Part 8

"Miss Philosopher!" he smiled.

"_Mrs._ Philosopher, you mean!" she corrected.

"Your pardon!" said he. "For the moment, I quite forgot."

"It might be well to forget it forever," she reflected.

"I am very willing," he replied, regarding her with indulgent eyes.

She gave him a quick glance, then looked away and a dreamy expression shone in her eyes.

"Montague," she said presently. "Is there no way that I can procure a divorce?"

"I'm afraid not," he answered very kindly--"unless Lorraine permits it. He has offered you a home and to take you back, and you have refused; so that disposes of desertion or non-support. And if you try to convict him of having been--indiscreet--he can set up your own indiscretion as a defense."

"Isn't incompatibility of temper a ground for divorce?" she asked.

"Yes, but it would not apply in your case, if he opposed the suit."

"It all rests with him then," she remarked, with a shrug of denuded shoulders. "Unless he wishes to be free of me, I must stay bound. It doesn't seem quite just--and it's _very_ irksome."

"It is entirely just," he said, "but it _is_ irksome to you--and foolish in him to hold you. However, it is his right and he alone is the judge. The sensible thing would be for him to divorce you on the ground of desertion. It would accomplish the result with a minimum of unpleasantness for you both."

"Then it would be the first time that he ever did the sensible thing, when he could do the reverse," she remarked.

"Aren't you a little bitter?" he smiled.

"Bitter!" she said thoughtfully. "Probably I am. I can't pardon him for his supineness, his silly disregard of my danger. I may be wrong--may be doing him a deep injustice--but I shall never forgive him for letting me sink into Amherst's clutches. A pretty mess I have made of my life so far!" she commented, with a sarcastic little laugh.

He leaned forward and took her hand--and she let him take it.

"Don't, dear!" he entreated, with all the tenderness of the strong man. "It is not such a mess as you think. It will work out for your advantage--it has already done so--you're free of both Lorraine and Amherst. Isn't that something?"

"If I _were_ free of Lorraine I think I should be satisfied; it would be worth everything else--but I'm not."

"Not legally free, but free in fact," he answered. "And you'll be legally free also in a short time--a very short time. Lorraine's present mind can't last much longer, Stephanie."

"I hope you're a true prophet," said she, withdrawing her hand--as Tompkins appeared to light the candles in their big glass shades.

"I wish I were as certain of something else as I am of that," he reflected slowly, studying the coal of his cigarette, but watching her face with deliberately avowed surreptitiousness.

And she observed it and inferred what he meant, and her pulses beat a trifle faster, but beyond a smile, which she contrived to be half-puzzled, half-questioning, and wholly fascinating, she made no answer.

She was lovelier now, he thought, than he had ever seen her. Her figure, in its clinging narrow evening gown, had rounded into the most adorable curves, though retaining all its youthful slenderness. Two years ago she had suggested what to-night she was--a glorious woman. And the flawless face, ordinarily so cold in its beauty, was soft and tender as he had never thought to see it. He bent over and deliberately looked her in the eyes--and she, from the recess of her chair, knowing that he would come no further, calmly looked him back. Neither spoke--yet the one told a purpose formed, and the other did not warn him to desist.

"Do you realize just how lovely you are?" he asked.

"Yes," she smiled. "I have my eyes and my mirrors--and an admiring maid."

"But you haven't----" he began--and broke off. He was about to say "you haven't a husband to tell you."

And she guessed his words instantly--but not his exact meaning.

"'I haven't a husband to tell me,' you were going to say. Why didn't you say it? It would have been no more than the truth."

"I was not thinking of Lorraine as the husband," he replied.

She gave a little gasp of surprise at its unexpectedness--a gasp that ended, however, in a smile and a shake of the ruddy head.

"Please give me a cigarette," she said, extending her hand.

He drew out his case and offered it to her.

"Is this all that I may give you now?" he asked.

"All!" she replied, passing a match across the tip. "All--now.... What is it, Tompkins?" as the butler appeared in the doorway and bowed.

"The telephone, madam!" monotoned Tompkins.

