Part 5

"Who always has another battle in him," rejoined Burgoyne. "However, I would be quite satisfied to have you look on were I a contestant. The Honorable Montague Pendleton is, I fancy, a dangerous rival for any woman's affections."

"It would seem so!" laughed Pendleton.

"I mean, if you should care to be a rival."

"Thanks, that is better--one likes to fancy himself the very devil with the women, even when he knows he isn't."

"What is Stephanie Lorraine going to do?" Burgoyne asked presently.

"You mean after this afternoon?" said Pendleton. "I do not know. I fancy she doesn't know either. The meeting with Lorraine was most unfortunate, if she sought reconciliation."

"Yes; but if she didn't, it doesn't matter in the least--aside from its giving the mob fresh food for talk."

"I didn't hear anything said at our table!" smiled Burgoyne.

"Hardly!" said Pendleton. "Mrs. Emerson chose to have the sensational guest in preference to the sensation. In deference to Lorraine and ourselves everyone refrained from mentioning what was uppermost in their minds. They have made up for it since, you may be sure."

"I think I shall go around to-morrow and call on Stephanie," Burgoyne announced.

"Do it, Sheldon--she's going to need all the friends she has--most of the women will side with Lorraine, you know."

"That is what makes me so strong the other way," declared Burgoyne.

"Added to the fact that you're not married. If you had a wife to consult, the chances are you would either think differently--or not think. The unfortunate thing is, the men will have little or nothing to say about it. It is the women that Stephanie has to placate, and she has anything but a rosy path cut out for her, I'm afraid. We men don't understand woman--we never have understood her and we never shall. We see only the surface of her nature--that is all she ever permits us to see--and it is very pleasant to look upon. Under the surface, however, is hidden a fund of petty meannesses, which she reserves exclusively for her own sex. She knows better than to vent them on us--we wouldn't tolerate it for a moment."

"Are you speaking generally or with specific reference to Stephanie Lorraine?" queried Burgoyne.

"Both. It is a general proposition applied to a specific instance."

"Aren't you a bit hard on the women?" Burgoyne asked.

"I think not--but I don't ask you to believe me. If you're happier not to believe, all right. Every man to his experience and what it teaches him."

"Has your _experience_ taught you any such doctrine?"

"My experience, together with my observation, has taught me all of that and much more. The trouble is I don't follow it. I can't withstand the feminine fascination and charm--nor my fondness for their society and so on. I'm a good deal like the fellow who couldn't resist the alluringly beautiful color of the red-hot iron and grabbed it with bare hands instead of with tongs."

"You advise me, then, to go after Miss Emerson with tongs?" laughed Burgoyne.

"I decline to advise you--you're quite of sufficient age to advise yourself," Pendleton responded.

"To return to Mrs. Lorraine," said Burgoyne. "The women didn't manifest much charity this afternoon, I must admit. They were as cold as the proverbial ice water."

"Yes--'seeing they see not'--as some one has it."

"And until they or some of them will consent to see, I fear that Stephanie will be very lonely."

Pendleton nodded. "It might have been better if she had remained abroad for a year or two--till the thing died down. Now it will depend on Stephanie herself whether she can force Society's hand."

"Is that her idea, do you think--to force Society's hand?"

"I don't know that she has formed any idea. She has been home only a day or two, you must remember."

"Judging from this afternoon--I should say she hasn't," remarked Burgoyne. "To come to the Club was about the wildest thing she could have done--and then, as a climax, to meet Lorraine right in the centre of the spot light! He seems to have known his mind when it came to the pinch. I understand he gave her his back."

"He did. So far as they two are concerned the decision is made finally," Pendleton replied. "The last hope of a reconciliation is past."

An hour later, when the piazza was almost deserted, two men came from the house and sat down some little distance away from the quiet corner where Pendleton and Burgoyne still lingered.

"Who are they?" said Burgoyne.

"Porshinger and Murchison," Pendleton replied--"both new ones, also, since you've been gone. They are long on money but short on breeding and manners."

"How did they get in?"

