With Edge Tools Part 23

"Splendid," said Marion. "I adore driving in the moonlight."

The party had left the veranda, and Marion and her companions walked to where they were waiting. They were obliged to descend the stairs to the hallway below, and by the time they reached the rendezvous she felt perfectly calm and collected. They were compelled to wait a moment for a missing wrap. Marion stood next to Duncan, and a wild sense of pleasure was in her heart. The fear had gone, and her love made her defiant. She felt that she might give him his answer then.

The missing wrap was found, and the party moved toward the door. As they pa.s.sed out they could see the dark outlines of the drag looming up in the moonlight. The great coach lamps cast a flickering light upon the roadway and the horses champed impatiently at the bits. Sedger mounted to the box and this time Mrs. Smith had the seat beside him. A couple of Sedger's friends had been picked up at the club, so Marion said she would take the back seat. Duncan joined her there, and she was astonished to find her husband next her also.

The drag rolled away from the Club House, and swayed and rocked as Sedger let the horses gallop through the gates and along the little stretch of road leading to the park. The evening breeze blew softly against the faces of the party, and the coach rumbled along past the park lake, with the moonlight glistening on its surface, and the slender trees standing out grim and shadowy like huge phantoms guarding its banks. Then the team settled down to a steady pace, and through the dim light the leaders could just be seen huddling together, with their ears p.r.i.c.ked up for every sound. Horses seem to travel best at night, and the steady creaking of the harness, harmonizing with the rattle of the bars and the lively clatter of hoofs on the hard ground, came like sweet music through the night air. A leader shied at a shadow; the coach swayed for a moment, and the party crowded closer together. Some one started a college song; the refrain was caught up by the rest, and the chorus swelled forth a familiar glee. Along the tree-lined avenues or through winding roadways the great coach rolled. Now the leaders plunged into the dark shadows of the woods, or trotted merrily past some open meadow, while from the long coach-horn the notes of "Who'll buy a broom," sounded sharp and clear on the night air:

"For though the sound of the horn is dead, And the guards are turned to clay, There are those who remember the 'yard of tin,'

And the mail of the olden day."

Then, for a while, they sped along the sh.o.r.es of the great lake, and mingling with the rumbling of wheels came the splash of the waves upon the sandy sh.o.r.e.

The songs grew less frequent, the laughter ceased, and the party gradually lapsed into silence. A reckless daring, such as she had never known before, possessed Marion. In her imagination she seemed to be rolling on toward some dazzling goal, and she laughed at the thought of danger. The moon pa.s.sed under a cloud and she felt the strong grasp of Duncan's hand about her own. She looked toward her husband and there was a cold, stony feeling in her heart. She was glad to feel that she had the courage to break from the trammels of convention which had so long bound her, and she felt a delightful sense of freedom which told her that at last the depths of her nature had been fathomed, and that the love lying there had burst forth in all its strength.

The coach left the park and rolled into the sleeping city. Down the long avenue it went, past rows of darkened houses. The cool breezes of the lake seemed warmed by the heated pavements, and the freedom of the country was lost in the narrow lines of streetway. Marion sat watching the two converging rows of flickering street lamps stretching away as far as she could see, and down the street before her she saw the lamps of Jack Elliot's coach gleaming in the darkness. She remained lost in thought, and did not speak again until the brake rattled and the drag suddenly stopped.

Late that night Duncan sat in his room at the City Club. He was partly undressed and his clothes lay scattered about in heedless confusion. In his hand he held a gla.s.s of whiskey and soda, and between the occasional sips he pa.s.sed over in his mind the events of the day. He thought also of the experiences of his life, and the women he had known came into his mind; women who had trusted and loved him while they formed the idle amus.e.m.e.nt of his hours; women who had felt his power for a while, only to see him turn away for some later fancy. He smiled as he thought of the words of love he had spoken to confiding hearts, but the smile brought a tinge of remorse for the harm he had done. He thought of Marion in a different light then, and a feeling of pity came into his heart which prompted him to curb his selfish nature and act in a generous way; but the echo of a cruel laugh came to him, and in fancy he saw two mocking black eyes gleaming before him. "A man's a fool," he said aloud, "not to take what fortune sends him."

CHAPTER XV.

A GAME OF SKILL.

