Find the Woman

  XXXI

  Until she died, Clancy would hold vividly, in memory, the recollectionof this scene. Just beyond the threshold Carey stopped. His wife,wild-eyed, leaned against the door which she had closed, her hand stillon the knob.

  For a full minute, there was silence. Clancy forgot her own danger. Shewas looking upon the most dramatic thing in life, the casting-off by awoman of a man whom she had loved, because she has found him unworthy.

  Not that Sophie Carey, just now--or later on, for that matter--stoopedto any melodramatic utterance. But her eyes were as expressive as spokensentences. Into them first crept fear--a fear that was different fromthe alarm that she had shown when Clancy had mentioned her husband. Butthe fear vanished, was banished by the fulness of her contempt. Hereyes, that had been wide, now narrowed, hardened, seemed to emit sparksof ice.

  Contemptuous anger heightened her beauty. Rather, it restored it. For,when Clancy had staggered into the house, the beauty of Sophie Carey,always a matter of coloring and spirits rather than of feature, had beena memory. She had been haggard, wan, sunken of cheek, so pale that herrouge had made her ghastly by contrast.

  But now a normal color crept into her face. Not really normal, but,induced by the emotions that swayed her, it was the color that shouldalways have been hers. It took years from her age. Her figure hadseemed heavy, matronly, a moment ago. But now, as her muscles stiffened,it took on again that litheness which, despite her plumpness, made herseem more youthful than she was.

  But it was the face of her husband that fascinated Clancy. Below hisleft eye, a bruise stood out, crimson. Clancy knew that it was from theblow that she had struck with the butt of the whip. She felt a certainvindictive pleasure at the sight of it. Carey's mouth twitched. Hisblond mustache looked more like straw than anything else. Ordinarily, itwas carefully combed, but now the hairs that should have been trained tothe right stuck over toward the left, rendering him almost grotesque.Below it, his mouth was twisted in a sort of sneer that made itsweakness more apparent than ever.

  His hat was missing; snow was on his shoulders, as though, in hispursuit, he had stumbled headlong into the drifts. And his tie wasundone, his collar opened, as though he had found difficulty inbreathing. The hand that held the revolver shook.

  Before the gaze of the two women, his air of menace vanished. Theintoxication that, combined with fear, had made him almost insane, lefthim.

  "Why--why--musta scared you," he stammered.

  Sophie Carey stepped close to him. Her fingers touched the revolver inhis hand. Her husband jerked it away. Its muzzle, for a wavering moment,pointed at Clancy. She did not move. She was not frightened; she wasfascinated. She marveled at Sophie's cool courage. For Mrs. Careyreached again for the weapon. This time, Carey did not resist; hesurrendered it to her. Then Clancy understood how tremendous had beenthe strain, not merely for her but for Sophie. The older woman wouldhave fallen but for the wall against which her shoulders struck. But hervoice was steady when she spoke.

  "I suppose that there's some explanation, Don?"

  Clancy wondered if she would ever achieve Sophie's perfect poise. Shewondered if it could be acquired, or if people were born with it. It wasnot pretense in Sophie Carey's case, at any rate. The casualness of hertone was not assumed. Somehow, she made Clancy think of those _grandesdames_ of the French Revolution who played cards as the summons to thetumbrils came, and who left the game as jauntily as though they went tothe play.

  For Clancy knew that Sophie Carey had forgiven her husband the other dayfor the last time; that hope, so far as he was concerned, was now ashesin her bosom forever. To a woman of Mrs. Carey's type, this presenthumiliation must make her suffer as nothing else in the world could do.Yet, because she was herself, her voice held no trace of pain.

  "'Explanation?'" Carey was mastered by her self-control. "Why--coursethere is! Why----" He took the refuge of the weak. He burst into temper."'Course there is!" he cried again. "Dirty little spy! Trying to get mein bad. Stopped her--wanted to scare her----"

  "Don!" His wife's voice stopped his shrill utterance.

  She straightened up, no longer leaning against the wall for support."You stopped her? Why?" She raised her hand, quelling his reply. "Nolies, Don; I want the truth."

  Carey's mouth opened; it shut again. He looked hastily about him, asthough seeking some road for flight. He glanced toward the revolver thathis wife held. For a moment Clancy thought that he would spring for it.But if he held such thought, he let it go, conquered by his wife'sspirit.

  "'The truth?'" He tried to laugh. "Why--why, Miss Deane's got some foolidea that I killed Morris Beiner, and I wanted to--I wanted to----"

  "'Beiner?' 'Morris Beiner?'" Sophie was bewildered.

