lovable. When he went away Lorraine was crazy about her and the courtship was at its height. A little later, while he was in Europe, he got cards to their marriage. Then suddenly, after a year and a half, a friend's letter told him, _inter alia_, that Stephanie Lorraine had run off with Garret Amherst--a man twice her age, and with a wife and four children--and that they were supposed to have gone to India. Four months ago he had encountered them in Paris--at the Café Laurent in the Champs Elysées; but when he started over to speak to them, they got up hurriedly and changed their table for one in a remote corner, so he took the hint and did not recognize them.

"What in the devil possessed her?" he asked. "Amherst is not particularly attractive."

"No--at least he is not attractive to the men--but they say he is the devil among the women, in a quiet way. I reckon it was his reputation that first caught Stephanie. After that he played her and--landed her. I didn't think, however, he would completely lose his head and run away with her."

"Amherst always struck me as exceedingly cool and calculating," Burgoyne observed.--"Still, one can never tell what love will do!"

"_Love!_" exclaimed Pendleton. "I wouldn't dignify it by any such name. Call it what it was!"

"If you call it _that_ then why did they run away? They could have gratified it quite as well had they remained within the bounds of the conventional."

"It was the conventional which hampered:--they wanted to be unrestrained in its enjoyment. When a man and a woman reach that state they're little better than insane."

"I never took Stephanie to be one of that sort," Burgoyne reflected.

"She wasn't--until Amherst played his usual game--and got caught in his own net. My idea of it is that she wouldn't yield until he proved his devotion by taking her away, and finally she got him so crazy he succumbed."

"I fancy that both of them have regretted it sadly enough long since."

"I'm sure of it. I understand that Amherst has made overtures to his wife looking to a reconciliation; and as he converted almost all his property before he left, she is considering whether a half loaf, with financial ease and Amherst, isn't to be preferred to no loaf, no money, and no Amherst. She's forty, you must remember, and not particularly good looking at that. She's not likely to have another chance, if she divorces him. So I'm betting she will permit him to return--_for the children's sake_."

"And Stephanie?" asked Burgoyne. "There isn't any child there."

"I don't know!" said Pendleton slowly. "Normally she should be subdued and retiring--keep out of the way for a year or two. But you never can tell. Much depends on Lorraine's attitude.--If he were only half a man! but he isn't--he's a damn nincompoop."

"How could Lorraine go gunning for Amherst when he didn't know where to gun?" asked Burgoyne.

"He at least could have held his peace and shot Amherst on sight. But he didn't even do that--he sniffled, and cried, and bemoaned, and didn't know his own mind for an hour at a time. I've no patience with him."

"It seems not!" agreed Burgoyne. "But you must remember Lorraine is young, and that not every one is blessed with your calm determination and decision. I rather think the majority of men would do as he has done--temporize."

"Temporize! maybe--but he didn't even temporize; he shilly-shallied like a weather cock."

"I see--you think that because Stephanie Lorraine had the courage to run off, and may have courage to return, she thereby has proven that she has nerve sufficient for both of them, so they would better hitch up again and go on in double harness!" laughed Burgoyne.

"That may be the truth!" said Pendleton, "but all I said was that if she will take him back he would better take her. They are about equally culpable, so they can wipe off the slate and start afresh."

"Do you really think that is possible?" Burgoyne inquired.

"Certainly it's possible!"

"Here--in this town?"

"Why not?--it is their _own_ affair--no one has a scintilla of right to question their decision. A husband may take his wife back, surely!"

"Granted, in the abstract--but what will be Society's judgment upon the wife?"

"The men will forget it. The women will cease to remember--after a time."

"After a generation or two!" Burgoyne remarked.

"It depends on the woman herself--on how she acts," said Pendleton.

"Somewhat--but it depends more on the women and how they feel. You said, a moment ago, that women were poor forgetters. This is one of the crimes they never forgive nor forget."

"Not exactly. They never forget the woman who has been unfortunate _before_ marriage and has been found out. They have a slightly different code for a married woman who has gone wrong and is caught--and then rights herself. If she is prudent and has money, caste, and friends, she'll pull herself through after a year or so."

"She will be more apt to pull through if her husband sticks to her," Burgoyne replied.

"I thought that was understood!" Pendleton responded.

"And if the husband--divorces her?"

Pendleton raised his hands.

"I don't know," he reflected. "Again, however, I think that it depends on the woman and money and caste and friends. What would be impossible for some is easily possible for others."

"How would it be with Stephanie Lorraine?" Burgoyne asked.

For a while Pendleton watched the smoke circle from his cigarette and was silent. Then he dropped the cigarette into the ash tray, slowly drew out another and lit it.

"She has money and caste--and she used to have plenty of friends," Burgoyne added.

"She hasn't as many friends as she once had," said Pendleton, slowly; "though what she has are powerful. Lorraine's and Mrs. Amherst's friends will be against her--and the fact that she ran away with such a fellow as Amherst will be more against her than anything else. If she had chosen a popular young chap, instead of a middle-aged rouè-on-the-quiet, Society would be more ready with forgiveness."

Just then Devereux rounded the corner, with a paper in his hand, and hurried over.

"Have you seen the _Evening Telegraph_?" he asked. "No?--Well, Amherst has come back!"

"Back--to America?" asked Burgoyne.

"Back to _this town_--and gone again--with Mrs. Amherst and the children--to Europe! What do you think of that?"

Burgoyne gave a soft whistle of astonishment. Pendleton shrugged his shoulders a trifle and smiled grimly.

"You're not properly appreciative of news," declared Devereux. "Why don't you say something?"

"You don't appreciate news yourself," Burgoyne answered. "We are simply dumb with amazement."

"Is that the way it impresses you?" Devereux demanded, looking at Pendleton.

"Not at all!" said Pendleton. "I'm not surprised. It is just what I expected of Amherst."

"But Mrs. Amherst--to take him back!" Devereux exclaimed.

"It is the way of expediency under all the circumstances. She was wise."

"Well, I'd be damned if I would take him back!" Devereux declared.

"I don't fancy you would, Dev!" Pendleton smiled. "You're not a woman, you know."

"Does the _Telegraph_ say anything as to Mrs. Lorraine's whereabouts?" Burgoyne asked.

"They can't locate her but they think she is in New York," Devereux answered--and went on with his news.

Pendleton, who was facing outward, suddenly leaned forward.

"The _Telegraph_ seems to have made a poor guess," said he. "Yonder is Mrs. Lorraine now."

"Where?" Burgoyne cried, starting around.

"In the Victoria--coming up the drive."

"God!" Burgoyne exclaimed. "What a daring thing to do! And she is alone, too."

Pendleton got up.

"I'm going to meet her--will you come along?" he asked.

"I will, indeed," said Burgoyne. "I like Stephanie--and I like her nerve."

II

THE RETURN OF THE OFFENDER

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.