Part 6

"Just so!" she exclaimed. "I proved it before all the world--which think you is worse: the woman who does, or the husband who through blindness or indifference suffers another man to rob him of his wife before his very eyes?"

"The wife who is worthless is never missed!" he retorted.

"Then what quarrel have you for my going?" she demanded, "more than hurt vanity?"

"It's not your going--it's your coming back that irritates me."

"Irritates!" she laughed. "I am sorry to have irritated you--sorry to have irritated one so childish. It may affect your mind, Mr. Lorraine."

"If my mind has survived the last two years, I think it can survive a trifle more. Nevertheless," he sneered, "I am deeply sensible of the consideration you would show me."

"What are you going to do about it?" she asked sharply.

"I don't quite follow your train of thought," he answered.

"Of course not--it was dreadfully involved," she mocked. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Lorraine. I meant what are you going to do now that I _have_ returned--divorce me?"

"Yes--divorce you," he answered bluntly.

"And without delay?"

"As quickly as the Courts can cut us asunder."

"I am glad," she said. "I rather feared you might make overtures for a reconciliation."

"A reconciliation?" he exclaimed incredulously.

She nodded. "You seem uncertain of your own mind--your letters, you know, were rather childish and vacillating."

"I know my own mind now, thank God," he answered, his voice tense. "If I didn't know it before, it was because your beauty had befuddled it into imbecility. Oh! you may smile, with all the assumed credulity you can muster, but nevertheless you know in your own heart that I speak the truth. I _did_ love you--loved every part of you, from your glorious hair to your slender arched feet. Loved your proud, cold face, that can glow warm enough upon occasion--I've seen it glow for me--and often; and your lips that were made for kisses--and your arms--and your flawless shoulders, white as marble, and soft as----"

Her derisive laugh broke in on him.

"Be careful, sir, or the recollection of my charms may cause you to change your mind _again_," she cautioned.

For a space he was silent. And she was silent, too--waiting.

At last he spoke, slowly and deliberately.

"No," he said; "the time when you held me by a smile and a nod has passed. You are just as beautiful, just as alluring, but your body is soiled with the touch of another's hands. Your lips, your hair, your arms, your shoulders--everything--have all been defiled by Amherst's caresses, and by yours."

"Am I then so polluted?" she queried. "At least," slowly stretching out her lithe limbs and looking herself over, "I see no trace of it--neither do I feel it in me."

"Your honor is not sufficiently developed to feel it, there's the pity," he answered. "You will catch another man with the same indifference you forsook me, or were yourself forsaken by Amherst. And your basilisktic beauty will be fatal alike to them and to you."

"Are you a prophet?" she asked.

"One does not need to be a prophet to foresee the apparent," he retorted.

She laughed pityingly.

"You had me unpolluted--why did you not keep me so?" she asked. "I was yours, why did you not hold me fast? You could had you tried. If I am as beautiful as you would have me believe, you were not alone in knowing it. Therefore it was for you to guard me; you were my husband--and you did not. Hence you are either faithless or incompetent, so you have only yourself to blame."

"A naturally good woman doesn't have to be guarded," he sneered.

"Which shows how little--how very little--you know!" she smiled. "You are scarcely fit to be out of the nursery, Harry--you need a guardian, not a wife."

"The Divorce Court at least will relieve me of the wife," he retorted--"and I shall not want another very soon."

"I trust not," she replied.

Two horses trotted quickly around the bend--their riders rising and falling in perfect time. An amused smile broke over Stephanie's face when she recognized Helen Burleston and Devonshire. As they flashed by, the former nodded pleasantly, the latter raised his hat. Their surprised looks, however, were not concealed--nor Lorraine's embarrassed acknowledgment.

"We are creating a scandal--a fearful scandal!" Stephanie laughed. "Husband and wife, about to be divorced, have been caught talking together in a secluded bridle-path in the Park. What can it mean?"

"It can mean anything their imagination may suggest--except the truth!" exclaimed Lorraine. "No one will ever believe it is a chance encounter."

"Thanks," said she. "You do me that much credit, at least."

