CHAPTER XIX.
REDEMPTION.
At Poissy the three weeks had worn listlessly away. Margery yetremained, though the time originally set as a limit for her visit hadpassed. Monsieur and Madame Palffy were staying with some friends inDresden, whom Mrs. Carnby had never seen, but whom, under the presentcircumstances, she whimsically described to Jeremy as being "in danger,necessity, and tribulation."
Truth to tell, she had been forced to fall back upon her own inventionfor means of amusement. She was chafing under a sense of helplessness ina situation which she seemed totally unable to grasp, and a fierceimpatience against the social conditions which make it possible for aman to shut off the women most deeply interested in him from the mostsignificant features of his life and conduct. She had spent a half-hourin Margery's room on the morning of Andrew's departure, and there hadheard as much as she cared to about the conversation in the arbour. Uponthis problem she had brought to bear all her trained powers ofpersuasion, and at the end had the satisfaction of bringing Margery toa less intolerant attitude. The matter of inducing her to telegraphAndrew a recall she had found more difficult.
"I wouldn't deceive you, my dear," she said. "I'm absolutely convincedof the truth of what I say when I tell you that you've misjudged him. Ohyes--I know the appearances are all against him. I thought just as youdo, until I had the courage to ask him out and out about the matter;but, when I did, I soon saw that the circumstances wereunusual--extraordinarily so. He's been reckless, and, if he cares foryou as he pretends to, highly inconsiderate. But I believe, as firmly asI do in my own existence, that in the main essentials he's innocent. Ofcourse, he's been going around with this woman--even _he_ doesn't denythat; but the very fact that he admits it seems to me to prove that ithasn't been as bad as you suppose. One may go a long way with a womanwithout going too far. Why, Margery, I could bite my tongue off when Ithink what I said to you last night. Just think!--I imagined I wasstraightening things out, and giving you your cue! Instead, it appearsthat I was only giving you a wrong idea, and putting everything into ahideous mess. Why, you didn't give him a fighting chance! You piled onhim every accusation that came into your head, and then sent him offbefore he had a chance to explain. Why didn't you ask him one straightquestion, if that was what you wanted to know? He'd have answeredyou--yes, and told you the truth! If there's one thing Andrew Vane isnot, it's a liar. I was sure of that before I'd known him two minutes."
"But there wasn't any need to ask him," broke in Margery. "He said ofhis own accord that--that there is such a woman."
"And what else?" demanded Mrs. Carnby.
"That she wasn't any more to him than a bird that was singing near us;that he'd never see her again if I asked him."
"And you sent him away after _that_! Good heavens, my dear, that was themoment of all others when you should have said 'I believe you!' For hewas telling you the truth--I'll stake my intelligence on it. It was thesupreme evidence of his reliance upon you, the supreme test of yourlove. And you failed. Appearances? Yes, of course! And what areappearances? Nothing in the world but a perpetual reminder that we'renot omniscient. Margery--you've got to call him back."
Margery made no reply.
"You owe that much to him, and you owe it to me. We've both of us beenin the wrong, and you must give us a chance to set things right. If youcan't take him as he is, then ask him to tell you exactly what hisrelations have been with this woman, and act on his answer as you seefit. I can't criticise you for doing as you think right, if only you'reacting on the truth; but the truth you must have! At present you'redepending upon a lot of hearsay, upon the criminally thoughtlesscynicism of a gossipy old woman, and on your own rash conclusions. Mydear girl, you know I love you--love you better than anything in theworld, except Jeremy? Well, then, do this for me."
"Very well," answered Margery wearily, "but it's no use, Mrs. Carnby."
That morning she telegraphed Andrew to come back to her--and there wasno reply.
Thereafter the subject had not been mentioned either by the girl or herhostess. For the first time there lay a little barrier of restraintbetween them, which Mrs. Carnby, with all her tact, found it impossibleto pass, or even clearly to define. Her customary confidence in herselfstood back aghast. Any further interference, she knew, might well be setdown as idle meddling. She had done her best--and failed.