"Did you get the name?" she asked.

"The Homoeopathic Hospital, madam; they want to speak to you at once."

"What can it be?" she exclaimed, turning to Pendleton. "Come into the living-room with me, Montague--I'm afraid of hospitals--dreadfully afraid--even by telephone."

Pendleton arose and accompanied her.

"It is nothing," he assured her.

"I am Mrs. Lorraine," she said, when she reached the receiver. "What is it, please?"

"This is the Hahnemann Hospital, Mrs. Lorraine," came the answer and Pendleton could hear it on the other side of the table. "Your husband was seriously injured this evening when his automobile collided with a street car. He was unconscious when brought in, but revived for a moment and has asked for you."

She raised her eyes to Pendleton. He nodded that he had understood.

"Is he conscious now?" she asked to gain time. Her mind was in a whirl.

"No--he relapsed almost instantly. It is impossible to tell now how seriously he is injured. He has bled profusely, from several superficial wounds, but we fear he has been hurt internally. He may also be suffering from concussion. We thought it best, Mrs. Lorraine, to advise you of his condition and that he asked for you," the voice went on, a trifle apologetically.

"You did very right," she replied. "I'll come to the Hospital at once."

She hung up the receiver and looked at Pendleton.

"You heard?"

"Everything."

"What _could_ I do?" she demanded.

"Nothing but what you did."

"But I don't want to do it--I don't want to see him--I don't wish him to die, but----"

"Never mind," he said tenderly. "You don't have to go--you are quite justified in not seeing him. And his condition is not dependent upon your presence or your absence. Do exactly as you choose, Stephanie."

"But _if_ he should die! If he should die, having asked for me, and I having been told and then not hastening to him at once! As a fellow human--not as a wife--is it right that I should deny him what may be his last request?"

"A request he has already forgotten in unconsciousness," Pendleton replied. "Under all the circumstances, your duty depends wholly upon your own desires--to go or not to go as you think best. You are not obligated to consider anything else. Hence I approved of your first determination to go to the Hospital; when you changed your mind and said you would not go, I approve of it also."

"What do you _advise_ me to do?" she asked tremulously.

"I should advise you to go," he said quietly.

"And stay?"

"That can be determined later."

"And will you go with me?"

"I'll go anywhere or do anything you want, dear," he replied.

IX

HOPELESSNESS AND THREATS

Throwing a wrap over her evening gown, Stephanie hurried out and into Pendleton's car, which was standing at the curb. He sprang after, opened the throttle and they whirled away.

"How long will it take to get to the Hospital?" she asked.

"About fifteen minutes--if we are not held up by traffic when we come off the Boulevard."

"I suppose I ought not to feel indifferent at such a time," she said presently. "But I do--and I won't hide that I do. I'll try to meet what the occasion demands but nothing more. If he still wants me, I'll go to him. If he is conscious and hasn't asked for me again, I'll come away. It will be a relief to come away. I have no longer any duty to him. At least I feel that I haven't--and so why pretend the one or do the other?"

"Would you rather not go?" he asked, slowing down.

"I would _much_ rather not go," she replied--"but I'm going just because I'm not sure of my duty in the matter. I swore at our marriage to love, honor and cherish him. I don't love him--I think I never honored him--I'm not sure that it will do any good for me to cherish him--but I'll try to be kind while his life is in danger--when the danger has passed, the cherishing shall cease." She stole a look at the man beside. "A queer philosophy, you think doubtless--and possibly it is; but toward some few people, my husband among them, I have as much feeling as a piece of marble--rather less indeed. Don't try to understand me, Montague--you can't; I don't understand myself."

She was overwrought, he saw. This sudden call to confront a condition such as she had never anticipated--the distressing fact that Lorraine, injured maybe unto death, had asked for her--had stretched her nerves to attenuation.

It was not for him to tell her what she should do. In truth, he did not know. The one thing that made it difficult was Lorraine's request. If it were not for that he would not have hesitated. But it is hard to refuse a dying man--or one who may be dying.

"Steady yourself, Stephanie!" he said, as the car ran in under the _porte cochere_ of the Hospital.