  "Theatrical man. You read about it in the papers." Again Carey tried tolaugh, to seem nonchalantly amused. "Because I had an office in the samebuilding, she got the idea that I killed him. I just wanted her to quittelling people about me. Just a friendly little talk--that's all Iwanted with her."

  "'Friendly?' With this?" Mrs. Carey glanced down at the weapon in herhand.

  "Well, I just thought maybe that she'd scare easy, and----"

  "Don!" The name burst explosively from his wife's lips. Her breathsucked in audibly through her parted lips.

  Carey stepped back, away from her.

  "Why--why----"

  "A murderer," cried Mrs. Carey.

  "It's a lie!" said Carey. "We had a li'l fight, but----"

  Mrs. Carey glanced at Clancy.

  "How did you know?" she whispered.

  Clancy shook her head. She made no reply. Sophie Carey didn't want one.She spoke only as one who has seen the universe shattered might uttersome question.

  "Why?" demanded Mrs. Carey.

  "He butted in on some business of----"

  "I don't mean that," she interrupted. "I mean--isn't there anything of aman left in you, Donald? I don't care why you killed this man Beiner.But why, having done something for which a price must be paid, youattack a woman----"

  She slumped against the wall again. The hand holding the revolverdangled limply at her side. So it was that it was easily snatched fromher hand.

  Clancy had been too absorbed in the scene to remember Garland. SophieCarey, apparently, knew nothing of the man. The snow had been swept fromthe veranda only in front of the door. It muffled the elevator-man'sapproach to one of the French windows in the living-room, off the hall,in which the three stood. Garland crept to the door, sized up thesituation, and, with a bound, was at Sophie's side. He leaped away fromher, flourishing the weapon.

  "'S all right, Carey! We got 'em!" he shouted.

  Clancy had become used to the unexpected. Yet Carey's action surprisedher. In a moment when danger menaced as never before, danger passedaway. Carey had been born a gentleman. He had spent his life trying toforget the fact. But instinct is stronger than our will. He could lie,could murder even, could kill a woman. But a gutter-rat like Garlandcould not lay a hand on his wife.

  The elevator-man, never having known the spark of breeding, could nothave anticipated Carey's move. The revolver was wrested from him, and hewas on hands and knees, hurled there by Carey's punch, without quiteknowing what had happened, or why.

  Carey handed the revolver to his wife. She accepted it silently. Thehusband turned to Garland.

  "Get out," he said.

  His voice was quiet. All the hysteria, all the madness had disappearedfrom it. It had the ring of command that might always have been therehad the man run true to his creed. He was a weakling, but weakness mighthave been conquered.

  Garland scrambled to his feet. Sidewise, fearful lest Carey strike himagain, his opened mouth expressing more bewilderment than anger, hesidled past Carey to the door, which the latter opened. He boundedswiftly through, and Carey closed the door. The patter of the man's feetwas heard for a moment on the veranda. Then he was gone.

  "Thank you, Don," said Sophie quietly.

  It was, Clancy felt, like a scene
from some play. It was unreal,unbelievable, only--it was also dreadfully real.

  "Don't suppose the details interest you, Sophie?" said Carey.

  She shook her head.

  "I'm sorry, Don."

  He shrugged. "That's more than I have any right to expect from you,Sophie."

  His enunciation was no longer thick; it was extremely clear. His wife'slower lip trembled slightly.

  "There--there isn't any way----"

  He shook his head.

  "I've been drinking like a fish, and thought there was. I--I'm not amurderer, Sophie. I almost was--a few minutes ago. But Beiner--just arat who interfered with me. I--I--you deserved something decent,Sophie. You got me. I deserved something rotten, and--I got you. Anddidn't appreciate-- Oh, well, you aren't interested. And it's too late,anyway."

  He smiled debonairly. His lips, Clancy noticed, did not tremble in theleast. Though she only vaguely comprehended what was going on, less sherealized that, in some incomprehensible fashion, Don Carey was cominginto his own, that whatever indecencies, wickednesses, had been in theman, they were leaving him now. Later on, when she analyzed the scene,she would understand that Carey had spiritually groveled before hiswife, and that, though she could not love him, could not respect him,despite all the shame he had inflicted upon her, she had forgiven him.But of this there was no verbal hint. Carey turned to her.

  "Insanity covers many things, Miss Deane. It would be kind of you, ifyou are able, to think of me as insane."

  He stepped toward his wife. She shrank away from him.

  "I'm not going to be banal, Sophie," he told her. "Just let me havethis." From her unresisting fingers he took the revolver. He put it inhis coat pocket. He shrugged his shoulders. "I've had lucid moments,even in the past week," he said, "and in one of them I knew what layahead. It's all written down--in the steel box up-stairs, Sophie. It--itwill save any one else--from being suspected." He turned and his handwas on the door-knob.

