two days subsequent to these occurrences—and some hours after his coupe loaded with his guns and traps had rumbled away to meet holcomb, in time for the adirondack express—thayor laid a note in his butler's hands with special instructions not to place it among his lady's mail until she awoke.
he could not have chosen a better messenger. while originally hailing from ireland, and while retaining some of the characteristics of his race—his good humor being one of them—blakeman yet possessed that smoothness and deference so often found in an english servant. in his earlier life he had served lord bromley in the indian jungle during the famine; had been second man at the country seat of the duke of valmoncourt at the time of the baccarat scandal, and later on had risen to the position of chief butler in the establishment of an unpopular roumanian general.
it is not to be wondered at, therefore, that he was at forty-five past master in domestic diplomacy, knowing to a detail the private history of more than a score of families, having studied them at his ease behind their chairs, or that he knew infinitely more of the world at large than did his master.
blakeman had two absorbing passions—one was his love of shooting and the other his reverent adoration of margaret, whom he had seen develop into womanhood, and who was his madonna and good angel.
at high noon, then, when the silver bell on alice's night table broke the stillness of her bedroom, her french maid, annette, entered noiselessly and slid back the soft curtains screening the bay window. she, like blakeman, had seen much. she was, too, more self-contained in many things than the woman she served, although she had been bred in montmartre and born in the rue lepic.
"did madame ring?" annette asked, bending over her mistress.
alice roused herself lazily.
"yes—my coffee and letters."
the girl crossed the room, opened a mirrored door, deftly extracted from a hanging mass of frou-frous behind it a silk dressing jacket, helped thrust the firm white arms within its dainty sleeves, tucked a small lace pillow between alice's shoulders and picking up the glossy mass of black hair, lifted it skilfully until it lay in glistening folds over the lace pillow. she then went into the boudoir and returned with a dainty tray bearing a set of old sevres, two buttered wafers of toast and two notes.
alice waited until her maid closed the bedroom door, then, with the impatience of a child, she opened one of the two notes—the one annette had discreetly placed beneath the other. this she read and re-read; it was brief, and written in a masculine hand. the woman was thoroughly awake now—her eyes shining, her lips parted in a satisfied smile. "you dear old friend," she murmured as she lay back upon the lace pillow. dr. sperry was coming at five.
she tucked the letter beneath the coverlid and opened her husband's note. suddenly her lips grew tense; she raised herself erect and stared at its contents:
i shall pass the summer in the woods if i can find suitable place for you and margaret. make no arrangements which will conflict with this. will write later.
sam.
again she read it, grasping little by little its whole import: all that it meant—all that it would mean to her.
"is he crazy?" she asked herself. "does he suppose i intend to be dragged up there?"
it was open defiance on his part; he had done this thing without consulting her and without her consent. it was preposterous and insulting in its brusqueness. he evidently intended to change her life—she, who loathed camp life more than anything in the world was to be forced to live in one all summer instead of reigning at newport. she understood now his open defiance in leaving for the woods with holcomb, and yet this last decision was far graver to her than his taking a dozen vacations. still deeper in her heart there lurked the thought of being separated from the man who understood her. the young doctor's summer practice in newport would no longer be a labour of love. it really meant exile to them both.
at one o'clock she lunched with margaret, hardly opening her lips through it all. she did not mention her husband's note—that she would reserve for the doctor. between them she felt sure there could be arranged a way out of the situation. again she devoured his note. yes—"at five." the intervening hours seemed interminable.
that these same hours were anything but irksome to sperry would have been apparent to anyone who watched his use of them. the day, like other days during office hours, had seen a line of coupes waiting outside his door. within had assembled a score of rich patients waiting their turn while they read the illustrated papers in strained silence—papers they had already seen. there was, of course, no conversation. a nervous cough now and then from some pretty widow, overheated in her sables, would break the awkward silence, or perhaps the voice of some wealthy little girl of five asking impossible explanations of her maid. during these hours the mere opening of the doctor's sanctum door was sufficient to instantly raise the hopes and the eyes of the unfortunates.
for during these office hours dr. sperry had a habit of opening the door of this private sanctum sharply, and standing there for an instant, erect and faultlessly dressed, looking over the waiting ones; then, with a friendly nod, he would recognize, perhaps the widow—and the door closed again on the less fortunate.
it was, of course, more than possible that the young woman was ill over her dressmaker's bill, rather than suffering from a weak heart or an opera cold. sperry's ear, however, generally detected the cold. it was not his policy to say unpleasant things—especially to young widows who had recently inherited the goods and chattels of their hard-working husbands.
