Part 6

Yet she felt that heavy silence of her husband, the stiffness of his body as he sat there, and she had caught a glimpse of his ghastly face. She bit her lips, staring out into the night, her bosom heaving passionately. She felt like a beautiful wild bird in a trap.

She stared, too, at the quiet street, with inveterate dislike of its quietness. She saw the group of loungers in front of the chemist’s, the belated pedestrians at the crossing. There was a glimpse of shadowing trees. Pendent branches swept and swayed before feebly lighted show-windows, where the shades were partly drawn down, and the infrequent street-lamps shot occasional lances of light across their dingy way. One such shaft struck on William’s profile and revealed his tightened lips.

Fanchon wondered. She had not been aware of Mr. Carter’s catapultic exit, and she did not know how much her husband knew. Some one must have telephoned him--whom, she could not conjecture. She shrank away from him a little, thinking, and Corwin’s face rose before her mind’s eye. She saw again the confidence of his smiling, mocking eyes, and she shuddered.

William seemed to feel it and gave her a quick look, but said nothing. The taxi had stopped in front of an old-fashioned inn. It was a long, low building with a glassed-in dining-room, built to accommodate the stream of motorists who had begun to tour the mountains and scatter gold and gasoline in their wake.

Into the new dining-room--a plain, bare place with rows of white-covered tables and a few lean palms on pedestals--William conducted his wife. Half a dozen negro waiters came forward. He selected one he knew, chose a remote table, and gave his order for supper.

“I suppose you want wine?” he said shortly to Fanchon--almost the first words he had addressed to her.

She shrugged, slipping off her wraps and amazing the other diners with the marvels of her costume.

“_Mais non_,” she replied indifferently. “I’m heated; I never drink wine when I have danced.”

William, who was giving his order, stopped short a moment, his eyes down, and she saw him pant like a man short of breath. But in another moment he had despatched the waiter with his order and drained his glass of water.

“_Mon Dieu!_” said Fanchon, watching him with dark, mysterious, brooding eyes. “How can you? Iced water--it’s bad for your liver!”

“Drat my liver!” said William hoarsely. Then he leaned across the table, his eyes raised to hers at last and spoke in a low, even voice for her ears alone. “What have you been doing, Fanchon?”

She had never seen that look in his eyes before, and the blood rushed back to her heart. She could not answer for a moment; her lips moved without words.

“Do you hear?” he repeated sternly. “What have you been doing to-night?”

“I sang, you know I sang,” she replied at last, but her eyes quivered and shrank away from his, and there was something about her like a child expecting a blow.

But William did not heed it; he was still white with passion.

“You did more than sing,” he rejoined coldly. “You danced me into an insult!”

Her eyes dilated.

“An insult--you?”

“Yes, an insult. Father saw you. He came home and told me what he thought of you, and of me for letting you do it!”

Fanchon put her hand to her throat. She felt choked again, but her beautiful, wild, fawn-like eyes clung to his face.

“You danced,” he went on bitterly. “What did you dance? One of those--those fandangoes?”

Her face changed; a glimmer of light, of mischief, shot across it, and she let her jeweled hands drop in her lap.

“_Oui_, I danced! _Mais que voulez vous?_ Am I not a dancer? You--it is you who are ashamed, _mon ami_!” she added bitterly. “Why you marry me, then?”

He threw himself back in his chair, his clenched hand falling on the table with a gesture as poignant as it was desperate.

“You’ve let the cat out of the bag! This place--these provincials! Why, this place is full of it by now. Did you think you were in Paris?”

“In Paris?” she laughed wildly. “_Mon Dieu, non! ‘O Paris, c’est chez toi qu’il est doux de vivre, c’est chez toi que je veux mourir!’_”

“Drop that chatter!” he said harshly. “You speak English as well as I do.”

She did not answer for a moment; then she leaned across the table, looking at him, her face white and her eyes sparkling.

“You’re ashamed that you married me, a dancer--_n’est-ce-pas_?”

He averted his face. She caught only the haggard whiteness of the profile, and she saw his hand, stretched on the table, clench and unclench nervously. She drew a long breath.

“You’re ashamed of me,” she said in a low, quivering voice, recoiling from him. “I--I see it!”

“I loved you,” said William passionately. “I loved you, I asked you to consider me, and--you do this!”

“You loved me!” she repeated the words slowly. “You--_loved_--me!”