The seemingly interminable hours of the Sunday following the races pa.s.sed slowly by. Marion spent the afternoon in her own room trying to think over the possibilities of the near future. Her heedless conduct had now brought her to a position which demanded resolute decision, and, surrounded as she was by a maze of temptations, she required to exercise the calmest judgment. A strong nature is able, at such times, to penetrate the future and select the wisest course, but it is far easier, and perhaps more natural, to drift aimlessly along, trusting to no other guide than fatuity. At moments a faint sense of fear feebly urged Marion to hold back, but wild fancies burned so impetuously in her heart that she was carried on past the point where she might have calmly considered the probable result of her conduct.

At last she was a woman, she thought, and felt as other women did.

After years pa.s.sed in eking out a monotonous existence amid repellent surroundings she felt emanc.i.p.ated by the knowledge that she had found the love her nature craved. Now that Duncan had brought her this love should she refuse the gift and voluntarily return to the slavery in which she had lived so long? This was the question she asked herself. It would be transgressing the rules of society if she permitted herself to enjoy this love, but what difference did that make? For years she had been religiously obeying those rules, and her existence had been one of wretched discontent. Certainly the other course could not make her more unhappy, and, besides, she had seen women in other cities break loose from the bonds of convention and still maintain a standing in the world.

In fact, they had been almost openly applauded for their action, and certainly had not suffered, socially, for their courage. After all, virtue was little else than fear, and it was only a weak nature that would permit itself to be coerced by the danger of discovery. In older places that danger had been modified by the liberality of an advanced society, and as she had only the restricted provincialism of Chicago to fear, she felt a secret delight in defying the prudish gossips of the Knox Presbyterian Church. After all, she felt that she was clever enough to elude discovery, and relying on her discretion she permitted herself to dismiss fear from her heart as unworthy of a superior nature. It was by such reasoning as this that she forced her judgment to approve the promptings of her heart.

Marion watched the moments roll by. As the hour approached when she was to meet Duncan alone she felt calmer than she had at any time since their parting. At six o'clock she heard the brougham drive up to the door to take her husband to the station, and when he came into her room to bid her good-by, she calmly kissed him, congratulating herself that she had not betrayed the slightest agitation. All love for him was dead, she felt, and when he lingered for another embrace, she wondered that he could not see her heart was cold and unmoved. She smiled as he left.

"Foolish fellow," she thought, "he has never known the true warmth of my heart so he will be content with the cold effigy of love I give him."

However, the words seemed very harsh, even to her, and she wondered if it really were she who had spoken them. Inspired by a curiosity to see if she had changed during the day, she looked at herself in the long mirror of her dressing-room and felt a secret pleasure in the thought that the image before her was that of a woman of the world to whom none of the experiences of life were strange. She thought her face showed more character, too, and she flattered herself that it would not be easy for anyone to read her thoughts in those deep, black eyes.

The little clock on her dressing-table struck half-past six, and she rang for her maid to dress her hair. After spending an hour-and-a-quarter at her toilet, she again arose and surveyed herself in the long mirror. Her pulses seemed, somehow, to be beating more rapidly now, and the calmness she had felt before was deserting her. The sense of fear came into her heart again, and even her conscience uttered a faint remonstrance at the step she was taking. She thought over all the chances of discovery and wondered whether there was danger from the servants. Her cook and her butler were both French and, as they could speak but a few words of English, would say nothing; the footman and housemaids she had permitted to go out, and she felt that she could trust the discretion of her own maid. As for her neighbors, the people living next door were not of her set, and she drew a breath of relief on looking out of the window and finding that, owing to a cloudy sky, it was already nearly dark. Still she was far from calm, and, thinking she looked pale, she pinched her cheeks to bring color into them.

It was time for Duncan to arrive. Should she feign illness and send him away? She felt that it was too late for her to turn back now, and the thought of Duncan brought back memories which, for the moment, drove fear completely from her heart, and aroused the reckless spirit which had already carried her so far. She took a hasty glance at herself in the gla.s.s, gave a final touch to her hair, and hurried down the stairway to the little French room where she had been with Duncan on the afternoon of Mrs. McSeeney's tea. No longer able to reason out excuses for her actions she abandoned herself to the contending fancies which filled her mind. She closed her eyes and fancied that she was being borne recklessly on toward a frightful precipice by some subtle force against whose power she was helpless. It seemed to her that she was being dashed down! down! Then she imagined that she saw the remains of her former self lying, bruised and shattered, at the bottom of the abyss before her. She grasped the chair-arms convulsively, then smiled at her childish fancies, yet deep down in her heart there was a feeling, growing stronger each moment, which urged her to turn back.