"Climbed in some way--otherwise bought their way in. Porshinger is a capitalist, who capitalized some of the Board of Governors; and Murchison is a big broker who gave a couple of them tips that eventuated. _Voilà!_"

"They are bounders, I suppose--like Emerson?"

"Of a different kind. Emerson is a good sort--these fellows are bounders of the offensive type. Emerson wants to be a gentleman and tries to be one--Porshinger _et al._ neither wants to be nor tries. It is a great thing, now-a-days, being one of the Governors of a fashionable club--when the new rich are climbing upward on the golden ladder. Many impoverished fortunes have been restored, even to affluence, by prospective candidates for admission."

"Has it come to be so bad as that?" said Burgoyne astonished.

"It has. Within the last two years there have been at least a score of candidates elected to membership in this and other fashionable clubs who have bought their election by before-and-after favors to certain members of the Boards."

"What are we coming to?" Burgoyne exclaimed.

"The aristocracy of dollars. In a few years those of moderate means, like ourselves, will be rooted out of our place by the gold hogs. They will make it so expensive that we cannot belong. Already the old families are beginning to drop out because of the cost: the doubled dues--the higher priced card--the increased style of doing even the simplest things--and, if they have wives or daughters or both, the elaborate dressing that is necessary if they want them to look even half decent and to be asked anywhere. They can't afford to keep up the pace. So there's nothing to do but to drop out. Our time is coming, Burgoyne--we may last longer because we have no feminine appendages, but our limit will be reached, also--it is only a question of a very little longer."

"Well, we shall be in good company at all events!" laughed Burgoyne.

"Yes, that is the recompense," commented Pendleton. "But it riles me to go down before these contemptible crowders-out, like the two yonder."

Burgoyne did not respond immediately and Porshinger's harsh voice came floating over.

"Did you see the Lorraine episode this afternoon?" he chuckled. "She came _here_--actually had the audacity to come here--and she bumped into Lorraine right there on the piazza--and he gave her the frozen face _hard_. It was great."

"Just what Lorraine should have done," Murchison replied. "It's an infernal shame that our wives and daughters should be subjected to such effrontery. The woman has about as much idea of decency as a professional of the street--to come still warm from Amherst's arms and flaunt herself before them all. I should have thought the little shame she has left would have held her from this last atrocity."

"She's a mighty good looker all right!" the other remarked. "I don't blame Amherst--not in the least."

"Sure--she's a screamer--the tall, willowy sort--Kipling's vampire kind, you know the style?" Porshinger laughed. "I wonder who will be the next one. I should not much mind taking a flyer at her myself."

Pendleton pushed back his chair sharply and got up.

"Come along," he said to Burgoyne. "I may need your help."

He drew out his gloves and crossed the piazza to the two men.

"Well, you have the requisite amount in your clothes," Murchison was saying. "But I fancy you'll have to move fast if you want to stand any chance."

"Why?"

"Because she has----"

The rest of the remark was cut short by Pendleton's gloves falling with a snap across Porshinger's mouth.

"What the devil!" cried he, sitting up.

Crack! Again the gloves came down, and a button marked the skin of the cheek till the blood oozed out.

"I don't like the cut of your coat, Mr. Porshinger!" said Pendleton. "And just because I don't like it I'm going to give you a thrashing. Stand up and defend yourself. I don't want to hit even a cur when he's down."

"What in hell do you mean?" Porshinger shouted. "I've got no quarrel with you, Pendleton! What in hell do I care whether you like the cut of my coat or not--I'm no tailor."

"Aren't you? I thought you were--I apologize to the tailors," said Pendleton easily. "Put up your hands, you dirty scoundrel, or haven't you a single spark of courage in you?"

"I don't understand you!" protested Porshinger, edging away. "What have I done to you, Pendleton?"

"I've told you I don't like the cut of your coat," was the answer. "Put up your hands, if you don't want me to take my stick to you."

"The man must have lost his mind! Mr. Burgoyne, can't you do something?" Porshinger cried, retreating until his back was against the railing.

For answer, Pendleton's left shot out and tapped Porshinger lightly on the nose.

"Put up your hands," said he, and tapped him again.

Murchison sprang between them.

"Stop!" he cried. "What do you mean, Pendleton?"