"I am steadied," she answered. "I'll be all right when we enter--I'm not going to collapse or shriek or make a scene, you may be sure."

He rang the bell, gave the name, and they passed into the reception-room.

In a moment a white uniformed nurse entered--a woman of middle age, quiet and business-like.

"Mrs. Lorraine?" she asked.

"Yes," Stephanie answered.

"I am Mrs. Bangs, the head nurse, Mrs. Lorraine. Your husband has not regained consciousness, I am sorry to say. Doctor Wilton has been advised of your arrival and he'll see you just as soon as possible. Will you come into the resident physician's office and wait? It will be only a moment, I'm sure."

They crossed the corridor, were shown into the office, and the nurse went about her duties.

There is not much sentiment in a hospital attendant--at least toward those not patients--and the patients themselves are but cases in the abstract.

Stephanie looked at Pendleton and smiled.

"You see--I'm steady," she said, holding up her hand. "A trifle too steady for an injured man's wife, I fear--though, I suppose, they all know the state of our--affairs."

"Every one knows it--if they've read the newspapers," Pendleton returned.

"And it's safe to assume that they have; and that they believed all they read as well--and then some. It's a common failing. I'd do the same about someone else, I reckon--if it happened to interest me."

"_There_ is just the difference--it wouldn't interest you, nor me, nor any right-thinking person."

"Then the right-thinking persons are very scarce in this world!" she smiled.

"I shouldn't call them scarce," he replied--"very much in the minority would be better."

Dr. Wilton entered the room at that moment--the rubber-soled shoes having deadened his steps in the corridor. His was one of the old families, and so he was no stranger to Stephanie or to Pendleton. He was familiar with the peculiar situation--and, man like, sympathized with Stephanie. He responded to the look of inquiry in her eyes before she had time to ask.

"Your husband, Mrs. Lorraine, is resting quietly. The concussion is slight--and unless something develops internally, which we can't yet tell, he will likely recover. He has had four ribs broken, has sustained numerous cuts and bruises, and has lost much blood--but these are merely temporary in their effects."

"Has he recovered consciousness?" Stephanie asked.

"At brief intervals--but not for any length of time."

"Is there any indication that he is hurt internally?"

"It is too early to know certainly; though the character of the accident and the wounds make it very possible. There was a slight hemorrhage, but that has ceased."

It was as if he were discussing the case with an ordinary visitor or a reporter. He already knew she was not likely to be particularly interested, but the impersonal manner in which she asked and received his account of her husband's accident--certainly grievous and possibly fatal--was most indicative. He found himself wondering why she had taken the trouble to come at all.

And she read something of what he thought, for she remarked, without preliminary:

"The Hospital said over the telephone that he had asked for me when he was first brought in--and I came because of that. Has he asked again?"

"I think not, Mrs. Lorraine--nor for any one."

"May I see him?"

The doctor hesitated. "You may--if you very much wish--but we should prefer not."

"Can I do him any good by seeing him?"

"Not a particle. He is, pardon me, much better as it is--with the surgeons and nurses. In such cases, the presence even of one nearly connected is frequently a deterrent, and excites the patient unduly."

"I can do nothing then?" she persisted.

"Absolutely nothing," he assured her.

"And in event of his needing me?"

"We will telephone you."

"You think I should not wait?"

"I do," he said. "It is quite unnecessary. At present, Mrs. Lorraine, your husband is in no immediate danger."

Either Harry had revoked his request, or Doctor Wilton was making it easy for her.--At all events, she could depart with the equanimity of a duty done.

"Then I will go home--depending on being advised on the instant, if I am needed," she said with the most bewitching smile and holding out her hand.

The doctor took it in a friendly grasp.

"I think that is best, Mrs. Lorraine," he replied.

"I suppose you know nothing of the details of the accident?" she asked.

"No--we leave them to the newspapers and the ambulance chasers," he smiled. "Our record begins with Mr. Lorraine's entry here."

"I will depend then upon the Hospital notifying me if I am needed," she repeated, and with another smile and a nod she went out.