The door-bell rang. Marion could feel her heart beating with suppressed excitement, and it seemed an interminable time before the measured steps of Francois resounded on the hardwood floor. The door opened and Duncan entered. She could hear him taking off his coat in the hall, and she felt her brain whirling with the dizziness of confused emotions. The wheels of a carriage rumbled on the pavement outside and seemed to stop before the door. What did it mean? Marion trembled at the thought that it might be some one coming to the house. Duncan took a step on the hall floor and then a key rattled in the front door. Her husband had returned. She could feel her pulses stop, and her limbs grow numb with fright. Duncan in the house, the hour, the dinner for two. What excuse could she make? The door slammed, and she heard her husband's voice in the hall. "h.e.l.lo, Grahame," he said, "are you here? Just going, eh?

Nonsense, stop and take pot-luck with us. I know my wife will be glad to have you. She expected to be alone."

Marion was saved. She could scarcely believe her senses; yet a sincere feeling of gratefulness to her husband came into her heart, and she drew a deep, free breath which brought the color back to her cheeks, and calmed her excited nerves. All her disturbed thoughts seemed quickly to vanish, and she felt as though she could hardly restrain herself from uttering a shout of joy. An hour before she would have felt resentment toward her husband, but the specious arguments with which she had pardoned the wrong emotions of her heart seemed, somehow, to have fled, and she could realize the danger which had threatened her. Had she been left to meet Duncan alone, she might not have proved strong enough to resist his personality, but now she felt in her heart that the peril was pa.s.sed.

Roswell and Duncan came into the room. "I missed my train," Roswell said, "so I thought I would come back and dine with you, my dear. I found Grahame in the hall and persuaded him to remain. I knew you would be glad to have him."

"Your husband is extremely kind, Mrs. Sanderson," said Duncan. "I expected to dine alone at the Club."

"Mr. Grahame is always welcome," smiled Marion, wondering what would be the outcome of this discordant dinner. She looked at her husband to see if his manner betrayed any excitement, but she could notice nothing unusual.

"You won't mind if I run away early, my dear, will you?" he said. "There is another train at half-past ten."

"I wish you wouldn't go to-night, dear," answered Marion.

"I must. The business is important."

Marion turned away thoughtfully, and found her eyes wandering toward Duncan. She noticed that his face wore an amused expression, as though the situation seemed laughable, and the matter were a huge joke. This carelessness provoked Marion, and she caught herself wondering why she felt unmoved in his presence. He was in evening dress, and she was amazed that her husband did not notice that, for an afternoon call, this was an anachronism.

After a few moments of desultory conversation, Francois appeared in the doorway. "Ze dinner ez served, Madame," he solemnly announced, and the little party moved silently toward the dining-room. As they crossed the hallway Marion could not help smiling at the strange turn affairs had taken. It seemed to her so like an amusing situation in some comedy, and she felt as though she were an actress going through with a part in a play which would, of course, end happily when the curtain was rung down on the last act.

The party filed slowly into the dining-room, and took their seats at the little, round table. A small candelabrum, placed in the centre of the cloth, supplied the only light, and the bright rays of the candles, falling on the white table-cover and shining plate, formed a cozy contrast to the oak-lined walls looming in the distance. Duncan sat on Marion's right, while her husband was placed on her left. During the silence which came as they took their places, Marion looked curiously at both men. Duncan took his seat with a satisfied air, and as he unfolded his napkin a careless smile came to his lips. In her husband's eyes she saw an expression of determination, and she thought it unusual and out of keeping with the genial manner in which he broke the silence by saying: "I consider it very lucky we trapped you into staying, Grahame.

I have scarcely seen you since you arrived, and I would like to have a friendly chat before we come to that elevator business. I shall be back from St. Louis on Sunday and we can talk about the loan on Monday."

It was a surprise to Marion to learn that her husband and Duncan were evidently so intimate. She thought they were scarcely acquainted.