"I've already answered that question several times," Pendleton replied. "Sheldon, will you be kind enough to take charge of Mr. Murchison?"

"Come to think of it I don't like the cut of your coat either, Mr. Murchison," said Burgoyne. "Oblige me by standing aside."

"What's the matter with you damn fools?" demanded Murchison. "Are you trying to pick a fight?"

"Yes," said Pendleton quietly, "but we are meeting with very poor success;" and he tapped Porshinger a third time--and harder.

"Well, if that's what you're after we'll accommodate you!" exclaimed Murchison. "Porshinger, let's give them what's coming to them"--and picking up a chair he let it drive at Burgoyne's head.

The next few minutes were very busy for all parties concerned--and when the astonished servants, attracted by the noise of overturning tables and shifting feet, hurried to the scene, Porshinger and Murchison were bearing their contusions down to the wash-room, while Pendleton and Burgoyne, without a scratch upon them--except for abraded knuckles--were in their chairs and smoking peacefully.

"What was it all about--why did they start the rough house?" Porshinger demanded, while they were repairing the damages.

"Don't you know?" asked Murchison.

"If I knew I wouldn't have asked you!" the other retorted.

"They overheard our talk about Mrs. Lorraine and resented it, I think," said Murchison.

"Hell! I might have known--Pendleton and Burgoyne met her when she came here this afternoon. Well, I fancy we can square off with them; Mrs. Lorraine is a pretty fair target--and Pendleton is not invulnerable to those who know how to reach him."

"You would better let Pendleton alone," cautioned Murchison.

"What! I think not. I'm not that sort. He started the fight so I'm going to accommodate him. Didn't like the cut of our coats, didn't they? What the devil did they mean by that--what's our clothes got to do with starting a rough-house?" he reiterated. "I don't understand--they didn't mention the Lorraine woman's name!"

"No, that is just it!" Murchison remarked. "They didn't mention her name; they chose some fool pretext for a quarrel so as not to mix her up with it. I've read of the thing, but I've never seen it before. Pretty neat dodge: I don't like the cut of your coat, or whiskers, or cravat, or trousers--so I'll knock your infernal block off. Biff! And the lady's name never mentioned! It's damn neat."

Porshinger looked at him in disgust.

"Why don't you go and tell them so!" he sneered. "They'll likely be courteous and biff you again."

"Probably they would," admitted Murchison good-naturedly.

"I didn't know they were so handy with their fists," Porshinger growled--he was bathing an eye in cold water.

"Maybe we were only particularly unhandy with ours," the other remarked. "At any rate, they're better than us, all right."

"Better at the fist-game, yes," retorted Porshinger. "We'll see now if they're better at some other games, damn them."

"Better forget it--and hold our tongues," Murchison advised again.

"Forget it? Not me! I never forget an injury--and I usually square off my debts. See!"

VI

ON THE BRIDLE-PATH

The talk which Stephanie and Gladys Chamberlain had the following morning was prolonged into the after luncheon hours.

It was an intimate, personal conference, wherein Stephanie recounted every material incident of the Amherst affair. She told her friend all, freely and without reserve: how the affair started; how it progressed; of Lorraine's indifference or blindness; how it culminated; where she and Amherst went; what they did; how they avoided their acquaintances; how she grew to hate Amherst; his brutalities and meannesses; their slow rupture; the final break; the return, with the episode of yesterday on the Club-house piazza, and her husband's refusal even to recognize her.

"He wasn't altogether accountable, I fancy," said Gladys kindly. "He has had his trials too, Stephanie, you must remember."

"I do remember--or I try to," Stephanie replied; "but I can never forget his conduct or his want of conduct--his stupidity and want of sight. He could have saved me, and he _didn't_."

"Would you have given up Amherst, if Harry had demanded it of you?"

"Yes--if he had _demanded it like a man_. If he had thrashed Amherst within an inch of his life, I think I should have adored him."

"Instead, he did the usual thing--thought that his wife could be trusted, or he didn't perceive. In either of which events, I don't see that he is much to blame. Give Henry Lorraine his due, dear. He isn't much of a character possibly; he is irresolute and hesitating despite his size and appearance. Yet I had hoped that you would make it up--for your sake."