She let the accent fall on the past tense, but he was deaf to the implied appeal.

“Fanchon, you knew what they’d think of it here--you must have known. Why did you do it?” he cried impatiently. “It’s like your cigarette in the streets--you like to do these things!”

“_Mais oui_, I like to do them!” she replied softly. She laughed lightly. “I’m naughty, William, but”--she leaned toward him again, looking at him with her fawn-like eyes--“I’m sorry!”

Her look, her voice, her very attitude expressed surrender, and the softness of her tone appeased him. He turned his head reluctantly and looked at her. The light was behind her, making a nimbus behind her lovely head, her soft, dark hair, and her white forehead, and the beauty of her eyes. Her dress, too, the dancer’s silky, shimmering, clinging robe, seemed to reveal just enough of her white neck and arms. She was a thing so young, so exquisite, and so subtly charming that he caught his breath. She looked as she had looked the first time he saw her, when he lost his heart and his head. Her dark eyes clung to his. “_Et toi?_” she murmured softly, exquisitely, her lips trembling a little.

Involuntarily he put out his hand and touched hers as it lay on the table, and the tenderness of that touch was a caress. For the moment he forgot his father and his own anger. She was bewitching, and she was his own! What did it matter if these narrow-minded provincials were shocked at her dancing?

Yet he was aware that while she accepted his caress, accepted his forgiveness, and gave him a soft and caressing smile, she was changed. Something had come between them--something so subtle, so immaterial, that he could not grasp it; but he felt ill at ease. He said nothing, he did not know what to say, he felt that the grievance was honestly his, and yet, in some mysterious, unfathomable way, she had put him in the wrong.

He laughed uneasily and began to move the glasses about awkwardly, jingling the ice in them like a child. He was glad, too, that the waiter returned at that moment, with the supper. He changed his order again and called for wine.

“I’m tired,” he explained to Fanchon. “I feel as if I needed it.”

She shrugged, elevating her brows and glancing around the room, aware that necks were craned here and there, and that some newcomers were staring steadily at her. One of them--a short, stout, bald-headed man in a dress-suit with a wide expanse of shirt-front--kept gazing at her, and after a while at William. He gazed and rubbed the top of his bald head, and then ate--taking large mouthfuls and gulping them down--while he still gazed at her.

Fanchon, seeing it, looked demurely at her plate, toying with her fork. She wanted to laugh, but she remembered her husband’s horror of the sensation she had just made, and she was aware, too, of another figure farther away. She flushed a little, saying nothing, and William, still feeling that little rift in the lute, busied himself filling his wine-glass again.

Fanchon, who had never seen him drink wine, lifted her heavy eyes from her plate to watch him. She knew he had already filled his glass four times.

“He’s not a drinking man,” she thought shrewdly. “He’s unhappy because he’s married me, a dancer!”

William lifted his fifth glass slowly to his lips.

“It’s not bad wine, Fanchon,” he said lightly; “but we had better in Paris.”

She shook her head.

“In Paris you didn’t drink wine, _mon ami_.”

He reddened.

“Didn’t I? I----” He stopped short.

The stout, bald-headed gentleman had risen abruptly from his table and was approaching theirs. He did not look at William, but bowed to Fanchon.

“Mrs. Carter, I believe?” he said suavely. “Mrs. William Carter?”

Fanchon smiled.

“_Mais oui_, and--Mr. William Carter,” she added archly, looking at the astonished William.

The fat man bowed again, then he produced a card-case and laid his card on the table.

“I’m Samuel Bernstein,” he said proudly, “president of the Unlimited Film Company. Perhaps you’ve heard of me, Mr. Carter?”

“No!” said William shortly, frowning. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

Mr. Bernstein gave him a pitying glance.

“Go to the movies?” he asked mildly.

William nodded.

“Sometimes.”

Mr. Bernstein elevated his brows. He looked at Fanchon, and his face changed and glowed with appreciation.

“Guess you go, madam,” he said in a confident tone, “a lady of your talent! Excuse me”--he bowed first to one and then the other--“if you’ll permit me, I’ll sit down. I’ve got a word to say--business, you know, strictly business.”

Fanchon’s eyes danced. She threw a mocking look at William’s stiffening face.

“Sit down, Mr. Bernstein,” she said sweetly. “_Voilà!_ I love the movies!”