"ill!—nonsense, my dear lady; you look as fresh as a rose," he would begin in his fascinating voice—"a slight cold, but nothing serious, i assure you. you women are never blessed with prudence," etc., etc.
to another: "nervous prostration, my dear madame! fudge—all imagination! silly, really silly. you caught cold, of course, coming out of the heated theatre. get a good rest, my dear mrs. jack—i want you to stay at least a month at palm beach, and no late suppers, and no champagne. no—not a drop," he adds severely. then softening, "well, then, half a glass. there, i've been generous, haven't i?" etc., etc., and so the day passed.
on this particular day it was four o'clock before he had dismissed the last of his patients. then he turned to his nurse with an impatient tone, as he searched hurriedly among the papers on his desk:
"find out what day i set for young mrs. van ripley's operation."
"tuesday, sir," answered the nurse.
"then make it thursday, and tell james to pack up my big valise and see that my golf things are in it and aboard the 9.18 in the morning."
"yes, sir," answered the girl, dipping her plump hands in a pink solution.
all this time alice had been haunted by the crawling hands of the clock. luxurious as was her house of marble, it was a dreary domain at best to-day, as she sat in the small square room that lay hidden beyond the conservatory of cool palms and exotic plants screening one end of the dining room—a room her very own, and one to which only the chosen few were ever admitted; a jewel box of a room indeed, whose walls, ceiling and furniture were in richly carved teak. a corner, by the way, in which one could receive an old friend and be undisturbed. there was about it, too, a certain feeling of snug secrecy which appealed to her, particularly the low lounge before the moorish fireplace of carved alabaster, which was well provided with soft pillows richly covered with rare embroideries. to-day none of these luxuries appealed to the woman seated among the cushions, gazing nervously at the fire. what absorbed her were the hands of the clock, crawling slowly toward five.
* * * * *
he did not keep her waiting. he was ahead of time, in fact—blakeman leading him obsequiously through the fragrant conservatory.
"ah—it is you, doctor!" she exclaimed in feigned surprise as the butler started to withdraw.
"yes," he laughed; "i do hope i'm not disturbing you, dear lady. i was passing and dropped in."
alice put forth her hand to him frankly and received the warm pressure of his own. they waited until the sound of blakeman's footsteps died away in the conservatory.
"he's gone," she whispered nervously.
"what has happened?" asked the doctor with sudden apprehension.
"everything," she replied womanlike, raising her eyes slowly to his own. impulsively he placed both hands on her shoulders.
"you are nervous," he said, his gaze riveted upon her parted lips. he felt her arms grow tense—she threw back her head stiffly and for a moment closed her eyes as if in pain.
"don't!" she murmured—"we must be good friends—good friends—do you understand?"
"forgive me," was his tactful reply. he led her to the corner of the
lounge and with fresh courage covered her hand firmly with his own.
"see—i am sensible," he smiled—"we understand each other, i think.
tell me what has happened."
"sam," she murmured faintly, freeing her hand—"sam has dared to treat me like—like a child."
"you! i don't believe it—you? nonsense, dear friend."
"you must help me," she returned in a vain effort to keep back the tears.
"has he been brutal to you?—jealous?—impossible!" and a certain query gleamed in his eyes.
"yes, brutal enough. i never believed him capable of it."
"i believe you, but it seems strange—psychologically impossible.
why, he's not that kind of a man."
alice slipped her hand beneath a cushion, drew forth her husband's note and gave it to him.
"read that," she said, gazing doggedly into the fire, her chin in her hands.
"'i may pass the summer in the woods'"—he read. "'make no arrangements—' well, what of it?" this came with a breath of relief. alice raised her head wearily.
"it means that my life will be different—a country boarding house or a camp up in those wretched woods, i suppose—an existence"—she went on, her voice regaining its old dominant note—"not life!"
"and no more newport for either of us," he muttered half audibly to himself with a tone of regret.
alice looked up at him, her white hands clenched.
"i won't have it!" she exclaimed hotly; "i simply won't have it. i should die in a place like that. buried," she went on bitterly, "among a lot of country bumpkins! sam's a fool!"
"and you believe him to be in earnest?" he asked at length. she made no reply; her flushed cheeks again sunk in her jewelled hands. "do you, seriously?" he demanded with sudden fear.
"yes—very much in earnest—that's the worst of it," she returned, with set, trembling lips.
for some moments he watched her in silence, she breathing in nervous gasps, her slippered feet pressed hard in the soft rug. a sudden desire rushed through him to take her in his arms, yet he dared not risk it.
"come," he said, at last, "let us reason this thing out. we're neither of us fools. besides, it does not seem possible he will dare carry out anything in life without your consent."