"For my sake!" marvelled Stephanie.

"It's a lot easier, you know," Gladys nodded, "to resume the old life, than to cut out a new one--now."

"Perhaps so--but how long would the reconciliation last?"

"Long enough for Society to forget the past. If the husband forgives, who else may say a word?"

"It may be the way of expediency; it is not my way," answered Stephanie. "However, if Harry Lorraine had made the slightest sign of forgiveness--of recognition when he saw me--even if he had but bowed, it might be different. Now, I am done with him forever."

"Don't you think you put him to a rather hard test?" asked Gladys. "Without a word of warning you encountered him on the Club-house piazza, before the assembled mob, and he--failed. Could you expect anything else from one of his character?"

"Possibly not," admitted Stephanie, as she daintily flicked the ash from her tiny cigarette. "He is true to type, and it is the type to which I object. Between taking him back (assuming that he would have me back) or fighting it out alone, I much prefer to fight it out alone. It may require longer, but it hasn't the drag.... I had thought of going elsewhere, but that will only postpone the struggle a little while and will make it all the harder when it comes--for sooner or later they are sure to find me out. I even considered changing my name--that, too, has innumerable obstacles, with the necessity of living a lie and the constant fear of being detected." She flung her cigarette out of the window and flexed her silken knees under her. "So, on the whole, I thought it better to return and fight. I can down it soonest, if at all, at my home; and then it will stay down. I have a nasty thing to confront. I've been all kinds of a fool, and no one realizes it more than myself; but I'm not going to be weighted down with Harry Lorraine, nor to sacrifice myself again for him--no not even for a little while, not even for my rehabilitation. He didn't save me when he might, and I'm not going to give him another chance. I prefer to make my way alone without any aid from him."

"Without any aid from him, possibly, but not _alone_," Gladys replied. "Some of your friends are standing by you, and more will follow--many more, I hope, and soon. I shall ask Margaret Middleton, Arabella Rutledge, Helen Burleston, and Sophia Westlake to lunch with us Tuesday. They will do as a starter, I think."

"My dear Gladys!" Stephanie exclaimed, "I don't deserve such friendship as yours. I am----"

The other interrupted her with a gesture.

"You are Stephanie Mourraille to me--no matter what you did or may do. Isn't that enough? So let us forget it."

"I can't forget it, dear," Stephanie answered.

"Well, you can make a bluff at it!" Gladys laughed, as she arose to go. "I'll telephone you to-morrow about the luncheon, unless I see you before then. What are you doing to-morrow morning?"

"I've nothing to do," said Stephanie. "I'm not pressed with engagements as yet."

"I hope not--I want mine to be the first," Gladys returned easily. "I'll be at home all morning so if you can come over you'll find me in."

"Do you quite appreciate what you're about to do?" Stephanie protested.

Gladys stopped and looked at her thoughtfully a moment.

"Stephanie," said she, "if you are going to play this hand through you must not think for your friends. Let them think for you, and act as they see fit--and don't you be bothering about what is _past_."

"I'm _not_ bothering--except for my friends," was the answer.

"And your friends are amply able to look out for themselves. They are not obligated to do anything for you unless they choose. You just sit tight in the saddle and give the mare her head--above all, don't fret her. You understand."

"I understand," said Stephanie, "but I fear I'll do nothing but fret them, so to speak--at least for a time. Under the circumstances, I'm rather a weight to carry, especially when the going is apt to be both rough and heavy."

"You can never tell what the going is until you ride it," said Gladys heartily. "Sometimes the field worse on the surface is the best underneath."

After Gladys had gone, Stephanie grew restless. She tried to read, but she could not keep her mind on even the print; as for the story, it made no more impression on her than a passing carriage.... Presently she laid the book aside and tried to sleep.... It was futile also--more futile even than the attempt to read.... Finally the restlessness became unbearable in the quiet of the house. She sprang up; she would go out--maybe the soft spring air and the out-of-doors would calm her. She wanted to go--go--go! To do something....

She dressed hurriedly--putting on a quiet street-suit with a small hat, and a white veil to conceal her face from the casual passer-by. As she passed her mother's door Mrs. Mourraille saw her.