"Any time will do me, Sanderson," answered Duncan, and then the party began to take their soup in silence. Francois poured out the sherry; Duncan took up his gla.s.s and drained it at one draught. As he put it down, he looked at Marion with an amused expression of triumph, then, glancing toward her husband, he shrugged his shoulders in a manner which conveyed contempt. Marion felt a sense of resentment toward Duncan for a.s.suming such an att.i.tude. His entire manner seemed to give the impression that he felt quite as much at home as the master of the house, and as the dinner progressed he treated her husband with the easy familiarity of one who felt the superiority of his position. Marion noticed that Roswell had never once changed the friendly tone of his manner, yet she could not help feeling that this extreme affability was, in some measure, a.s.sumed. The conversation was confined mainly to the two men, and Roswell seemed to lead it into channels where it was difficult for Duncan to follow, while the familiarity her husband showed with the great questions of current interest was astonishing to Marion. She had spent so little time with him that she was unfamiliar with his tastes, and the keenness with which he argued, together with the delicate manner in which he seemed to lay bare Duncan's ignorance, surprised her greatly.

Marion was glad to be a listener, as it gave her time to think. She seemed to be seized now with a dispa.s.sionate calmness, which permitted her to view her actions in a way she had never done before. The subtle spell which had bound her to Duncan seemed fast breaking, and although scarce an hour before she had been ready to confess to him the full warmth of her love, she now appeared to be at a great distance from him and looking at the past as in the pages of some book. Again and again she glanced toward him and wondered why he seemed so changed. She observed that he was drinking too much wine, and when he occasionally raised his gla.s.s and cast an insinuating glance toward her, she felt the spirit of resentment grow stronger and stronger. She asked herself if his power of fascination had gone, and she confessed that in the society of others, at least, he was not the same as when alone with her.

Then she thought over the words which he had spoken to her, and how in his presence she had felt the subtle inspiration of a love which, it seemed to her, must burn forever. She looked up to see if she could feel the power his grey eyes had so often exerted over her, and she saw an angry blush come to his cheek. Roswell had called forth a confession of ignorance on a delicate point of finance. Duncan was clever, but he was not a deep student, and he often found himself at a loss for facts with which to substantiate his theories. He spoke a resentful word or two, and Marion thought it was unmanly for him to lose his temper.

The dinner wore on, and Marion found herself becoming more and more critical of Duncan's actions. She wondered if he were the man for whom, two hours before, she had been willing to venture everything. She began to a.n.a.lyze her feelings of the past six months, and she asked herself if the feeling he inspired was, after all, the love that her nature craved.

Perhaps her doubts were momentary and would vanish, leaving her again the prey of wild desires. Yet she felt that her nature could not be so vacillating. She looked at Duncan again to rea.s.sure herself. Was he her ideal? He leaned his elbows on the table and made a noise as he ate. She wondered why she had not noticed this before, for she abhorred carelessness of manners.

"So you think a leisure cla.s.s is what we need in the West," Roswell was saying as Francois removed the plates after the game course. Marion had always felt this lack to be one of the evils of Western life, and she looked to Duncan for a defense of her theory.

"Yes," answered Duncan. "I favor a landed cla.s.s who spend their money freely and devote their time to something beside grubbing for dollars."

"I quite agree with you," said Roswell. "We men in the West live at too rapid a pace. In the ceaseless toil after money we become callous to the finer sentiments of life." Marion looked up in astonishment. She had thought her husband irredeemably absorbed in business. "We devote too little time," he continued, "to the development of the aesthetic side of our natures. I think we should have more people of wealth whose time is spent in fostering the arts; but as for men of absolute leisure, I think we are better off without them."

"There I can't agree with you," answered Duncan, "if among men of leisure you include those whose lives are given to sport. Look at the sportsmen of England. We want more of that sort in this country. A hard riding set of men who stick at nothing. Such a life as they lead makes men of them."

Marion was too fond of literature and the arts to agree with Duncan. She had known some of these hunting men and she had a small opinion of their talents.

"In a degree I approve of your sentiments," said her husband. "If you will eliminate the taste for drink, cards, and vice from your sportsmen.

Give him some brains and make him a useful member of society, who devotes much of his time to the improvement of his tenantry, and I grant you that his counterpart would be a desirable acquisition to American life."

"So you don't believe in the reckless sportsman of the old school."

"No, I confess I don't."

"Why, may I ask?"

"I think I can best answer that question by telling you an anecdote.

I was once in North Carolina looking after some property. The place Where I was staying was one of the little villages in the mountains where the advent of a stranger is a matter of momentous importance.

I happened to be in the village store one day when one of those tweed-and-knickerbocker Englishmen, who occasionally go there for shooting, walked in to purchase some powder. After he had received his package and was about to leave, the lean-faced cracker store-keeper detained him in conversation somewhat after this fashion:

"'Be you from Noo York, stranger?'