“There!” Bernstein beamed, drawing up a chair. “I knew a lady of your talent must love ’em.” He waved his hand gracefully, speaking to William now, but including William’s wife. “I want to say, sir, that I witnessed that dance to-night, and--well, sir, it hit me straight in the bull’s-eye! Never saw it better done--never! I congratulate Mrs. Carter, sir, and I congratulate you. It was a gem!”

William, very red, inclined his head stiffly, but Fanchon was radiant with smiles.

“_Merci du compliment!_” she murmured.

“Eh? Oh, you’re French, ain’t you?” Mr. Bernstein returned her smile genially. “Corwin was telling me you were Mamselle Fonchon lay Fare. That would sound a top-liner, too, on a bill-board. Corwin--you know him? Yes? Well, he’s running a vaudeville show somewhere now, besides that hairy piano man, and he wants you in his show. I suspicioned that right off.”

“My wife isn’t a show-woman!” thundered William, his brow black.

“No offense, no offense, Mr. Carter!” Mr. Bernstein waved a fat hand on which a diamond flashed magnificently. “I don’t cotton to these cheap shows myself. Now, madam, I’m a business man, and I’ve got a proposition to make to you, a gilt-edged proposition.” He edged his chair nearer, looking from Fanchon to William and back again, with the air of a benefactor. “It’ll appeal to you, sir. It’s dignified, it’s fine, and it’s money, sir, good money! Now, I saw that dance to-night and I says to myself, ‘Sammy Bernstein, if you’re a man you’ll beat it after that first thing,’ and I’m beating it. Madam, I’d offer you, as a starter, five hundred dollars a week to give that dance in a picture, a high-class, six-reel picture, for the Unlimited Film Company!” Mr. Bernstein flung himself back in his chair, thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his white waistcoat, and beamed upon them. “Five hundred dollars a week, madam, and your expenses--for one picture. You can’t beat that--Corwin ain’t going to beat that!”

“My wife won’t go into the movies!” said William, white with anger.

Mr. Bernstein reddened.

“I reckon you don’t understand, sir. The Unlimited Film Company is a star company, sir; it does the finest pictures in the country; we’ve got more stars than any other company this side of the Rockies. We got ’em, and we treat ’em right.”

William rose furiously.

“My wife isn’t looking for an engagement, sir, so we bid you good evening!”

Mr. Bernstein rose hastily.

“I say--no offense----”

“You’re very good,” said Fanchon softly, lingering an instant as William strode away; “I’m not in it--not now! My husband doesn’t like it, you know. _Adieu, monsieur, et merci!_”

She was smiling, a little flushed, altogether charming, as she lifted her fawn-like countenance to his red face. Mr. Bernstein relaxed and grinned knowingly.

“I see! I’m sorry, madam. Put my foot in it, eh?” He lowered his voice. “I’ll make it eight hundred a week--see?”

She nodded, but William had turned a white face toward them, and she fled lightly, following him in his hasty stride through the now crowded dining-room. She had caught her wraps up hastily and thrown them about her shoulders, and the chiffon frills framed her small, pointed chin.

The diners--belated motorists and traveling salesmen--stared delightedly. The scene was as plain as a charade, the angry young husband and the lovely, coquettish, frivolous young wife. Fanchon caught whispers of admiration and glances of sympathy. At another moment they would have pleased her, would have appealed to every instinct of her light, admiration-loving nature, but to-night she saw some one ahead, some one whom she must pass, and she was thinking, thinking hard and fast, her heart beating pitifully under the splendor of her dancing dress.

Meanwhile William stalked ahead, with his square jaw set and his eyes stormy. He wanted to wring Bernstein’s neck and he could not. It made his hands clench and unclench nervously at his sides.

As they neared the door, a tall man rose from a crowded table and greeted Fanchon in French with an effusion that made William halt. Corwin caught his eye and bowed.

“Present me to your husband,” he said to Fanchon.

She turned with that delicate grace which made her small figure seem so light and buoyant. She had rallied all her forces, all her will. She smiled, her eyes shining dangerously.

“William, this is my old friend, Mr. Corwin.”

William shook hands stiffly.

“We’re just going,” he said shortly. “Good night!”

Fanchon laughed, half-apologetic, half-coquettish; but she found herself hurried out into the hall.

“Who’s that fellow?” asked William sharply. She was still laughing, half hysterical.

“Caraffi’s manager, Aristide Corwin--I’ve known him for ages.”

William grunted.