"I'm going out for a walk," Stephanie said in answer to the look of polite inquiry. "I must do something--I'm as nervous as a filly."

"It will do you good," replied Mrs. Mourraille. "Do you wish me to go with you?"

"If you don't mind, _ma mère_, I think I can walk off better alone--you understand?"

"Perfectly, my dear," her mother smiled. "We understand each other, I hope," as Stephanie bent and kissed her.

Once on the Avenue and swinging along at rapid pace, Stephanie felt better--the restlessness was having vent.

It was Sunday and the people she passed were mainly of the working class. They were out for an airing on the only day of the week that permitted. Occasionally she encountered some one whom she knew, but the veil was excuse for neither seeing them, nor noticing that they saw--if they did. Now and then, some man would stare impertinently at her; but it lasted only for the instant. She was passing, and she did not mind--for there again the veil was her protection, though she knew that, like enough, the veil was the reason or the excuse for the stare.

She reached the entrance to the Park and turned in, choosing presently a bridle-path that took off from the main drive. It was retired and quiet, and ran amid the great trees from which vines hung in huge festoons of verdure. The path was soft and in fine condition, and on the turf that bordered it the foot fell without sound or shock. Overhead the birds whistled and sang, the wind played lightly among the leaves through which the sun penetrated timidly as though uncertain of its welcome.

After a mile or two she unconsciously hummed a song, and realized it only when it ended and the break came. She smiled to herself, and began to whistle softly one of the airs from _In a Persian Garden_. When it was finished, she whistled it again.

Presently she came to a rustic seat--a plank between two trees. She had walked now for more than an hour and the cool shade and the quiet spot appealed to her. She sat down and undid her veil. She would stay a moment and rest her eyes--the white mesh had been more than usually severe under the glint of the light through the foliage. Not a soul had passed her since she had entered on the bridle-path. The noise of the city was very distant--she could scarcely hear it. At intervals came the faint clang of a gong, the whistle of a locomotive, the exhaust of an automobile on an up-grade.

She did not see the man who, his horse's bridle rein over his arm, rounded the turn and came slowly toward her. Her back was toward them and on the soft path the steps of the horse were almost without noise.

When she did hear them and, startled, swung suddenly around, it was to come face to face with Harry Lorraine.

The recognition was mutual and simultaneous.

He stopped and surveyed her with scrutinizing glance--a bit of a frown furrowed between the eyes, the eyes themselves half closed.

She regarded him with a look as impersonally indifferent as though he were the most casual stranger, then shifted it with interest to his horse.

"So!" he said, after a moment's steady stare. "You have returned--after your paramour has cast you off. Whom do you wait for now, I wonder?"

The cold insult of the words were more than she could endure.

"Not you, at all events!" she retorted.

He laughed mirthlessly--a hollow, mocking laugh that seemed to wrench his very soul.

"No, not me," he answered--"even _your_ effrontery would hesitate at the same victim twice."

She shrugged her shoulders and made no reply.

He waited, while the horse drew over and began to crop the grass at her feet. At length, he spoke again.

"What do you intend to do, Mrs. Lorraine--have you come back with the purpose of driving some bargain with me--a bargain that will leave you a trifling semblance of your good name?"

A slight smile curled her lovely lips but she made no answer.

"Because, if you have," he went on, "I warn you that it will be unavailing."

The idea of his warning her of anything now, after the way he had stood back and let her drift upon the rocks, was so intensely absurd that she laughed.

"_You_ would warn me!" she inflected. "Warn me!" and she laughed again. "Do you think you are capable of warning any one?"

He saw her meaning and his face grew pale with anger.

"You think that I might have warned you before?" he broke out. "Yes, I might----"

"And you did not!" she interrupted. "Therefore you are a contemptible knave not to have saved your own wife."

"I might have warned you," he repeated slowly, "if I had suspected you were in danger of forgetting your marriage vows."

"Then you were a fool for not realizing it.--_You_ had plenty of warning."

"Plenty of warning, yes--in the light of the after events. But no warning whatever on the basis of trust and confidence. I never thought of your being _crooked_, until you proved it before all the world."