  "Don!" Sophie's voice rose in a scream. The aplomb that had been hersdeserted her. Strangely, Carey seemed the dominating figure of the two,and this despite the fact that he was beaten--beaten by his wife's ownsheer stark courage.

  He turned back. The smile that he gave to his wife was reminiscent ofcharm. Clancy could understand how, some years ago, the brilliant andcharming Sophie Carey had succumbed to that smile. Slowly he shook hishead.

  "Sophie, you've been the bravest thing in the world. You aren't going tobe a coward now."

  He was through the door, and it slammed behind him before his wifemoved. Then she started for the door. She made only one stride, and thenshe slumped, to lie, a huddled heap, upon the hallway floor.

  How long Clancy stood there she couldn't have told. Probably not morethan a few seconds, yet, in her numbed state, it seemed hours before shemoved toward the unconscious woman. For she thought that Sophie Careywas dead. It was a ridiculous thought, nevertheless it was with dreadthat she finally bent over the prostrate figure. Then, seeing the bosommove she screamed.

  From up-stairs Ragan, the chauffeur, Jack-of-all-trades whom she hadseen at the Carey house in New York the other day, came running. Hiswife followed. Together they lifted Mrs. Carey and bore her to a couchin the living-room. But no restoratives were needed. Her eyes openedalmost immediately. They cleared swiftly and she sat up.

  "Ragan!"

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Mr. Don!"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "He--he--has a revolver. He's--outside--somewhere----"

  "I'll find him, ma'am."

  There seemed to be no need for explanation. Ragan's white face showedthat he understood. And now Clancy, amazed that she had not comprehendedbefore, also understood. Her hands went swiftly up over her eyes asthough to shut out some horrible sight. The fact that Don Carey hadpursued her half an hour ago with murderous intent was of no importancenow.

  She heard Ragan's heavy feet racing across the room and out of thehouse. She heard the piteous wail from Mrs. Ragan's mouth. Then, amazed,as she removed her hands from her eyes, she saw Sophie Carey, mistressof herself again, leap from the couch and race to a window, throwing itopen.

  "Ragan," she called. "Ragan!"

  "Ma'am?" faintly, from the darkness, Ragan answered.

  "Come here." Firm, commanding, Sophie Carey's voice brooked no refusal.

  "Coming, ma'am," called Ragan.

  A moment later he was in the living-room again.

  "Ragan, go up-stairs," commanded his mistress.

  The man looked his surprise.

  "But, ma'am, Mr. Donald----"

  "Must be given his chance, Ragan," she interrupted.

  "'His chance,' ma'am? Him carryin' a revolver?"

  "There are worse things than revolvers, Ragan," said his mistress.

  "Oh, my darlin' Miss Sophie," cried his wife.

  She turned on them both.

  "They'll capture him. They'll put him in jail. They'll sentence him--It's his way out. It mustn't--it _mustn't_ be taken from him!" Her voicerose to a scream. She held out her arms to Clancy. "Don't letthem--don't let them--" She could not finish; once again she tumbled tothe floor.

  Uncertainly, the servants looked at Clancy. It was the first time in herlife that Clancy had come face to face with a great problem. Her ownproblem of the past week seemed a minor thing compared with this.

  She knew that what Don Carey purposed doing was wrong, hideously wrong.It was the act of a coward. Yet, in this particular case, was there notsomething of heroism in it? To save his wife from the long-drawn-outhumiliation of a trial-- Sophie Carey had appealed to her. Yet SophieCarey had not appealed because of cowardice, because she fearedhumiliation; Sophie appealed to her because she wished to spare herhusband a felon's fate.

  Exquisitely she suffered during the few seconds that she faced theservants. Right or wrong? Yet what was right and what was wrong? Arethere times when the end justifies the means? Does right sometimesmasquerade in the guise of wrong? Does wrong sometimes impersonateright? Nice problems in ethics are not solved when one is at highemotional pitch. It takes the philosopher, secluded in his study, toclassify those abstractions which are solved, in real life, on impulse.

  And then decision was taken from her. In later life, when faced withproblems difficult of solution, she would remember this moment, notmerely because of its tragic associations, but because she had not beenforced to decide a question involving right and wrong. Life would notalways be so easy for her.

  But now-- Somewhere out in the darkness sounded a revolver shot. Whetheror not it was right to take one's life to save another added shame nolonger mattered. Whether or not it was right to stand by and permit thetaking of that life no longer mattered. The problem had been solved, forright or wrong, by Carey himself.

  For the second time in a week, for the second time in her life, ClancyDeane fainted.