“Looks like a Monte Carlo gambler,” he said, and signaled for a taxi.

X

VIRGINIA bade Lucas stop the horses. The old wagonette was on its way out to Denbigh Crossing, and Daniel Carter had just come in sight. Virginia thought she had never seen him look so pale.

“He looks ill, and his limp is bad, too, poor fellow!” she breathed to herself; but she smiled, leaning over the back of the seat to shake hands.

“Where have you kept yourself, Dan?” she asked kindly, with the sweetness in her tone that Daniel had come to recognize as pity. “Grandfather has been asking for you.”

“I’m afraid he wants the book he lent me,” said Daniel, looking up at her and aware of the softness of her glance. She looked lovely, that same old shade hat looped down and the knot of pink under her chin; but the muslin dress was dotted white Swiss this time, with a little opening at the neck that showed a lovely throat. “I’ll bring it back this week.”

“Fie! As if he wanted the old book! We’ve missed you, Dan.”

He flushed boyishly and let his eyes dwell upon her. And, for the first time in her life, Virginia blushed consciously under Daniel’s look.

“Have you really?” he asked eagerly.

“Really and truly!” She nodded at him, smiling. “I should have written you a note about it--invited you to dinner, in fact, if it had not been for our--our concert--” She blushed this time, remembering suddenly that there must have been an earthquake in the Carter house. “I’ve just finished settling up the accounts with Mrs. Payson,” she added hurriedly. “I’m glad it’s over!”

There was a ghost of laughter in Daniel’s eyes, but he kept a sober face.

“It was a success, then, Virginia?”

“Oh, yes! We paid in our full share; no one out of pocket except Mr. Payson. You know, he paid Caraffi. Dan, did you hear Caraffi play?”

He shook his head.

“I’d rather hear you.”

“Mercy! Don’t say that out loud.” She laughed, but her blush deepened. It seemed to-day as if there was something new in Daniel, something she did not understand. “Come and hear me play, though, and I’ll believe you.”

Daniel glanced at the very conscious but decorous back of Lucas, and smiled. No one was ever worried about what Daniel said!

“I’m coming. I’ve been wanting to come all along,” he said gravely; “but--I’m afraid of wearing out my welcome.”

She looked surprised, then, catching his eye, realized that Daniel had been afraid that William’s brother was unwelcome. She blushed gloriously this time.

“You couldn’t--you couldn’t if you tried,” she said softly. Then to the coachman: “Go on, Lucas. I mustn’t keep you, Dan, but be sure you come soon.”

He stood bare-headed in the sunshine, watching the old wagonette disappear; then he put on his hat and walked haltingly and slowly toward the court-house. He was to address the jury in the afternoon, and in some way the sight of Virginia always helped him. He seemed to carry her smile, like sunshine, into the old dim court-room. He always spoke well afterward, so well that he was getting the name of an orator without being aware of it.

Plato had just served a light lunch for Colonel Denbigh on the lawn. The old man, sitting under his favorite horse-chestnut-tree, ate sparingly and drank one iced julep, made in the old Virginia style. He had finished, and Plato was holding the lighter for his cigar.

“Go to the concert the other night, Plato? Miss Virginia says you carried her bundles, and she thinks you heard it all.”

Plato held the lighter dexterously.

“Yessuh, I went ’long wid Miss Jinny. Didn’t pay no ’mission fee, jus’ walked righ’ in, same as Miz Payson an’ de quality. Yessuh, de music mighty fine, but I was lookin’ at young Miz Carter when she was dancin’. Dat’s what done took dis yere nigger!”

The colonel puffed at his cigar, a twinkle in his eye.

“Like it, Plato?”

“Yessuh! It was de mos’ circumspecklar dancin’ I ever see, suh, it sho was. I ain’t seen nuffin like it since de circus. But Mirandy Parsons, de collud girl dat works at Miz Carter’s, she says dere was terr’ble goings-on dere ’bout dis yere dance. She ’lowed Mist’ Carter mos’ throw a fit.”

Colonel Denbigh took off his hat and ran his fingers through his white hair.

“It was a great dance, Plato, a great dance.” He shook with silent laughter. “Some of the weaker brethren had to leave, though.”

“Dey sho did, suh! I met de Baptist minister comin’ out, an’ de ladies was wid him. Dey was sayin’ something ’bout dat dance in de Bible, an’ ’bout John de Baptist’s head on a charger. Seems like he took it hard--I don’t mean John de Baptist, but de minister. Done paid five dollahs fo’ his sittin’, an’ couldn’t set out no five dollahs’ worth. Dat’s what got him mad, suh, it sho was.”