"Yes; I fancy I may truthfully assume that this meeting is unpremeditated on your part as well as on mine--though you doubtless are expecting some one," he sneered. "Else why are you here?"

"For _once_ you do me an injustice," she replied ironically.

"The circumstances speak for themselves--a secluded by-path, unfrequented on Sunday afternoons, especially by pedestrians--the thick veil which you have just laid aside, doubtless to prepare for the greeting."

"All of which you know perfectly well is not the truth!" she laughed.

He answered with an expressive shrug.

"It is not the way of those with whom you intimate that I properly belong, to appoint a rendezvous for such a place," she remarked.

"Their ways differ--this is your way. You are rather--unconventional, you know."

"Have it as you will," said she indifferently; "though, if you are correct in your assumption, don't you think the man is very laggard at the tryst?"

"Or you are early!" he cut in. "Ah! perhaps he comes!" as the canter of a horse was heard around the bend.

A moment later, Montague Pendleton came in sight.

Instantly the occurrence of yesterday at the Club--Pendleton's pre-nuptial admiration, together with the rumors current at that time, flashed to his mind. He leaned forward and bent his eyes on Stephanie's face--to meet her amusing glance.

"Perhaps he _does_ come!" he said. "Perhaps I am _de trop_."

"Then why don't you go?" she asked indifferently.

It was like a blow in the face--and it angered as a blow--sharply, hotly.

He took a step toward her--recovered himself--stopped--glared at her an instant--then faced Pendleton, who was just at hand, and motioned for him to stop.

Instantly Pendleton drew rein and dismounted. His surprise he concealed under the well-bred air of courteous greeting.

"What does it mean?" he thought. "Have they become reconciled--is it a chance meeting--has Stephanie reconsidered--has Lorraine made his peace for the affront of yesterday?"

One glance at Lorraine's face, however, answered him. There had been no reconciliation--no peace made; rather had the breach widened, if that were possible. He put his arm through his bridle-rein, and coming forward took Stephanie's hand and pressed it meaningly--and got an answering pressure back. Then he nodded pleasantly to Lorraine.

"You will pardon me for intruding!" Lorraine exclaimed. "I didn't realize, until a moment ago, that Mrs. Lorraine had an appointment here with you."

Pendleton understood a little now--and he turned to Stephanie with a politely interrogating air.

"Mr. Lorraine seems to be laboring under some excitement, Stephanie," he said, "may I ask you to explain--if you think it worth while. I'll not misunderstand, however, if you do not."

"Mr. Lorraine does me the honor to think that I have an appointment to meet you here--and that he has discovered us," she answered, unperturbed.

"Is that what you mean, Lorraine?" Pendleton inquired.

"That is exactly what I mean," he burst out. "Else why do I find her here and waiting--and why do you come?"

"Don't be foolish, Lorraine," said Pendleton kindly.--"You don't mean that--you're overwrought and nervous----"

"I'm not overwrought nor nervous!" Lorraine exclaimed. "And neither am I foolish any longer. I _was_ blind _once_, but I'm not blind now. Amherst's gone--and you're substituted."

Pendleton looked at him doubtfully--was it hurt pride or just plain jealousy? He could not determine. Stephanie _had_ lost Amherst; but she had come back and Lorraine had denied her--and yet, here he was positively shaking with rage, because he thought he had surprised her in a rendezvous with another man. He had cast her off before all the world, and yet he wanted still to dictate as to what she did!

Pendleton glanced at Stephanie; she flashed him a smile, and shook her head not to become involved in a quarrel.

"Well, what have you to say?" sputtered Lorraine.

"Before I answer," returned Pendleton calmly, "I would like to know by what right you ask?"

"By what right I ask! By what right do you think I ask. Isn't she still my wife?"

"She is your _wife_--but you have lost all right to supervise her actions. She is free of you--absolutely free. You made her free on the Club-house piazza yesterday. You have no more authority over her than any other man--you have less, indeed, for you renounced even that when you disowned her and cast her adrift."

"So long as she bears my name, she shall not trail it in the mire in this town by a vulgar, public assignation, if I can prevent it. I have cause enough without that disgrace!" Lorraine declared. "Until the Courts have divorced us she shall be decent, ostensibly at least--afterward I don't care what she does nor when."