"Thank heavens!" she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, when they were once more in the car and turned toward her home. "I've done as much as the circumstances warrant--at least, to my mind. The next move is up to him and the Hospital."

"You've done all that anyone could demand," he said. "More than was necessary, I think."

"Which being the case, I'm going to forget it, except that twice a day, until he is out of danger, I shall inquire for him by telephone. Now let us talk of something else."

It was on the fourth day thereafter that Doctor Wilton himself called Stephanie on the telephone.

"Mr. Lorraine has asked for you," he informed her. "He knows that you were here the night of the accident and it pleased him greatly. Will you come some time this morning, if it is convenient?"

"It is not very convenient," Stephanie responded; "I am going out of town--to Criss-Cross--this afternoon for a couple of days, but I'll stop in for a moment. I can't well break the appointment at this late moment."

"Very well," said he. "I'll just tell him I have concluded it is unwise for him to see you for a day or so."

She drummed a moment on the table.

"No, I will come," she decided--"at eleven thirty--will you please see that I am admitted promptly?"

And at eleven thirty she was there and Doctor Wilton received her.

"The nurse will remain, I suppose," she remarked, as they reached the door of Lorraine's room.

He understood.

"If you do not object," he replied. "It would not be well for her to leave her patient--in his present condition."

Lorraine glanced up as the door opened--and when he recognized his wife he smiled and put out his hand.

"I'm glad to see you, dear," he said.

"I'm glad to see you so much better," she replied, taking his hand, but not offering to kiss him. "You had a narrow escape!"

"Rather close call," he admitted.

The doctor, after a word to the nurse, had gone out--and the nurse remained. Lorraine's eyes glanced at her impatiently. She was occupied with the chart.

"You're ever so much stronger--aren't you?" said Stephanie, inanely.

"I suppose so--I think I am.... They told me of your being here the evening I was injured. It was very good of you to come, Stephanie."

"I came because they told me _you_ had asked for me," said she quietly.

"I did--I thought I was going to die; and I wanted to see you again--just to--apologize."

"Don't think of that," she replied hastily. "You're not going to die."

"They say I'll probably pull through now--my head is all right--but I'm pretty weak."

"Of course, you're weak," she echoed. "Who wouldn't be weak with all that you've endured."

She simply did not know what to say to him. The last spark of affection was in ashes--cold ashes--else would it have been warmed, at least a trifle, by the sight of him lying there, injured and helpless.

He smiled faintly--and the nurse came to the rescue. She looked at Mrs. Lorraine meaningly. Stephanie nodded.

"Your nurse intimates that it is time for me to go," she remarked. "And the nurse is in command." She reached down and took his hand. "Good bye!" she said.

"You will come again!" he questioned.

"Certainly, whenever you wish--and the nurse lets me."

He smiled--and she, with an answering smile, went quietly out.

He closed his eyes and lay quite still. The nurse came to the bed; played with gentle fingers a moment upon his wrist, and went softly away.

It was pretty hopeless, he reflected, pretty hopeless! Stephanie cared no more for him than for an utter stranger--probably less. She had come in response to his request, but she had let him know that it was because he had asked for her and not of her own volition. And when she did come, the talk had been the veriest of inanities; and the nurse had remained in the room the entire time--at Stephanie's behest he had little doubt. Her "whenever you wish," had really meant, "but don't wish".... He did not see why she had taken the trouble to come at all, since he was nothing to her--why she had not simply answered that she would not come, that she no longer recognized any obligation toward him. Everyone knew the facts of the last two years so why should she not be candid, even brutally so? This visit was nothing--nothing but ashes to them both--nothing but the proof that the rupture was beyond repair. And he loved her still!--loved her as in the days of courtship, though it had been obscured by the hate and injury of the recent past. If he could not affect her now, even so far as to win a look of regard, his case was forlorn. If his condition would not melt even a little the ice of her reserve, there was small hope. But he _would_ hope!--_would_ hope! It was not her fault--it was Amherst's. He acquitted her--she was a wronged woman--he was a wronged husband! Amherst was the villain! Amherst was----

There was a light touch on his shoulder. He opened his eyes--the nurse was standing beside him, a glass of orange juice in her hand, a smile on her face.