"i don't know," she answered slowly. "i never believed him capable of going to the woods—but he did. and i must say, frankly, i never believed him capable of this."
"you and he have had a quarrel—am i not right?"
she shrugged her shoulders in reply.
"perhaps," she confessed—"but he has never understood me—he is incapable of understanding any woman."
"quite true," he replied lightly, in his best worldly voice; "quite true. few men, my dear child, ever understand the women they marry. you might have been free to-day—free, and happier, had you—"
he sprang to his feet, bending over her—clasping her hands clenched in her lap. slowly he sought her lips.
"don't," she breathed—"don't—i beg of you. you must not—you shall not! you know we have discussed all that before."
"forgive me," said he, straightening and regaining his seat. the ice had been thinner than he supposed, and he was too much of an expert to risk breaking through. "but why are you so cold to me?" he asked gloomily, with a sullen glance; "you, whose whole nature is the reverse? do you know you are gloriously beautiful—you, whom i have always regarded as a woman of the world, seem to have suddenly developed the conscience of a schoolgirl."
"you said you would help me," she replied, ignoring his outburst, her eyes averted as if fearing to meet his gaze.
"then tell me you trust me," he returned, leaning toward her.
she raised her eyes frankly to his own.
"i do—i do trust you, but i do not trust myself. now keep your promise—i insist on it. believe me, it is better—wiser for us both."
"come, then," he said, laying his hand tenderly on her shoulder—it had grown dark in the teakwood room—"let me tell you a story—a fairy tale."
she looked at him with a mute appeal in her eyes. then with a half moan she said: "i don't want any story; i want your help and never so much as now. think of something that will help me! be quick! no more dreams—our minutes are too valuable; i must send you away at six."
for some minutes he paced the room in silence. then, as if a new thought had entered his mind, he stopped and resumed his professional manner.
"what about margaret?" he asked quietly. "is she fond of the woods?"
"why—she adores them." she had regained her composure now. "the child was quite mad about that wretched long lake. what a summer we had—i shudder when i think of it!"
"did it ever occur to you, my dear friend, that margaret needed the woods?" his eyes were searching hers now as if he wanted to read her inmost thought.
"needed them—in what way?"
"i mean—er—wouldn't it be better for her if she went to them? a winter at saranac—or better still, a longer summer at the camp—if there is to be a camp. in that case her father would not leave her alone; there would be less chance, too, of his insisting on your being there—should you refuse. at least that would be a reason for his spending as much time as possible in camp with margaret, and you might run up occasionally. i'm merely speaking in a purely professional way, of course," he added.
a sudden pallor crept over her face.
"and you really believe margaret to be delicate?" she asked in a trembling voice full of sudden apprehension.
sperry regained his seat, his manner lapsing into one that he assumed at serious consultations.
"i am a pretty good diagnostician," he went on, satisfied with the impression he had made. "don't think me brutal in what i am going to say, but i've watched that young daughter of yours lately. new york is not the place for her."
"you don't mean her lungs?" she asked in a barely audible tone.
the doctor nodded.
"not seriously, of course, my dear friend—really not that sort of condition at present—only i deem it wisest to take precautions. i'm afraid if we wait it will—er—be somewhat difficult later. margaret must be taken in time; she is just the sort of temperament tuberculosis gets hold of with annoying rapidity—often sooner than we who have had plenty of experience with the enemy suspect. i have always said that the fenwick child might have been saved had it not been for the interference of mrs. fenwick after the consultation."
"and you are really telling me the truth?" alice gasped—her lips set, her breast heaving.
the doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"unfortunately—yes," was his reply.
alice straightened to her feet, crossed to the mantel and stood for some moments with her forehead pressed against the cool edge of the marble, sperry watching her in silence.
"poor margie!" he heard her say—then she turned to him with a strange, calm look in her eyes.
"you must go," she said with an effort; "it is late. blakeman will be here in a moment to turn on the lights." she stretched forth her hands to him. for a second he held them warm and trembling in his own, then blakeman's rapid step in the conservatory was heard.
"good-night," he said in a louder tone, as the butler appeared. "i shall see you at the van renssalaer's thursday—we are to dine at eight, i believe."
she smiled wearily in assent.
"and remember me to your good husband," he added. "i hope he will have the best of luck."
"they say hunting is a worse habit to break than bridge," she returned with a forced little laugh.
blakeman followed the doctor to the door. reverently he handed him his stick, coat and hat—a moment later the heavy steel grille closed noiselessly.
blakeman stood grimly looking out of the front window, his jaw set, his eyes following the doctor until he disappeared within his coupe and slammed the door shut.
"damn him!" he said. "if he tells that child that i'll strangle him!"