Pendleton frowned.

"That is discourteously blunt language, Lorraine," he replied.

"It is not the time nor the _occasion_ to mince words," Lorraine retorted. "You are here by pre-arrangement and----"

"That is a lie--and you know it's a lie," Pendleton answered.

"In the light of _her_ past or of yours?" was the sneering question.

Pendleton hesitated what to answer. The man was plainly laboring under intense excitement. His hands were trembling, his face was flushed, he was beating a tatoo on his boot with his crop.

Suddenly Stephanie spoke. She had remained sitting down until now.

"I think it is better that I should continue my walk," she remarked. "You men are not apt to come to an understanding, so let us go our respective ways. Mr. Pendleton, I thank you more than I can say--and I shall be glad to see you at my home any time you choose to call. I shall wait until you both are gone."

"Come, Lorraine!" Pendleton laughed good-naturedly. "We will go together."

On Stephanie's account he was willing to do anything to get him off.

"No--we will _not_ go together," Lorraine replied curtly, ignoring the other's friendly tones and manner. "You'll go first, and I'll follow to see that you don't come back."

His bearing was quite as insulting as his words, but Pendleton did not seem to notice. It was the indulgent man and the complaining boy.

And Stephanie understood and gave Pendleton a quick glance of appreciation. He was trying to save her from further annoyance, she knew, and she loved him for it, but she had endured so much the last two years that she was hardened to a callous indifference. Once she would have been shamed to the earth by Lorraine's accusation; now it made no impression on her--she simply shrugged it aside. Indeed, she found herself studying its revelations as to her husband's character, and pitying him for this exposition of his weakness and vacillation.

"Perhaps I would better go first since Mr. Lorraine is so exacting and distrustful of a _friend_," she interposed. "Good-bye, Montague," giving him her hand; "I seem to be unfortunate lately with all who are disposed to be nice to me. It won't always be so, I hope; I am not all bad!" she smiled.

And with never a look at Lorraine, she passed in front of him and went down the path toward town.

Lorraine watched her go--and Pendleton watched Lorraine. When she had passed around the bend, the former turned slowly and encountered the latter's eyes.

"Pendleton," said he impulsively, "I apologize! I didn't mean it--I think I'm crazy--I must be crazy. Won't you shake hands with me?"

"Of course I will, Lorraine," Pendleton replied. "And you don't need to apologize to _me_--apologize to Stephanie. She is the one you owe it to."

Lorraine's face hardened.

"What do you think she owes me?" he asked.

"We are not computing the balance on the Amherst affair--we are dealing with the present instance, and in it you were wholly at fault. Because she slipped once, doesn't imply that she slips constantly, nor does it excuse you for assuming that fact. Good God! man, give your wife credit for regretting her mistake and wanting to live it down--it's the normal and rational way to look at it. Be a little charitable in your view--Stephanie needs it--we all need it."

"Do you mean that I should not divorce her--that I should take her back?"

"That question you must decide for yourself."

"I ask for your opinion."

Pendleton shook his head.

"You must decide for yourself," he repeated, preparing to mount.

"I shall decide for myself--but I want your opinion," Lorraine persisted.

Pendleton let his hand rest on the pommel of his saddle and considered. What was the best for Stephanie--to return to Lorraine or to be free of him? He was not sure she knew herself; yet he wanted to help her even in a little, if his advice would be a feather-weight toward that end.

"Tell me!" exclaimed Lorraine again.

He made a quick resolution--it could do no harm--it would still be for her to determine:

"I should by all means take her back--if she will have you," he answered.

"If she will have me!" Lorraine interrogated in surprise. "You think there is any doubt about it?"

"Candidly I do--very material doubt, indeed."

"You say that with knowledge--you have talked with her!" Lorraine cried, instantly suspicious.

"I saw Mrs. Lorraine but a few minutes at the Club-house, yesterday. Is it likely she would discuss you there?" Pendleton replied. "It was not until she was leaving, remember, that she encountered you and your--rebuff."

It was an unfortunate speech. Pendleton realized it as the last word was said.