"It is time to take your nourishment," she said.

For a moment he was tempted to refuse--but she smiled again, very sweetly; and put the glass to his lips.

"Now, try to relax and sleep a while," she suggested.

"Is that an order?" he said faintly.

"An order," she answered, dropping her hand on his forehead and smoothing it with deft touch.

He smiled up at her,--and closed his eyes--and presently he slept.

* * * * * * *

Stephanie, when she left the Hospital, went on to the shopping district.

It was the first time she had been down town since the day before Lorraine's accident--and she very quickly noticed the difference in the attitude of many that she knew and met. There was a more manifest cordiality, slight in some cases, more open in others, but unmistakable nevertheless. More people looked at her in a friendly way, and would have spoken had she given them the chance. But _she_ never saw them, or looked right through them--depending upon whether hitherto they had been negative or positive in their hostility. From all those who had spoken heretofore, she accepted the additional smile or word of greeting--from all those with whom it was an initial effort she declined the overtures.

Mrs. Postlewaite passed down the aisle just as Stephanie was turning away from the glove counter, and the _grande dame_ relaxed sufficiently to glance at her in a personal way and to give her the chance to return the glance--her manner even indicating that, if Stephanie were brave enough to speak, she might condescend to acknowledge it with the faintest nod. It was plainly a look of permission--but Stephanie never looked; though taking due care to let Mrs. Postlewaite know that she saw. And the ancient lady's face congealed into impassivity--and they went their respective ways.

She knew, of course, what had caused the change. It had become known that she had visited her husband at his request--and they assumed a reconciliation was likely to follow.

She finished her shopping and went out to her car--to find it with a deflated tire and the driver just beginning the repair. She glanced at the clock on the dash. It was after one. She was much later than she thought.

"Is that the correct time?" she asked the man.

"Yes, Mrs. Lorraine!" said he, touching his cap but without raising his eyes from the wheel.

It would be too late to go home for luncheon, by the time the repair was made, so she turned back into the department store and took the elevator to the dining room on the top floor.

The place was crowded--the head waiter and the captains at the far end of the room, as usual. There was no empty table in sight, and Stephanie paused at the door.

Instantly the eyes of a hundred women focussed on her. At the same time Marcia Emerson, sitting some distance down the room, saw her and getting up hastily came forward.

"Won't you join me at my table, Mrs. Lorraine?" she asked. "It's for two and I'm alone."

It so happened that Stephanie, since her return, had not encountered Miss Emerson, therefore there could be no memory of glances withheld nor of greetings lacking. It was very polite in her and she could not well refuse, though she would have been better satisfied had Marcia not done it.

"I shall be glad to join you--you're very kind," she answered.

An audible buzz went up as they passed down the aisle to their table.

Some who were not acquainted with her were simply curious to see the noted Mrs. Lorraine--others, who knew both well were startled at the one's temerity and the other's acquiescence. Why Marcia Emerson should endanger her social position, none too strong with the powers that be, was more than they could understand. Never independent themselves, they could not appreciate intrepidity in another. In such a case, they trimmed their sails to the leader's wind and were content to remain under convoy. So far as they were aware, the wind had not veered with any strength to Mrs. Lorraine's quarter. And even though some had heard of the prospective reconciliation, they waited to take their cue from one of those powerful enough to indicate an assured course of action.

"I assume you know how rash you are in inviting me to your own table, and in coming the length of the room to do it," she remarked. "I am distinctly _persona non grata_ at present."

"You're not to me," said Marcia heartily. "I don't follow Mrs. Postlewaite and her clique. I do as I wish, and where I wish it. Your affairs are your own--they concern only those directly involved. I'm not involved, therefore it is an unwarrantable impertinence for me to interfere in the slightest--or to judge. I've been out of town for the past three weeks is why I've not called--which, I hope, you will pardon. I didn't know you intimately before you went away, but if you'll permit it we will start in just where we left off."

"It may hurt you with the conservatives," Stephanie warned.