The colonel shouted with laughter.

“He got more than five dollars’ worth out of that dance, Plato! There’s Miss Jinny now,” he added, glancing down the driveway. “You go and help her out with her packages.”

The old wagonette had entered the gateway, and Plato hurried off across the lawn; but the horses stopped short, and Virginia got out, meeting some one who had entered from the opposite direction. The colonel, well in the shade of his horse-chestnut, removed his cigar from his mouth. He was startled. The visitor was William Carter.

While Plato was taking a number of small packages from the wagonette, the pair greeted each other in the sunlit space of the old driveway. Something in their faces made the colonel rise silently and deftly beat a retreat. He passed behind the old box hedge and made his way back to the house.

“I reckon they’d like to have it out by themselves,” he thought.

Virginia, meanwhile, came across the lawn with William Carter. She stopped as she came near the horse-chestnut.

“Why, I thought grandfather was here!” she exclaimed, and then to William: “Won’t you sit down? I’ll call him.”

“But I didn’t come to see him,” said William quietly. “I came to see you, Virginia. I suppose I may sit down just the same?”

She blushed.

“Of course!” She took off her hat and laid it on the rustic table, and the sunshine seemed to caress the strands of gold in her soft hair. “We like to sit out here, you know, in summer. It seems so good to be out-of-doors. Do you notice what a view we have, since they cut that new street through?”

She was talking hurriedly, a little nervously, not looking at him. It was their first moment alone together since his return, and Virginia was not quite sure of herself. She pointed out the view.

William turned and looked at it absently.

“You can see a long way, can’t you?”

“Yes; and there’s such a glimpse now of blooming things. The old magnolia’s full of buds.”

“Fanchon doesn’t like these things,” said William moodily. “They bore her. She says she’d rather see one of those electric signs in New York, flashing Budweiser beer in and out, than sit here and count lightning-bugs!”

Virginia laughed, blushing again.

“What would we do if we all liked the same thing?” she asked lightly, and then, very sweetly: “William, I think your wife is beautiful. At first, one can’t decide, the face is so charming, so piquant; but when she smiles and those dark eyes of hers dwell on you--she’s beautiful!”

William said nothing for a moment. He was sitting in the colonel’s chair, his hat on his knees, and Virginia could see new haggard lines in his face. He did not look at her, but away toward a distant spire that appeared above the thick foliage, like a finger pointing upward.

“Yes, she’s beautiful,” he admitted at last, almost with reluctance.

Virginia, aware that he was thinking of days long ago, when he had taken her to church and carried her books home from school, felt her breath coming short. She was trying hard, but if he would not meet her half-way, how could she patch it up?

She averted her face, toying with her grandfather’s empty glass. The ice still jingled in it a little, and William started. He remembered jingling the ice in the glasses on the inn table, and Fanchon’s eyes seemed to mock him. He drew a long sigh.

“I hope you don’t mind my sitting here, Virginia,” he said gravely. “It’s--it’s so homelike. I can’t bear to go. I suppose lost spirits hang around sometimes outside the gates of paradise.”

Virginia caught her breath this time. She dared not look at him. She had taken a ring out of her pocket and held it out in the palm of her hand; but now, looking at his set profile, she hardly dared to speak of it. Her hand trembled; he was unhappy, and he had come to her! Something like fear showed in her eyes, but she forced herself to speak.

“I wish you’d come in and see grandfather. He’d be glad, I know. We meant to come to see your wife again--some evening when you would be at home.”

William lifted his head slowly and looked at her.

“Virginia, I got the letters you sent me,” he said in a low voice. “The reason I didn’t return yours was--I burned them one night in Paris just before--”

He stopped, unable to go on, red in the face; but she was quite calm. His very embarrassment steadied her.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I’m glad you spoke, because I wanted to give you this.” She held out her hand with the ring in her palm. “I know it belonged to your grandmother. I was afraid to trust it to the mails. Here it is, William.”

He held out his hand stiffly, without looking at her, and Virginia had to put the ring into it.

“Thank you,” he said in a low voice.

Then he looked in a dazed way at the ring lying in his hand. The color slowly receded from his flushed face and left it pale. He remembered the day he had put it on her finger!