It brought to Lorraine's mind the scene of yesterday, and his decision--made before them all. He had refused to recognize her then--should he reverse himself within twenty-four hours--make himself the laughing stock of every one--prove himself a mere will-o-the-wisp? He had been about to dash after Stephanie and apologize--to ask her to come back--to forgive and forget the past. But now he was not so sure--he must take time to consider--must ponder the situation gravely--must----

He looked at Pendleton, indecision showing in his face and sounding in his voice as he replied:

"It is a serious matter--I must think over it, Pendleton, I must think over it. I will know what to do to-morrow--and to-morrow is time enough to decide a matter that has been in abeyance for two years."

Pendleton nodded.

"Very well," he replied. "I said it is a matter for you alone to decide; but if you will be advised _you_ will decide it without taking counsel with anyone. Make up your own mind, Lorraine, and then stick to it."

"You're very right, and I'll do it," Lorraine answered; and with a wave of the hand he trotted away.

"I wonder," Pendleton mused, as he went slowly down the hill, "what it must mean not to know your own mind any better than Lorraine knows his--to be as changeable and as irresponsible--to keep debating and putting off a decision for two years--and then be no nearer it than you were at first."

VII

AN OFFER AND AN ANSWER

Lorraine took Pendleton's advice. He did not take counsel with anyone--not even with Cameron, with whom he dined at the Club that evening, and afterward played billiards until bedtime. The thought of what he had said to him yesterday, as to his intended course of conduct, may have deterred him, as well as a hesitation to admit the instability of his own mind. Yesterday he was fixed on divorce--to-day he was not so sure. The real reason for his uncertainty was his wife's beauty. Yesterday he had not noticed it--had not time to notice it, being occupied with the instant.

But this Sunday affair was quite different. He had been alone with her--and he had seen again the adorably beautiful woman--whom once he had possessed, but possessed no longer; who was colder to him now than a graven image.

The trim, slender figure in its close cut walking-skirt; the narrow, high-arched feet that she put down so well; the small head, with its crown of auburn hair; the cold, proud, high-bred face that once had been so tender for him, he now saw in all their loveliness--recollected in all their perfectness. And they weighed heavily in the scale--almost balancing her sin. Nay, there were moments when they did balance it, and a trifle more--until he grew hesitating again and doubtful.... And the hesitancy gradually grew less, and the doubt gradually decreased.

Then one afternoon in the latter part of the week, as he was coming from his office, the day's work done, he saw her ahead of him on the opposite side of the Avenue. And he became so absorbed in watching her that he was three blocks beyond his Club before he realized it.

Guiltily he turned and retraced his steps; and alone, in a quiet corner of the lounge with a high-ball and his face to the wall, he fought it out with himself.

And having fought it out, he did a most unusual thing for him--he acted straightway upon his decision, and did not wait for it to cool and himself to doubt and hesitate and change.

He pushed the bell.

"Call a taxi!" said he to the boy.

When it came, he gave Mrs. Mourraille's number. There was a click, as the flag went up, and they whirred away.

"You need not wait," said he, handing the driver a bill as the car drew up before the house.

The man touched his cap and shot off.

Lorraine crossed the sidewalk, went up the steps and rang the bell.

The aged butler answered. He had been in the Mourraille family for a generation, but even his automaton calm was not proof against such a surprise, and he failed to repress wholly the amazement from his face and manner when he beheld who stood in the doorway.

"I want to see Mrs. Lorraine a moment, Tompkins," said Lorraine, and went in with the utmost nonchalance.

There were no instructions against admitting Lorraine, so Tompkins could do nothing but bow him into the living-room. Then he went slowly up to the library and gave the card to Mrs. Lorraine.

She took it from the tray, wondering as she did so who was calling on _her_, and read the name--and read it again. Then she frowned slightly and remained silent.

The butler stood at attention and waited--waited so long, indeed, that Mrs. Mourraille glanced up from her evening paper, having observed the whole thing, and inquired casually:

"Who is it, Stephanie?"

Her daughter passed the bit of pasteboard across--then nodded to Tompkins that she would be down.

Mrs. Mourraille's heart gave a great bound--if, in so placid a woman, anything ever could bound--when she read the name. The thing for which she had hoped--for which she had prayed--for two years was that Stephanie would make it up with her husband, and go back to him. It was the better way--the way that made everything as nearly right as was humanly possible--the easier way for everyone. If he overlooked her fault, who else had any cause to cavil? She had been much too wise, however, to urge it unasked. It must come voluntarily from Stephanie--then she could add her counsel and encouragement. But better even than Stephanie was Lorraine himself--and what else could his unexpected coming mean than an overture for a reconciliation!

"You will receive him?" she asked quietly.

Stephanie nodded.

"I suppose," she said, "it is some arrangement about the divorce--but I can't understand why he should come in person to make it."

"Perhaps it is a first step in an attempt to effect a--readjustment of matters," her mother suggested.

Stephanie had risen--now she paused, and a smile flitted across her face.

"As you hope it is--and hope also that it will be successful, _n'est ce pas_?" she said, bending down and kissing her.

"What I hope, dear, is that you will do the best for yourself," Mrs. Mourraille answered--"and you can alone decide that best, and hope to remain satisfied with the decision. Go and see what Harry wants; it was a great deal for him to come here, and you should not keep him waiting."

"Particularly as he may change his mind if I keep him waiting long!" she laughed; and with a little caressing touch to her mother's cheek, she went down to the living-room.

Lorraine was standing with his back to the fireplace, nervously drawing his gloves back and forth through his fingers. He came forward and offered her his hand--and after just a second's hesitation, she touched it momentarily.

It was as though she said:

"As the hostess, I cannot do less, but I don't in the least fancy the doing."

"Will you sit down, Mr. Lorraine?" she said perfunctorily, letting herself sink into a chair with the lithe grace he remembered so well.

She was perfectly at ease--with the air of one who entertains a casual visitor.

She looked at him, politely interrogatively, and waited for him to begin. It was his move, and she did not intend to help him in the least.

Lorraine was not so tranquil--his agitation showed in his slightly flushed face and in his manner. He took out his handkerchief and passed it across his lips. When he did speak he knew it was with an effort and unnaturally.

"Stephanie," he said, "I want to apologize for what I did at the Club-house, and what I said yesterday--will you let me?"

"Certainly," she replied impersonally. "An apology is one thing that you can tender and one thing that I can accept."

"It does not right the injury----" he began.

"No, it does not right it," she concurred.

"Any more than your apology will right the injury you have done me," he added.

"And mine was the greater injury," she observed. "I know it. There is no apology I can offer that will be effective--so, why try?"

"Don't try!" he exclaimed. "Just let us forget it, and take a fresh start." He leaned forward and took her hand--and she, in sheer amazement, suffered him to retain it. "I am willing to forgive, Stephanie, if you are willing to come back to me. Will you do it, dear?"

For a moment she had the impulse to ask how long this notion had actuated him, and how long he thought that it would last. Then the keen injustice of the taunt came home to her, and with it a sharp sense of just what such an offer meant from _him_. Aside from everything--of blindness when he should have seen, of supineness when he should have acted, of vacillation when he should have known his own mind, of all the other deficiencies of which he was guilty--there yet remained the ever present, ever damning fact that _she_ was a guilty wife; and that he was willing to overlook the past, and to restore her to the place she once had, made all his shortcomings as nothing in comparison. It mattered not how soon he might again change his mind--that was not the present question. He had offered. He was waiting for her answer. She had but to accept--and the thing was done beyond the fear of change.

"Will you do it, Stephanie, dear?" she heard him say again--she did not know how often he had said it.

She released her hand and sat staring down at the rug at her feet. It was a Senna prayer rug, beautiful in coloring and soft as an autumn twilight in the tones, but she was looking back into the past--its lost opportunities and forsaken shrines....

Presently her glance shifted to Lorraine--and lingered, speculatively, appraisingly, as though casting up the balances. It swept him slowly from head to foot, pausing long upon his face--so long, indeed, that he shifted uneasily and smiled in self defence.

"Will you do it, Stephanie, dear?" he repeated.

She slowly shook her head.

"I cannot," she answered.

"Why can't you, dear?" he asked.

"Because I do not love you!"