Day by day she saw Margery grow paler and thinner. The old gaiety wasslipping from her, flashing forth at more and more infrequent intervals,like the flame of an untended lamp, brightening more feebly, ever andanon, before it dies away. But there was nothing to be said or done. Thelittle touches of endearment and sympathy with which women often fillthe place of words, passed between them, but too often these negativeinterpreters of their hidden thoughts caused the girl's eyes to fill. AtMrs. Carnby's earnest entreaty, she prolonged her visit, and was glad ofthe seclusion of the villa, the long idle days, the evenings atbilliards or backgammon with Jeremy, and the still warm nights when,through sleepless hours, reverie had free rein. Curiously enough, anddespite Andrew's neglect of her, her former tenderness for him returnedand grew. The first passion of her resentment having passed, she waslearning to make the ample and even obstinate allowances of the womanwho has seen love in her grasp, and had it snatched away. At the momentof her rejection of him, there had been nothing within her range ofvision but the spectre of cruel and humiliating wrong. But now athousand little appealing reminiscences came back to woo and to persuadeher. The old days at Beverly; the boy-and-girl companionship wherefromhad sprung the first flower of her love; the high hopefulness of theiryoung attitude; the bashful acknowledgment of unspoken understandingwith which they parted; the long months of separation, when herunhappiness in her new surroundings was silver-shot with prescience ofhis coming; that coming itself, and the joyous significance of it--allthese worked upon her night and day. She was learning to forget thelittle hints of gossip whereby she first began to doubt him, and eventhe terrible frankness of Mrs. Carnby's words, which had seemed toconfirm all her worst suspicions. She felt that if only she had beengiven the time which now was hers, she would have been able to adjustthese matters, reduce the gossip to its proper place of insignificance,and see, as now she saw, the vast and supreme importance of their love.Now it was herself, not him, she blamed for his silence. She had indeednot "given him a fighting chance." She had insulted him, and, at theend, sent him about his business with a heartless sneer. Mrs. Carnby'swords came back to her--"love is little more than forgiveness on theendless instalment plan!"--and she had not been willing to forgive him,even when perhaps there had been nothing to forgive. She would turnrestlessly, watching the dawn brightening against her window. Ah, kindGod, what would she not forgive him now! What difference could anythingthat had been make, if only she could hear his voice again, and see himbending over the music of "The Persian Garden," and know that for alltime he was hers!
"Each morn a thousand roses brings, you say: Yes--but where leaves the rose of yesterday?"
Mrs. Carnby was not alone in her perception of the change in Margery.Jeremy mentioned it, one night, as they were dressing for dinner.
"I hope there's nothing gone wrong with Margery, Louisa."
"I hope not," retorted his wife, dragging savagely on the comb.
"Then you've noticed?"
"I've noticed--yes. It's the Tremonceau woman."
"The--"
"The most beautiful _cocotte_ in Paris, my poor Jeremy. Thank God, _you_have to be _told_ these things! It's the old story, no more admirablebecause, this time, it's a friend of ours who's making a fool ofhimself. If I had my way, I'd have sign-boards stuck up at every gate ofParis, with a finger pointing inward, and the inscription 'Mud Garden.For Children Only.' Faugh!"
"But you don't suppose--"
Mrs. Carnby faced her husband, her hands upon her hips, assuming a kindof brazen effrontery.
"I don't suppose, Jeremy Carnby, that a Paris _cocotte_ affects thecompany of a rich young
American for the sake of his _beaux yeux_. Idon't suppose that a good-looking boy in his twenties affects thecompany of Mirabelle Tremonceau for the pleasures of her conversation. Idon't suppose that the loveliest and purest girl on earth is going tosurvey with emotion the unspeakable folly of the man she cares for. AndI don't suppose the man she cares for is likely to be any different fromthe majority of men, who decide upon marriage principally becausethey're tired of the other thing. I don't suppose _anything_ exceptwhat's logical, and natural--and perfectly disgusting!"
"Do you mean--Vane?" asked Jeremy.
"Yes--_bat_!" said Mrs. Carnby.
Jeremy wisely made no reply.
So it was that when, at the end of the three weeks, Mr. ThomasRadwalader came down to spend the day, he found his hostess in a fineglow of suppressed impatience. She seized the first moment when theywere alone to question him. They were old friends. He never laid claimto much in the way of morality in the presence of Mrs. Carnby, and it isa characteristic of this attitude that the person adopting it isfrequently his own worst critic, and has more credit allowed to him thanhe deserves. Even the devil is not so black as he is painted, and if hewill have the audacity to do most of the painting in question himself,he is more than likely to find that, in the opinion of others, hiscomplexion will be comfortably free from blemishes. Radwalader's smoothassumption of an indefinite kind of laxity, set at ease rather thanaroused Mrs. Carnby's suspicions of him.
"He can't be so _very_ bad," she told herself, "or he wouldn't talk somuch about it."
For unnecessary admissions are a sedative to gossip, just as unnecessaryconcealments are a stimulant.
"How's Mr. Vane?" demanded Mrs. Carnby abruptly.
"Why, I was about to ask you," answered Radwalader. "I thought he wasquite a _protege_ of yours. I've not seen much of him, myself, of late.He's made new friends, and of course I was never much more than apreliminary guide to Paris. I fancy he can find his own way about,nowadays."
"I'll warrant he can!" exclaimed Mrs. Carnby, "and into society none toogood, at that!"
"How so?"
"Oh, don't tell me you don't know what I mean! Of course, you're boundto shield him. You men always do that, don't you? You put yourintoxicated friends to bed, and send discreet telegrams to their wives,to say they've been called out of town on business. That's notforgery--it's friendship. And when one of you's going to the bad, therest of you stand around and say: 'Poor old chap! Don't let his familysuspect what _we_ know.' Oh, I wasn't born yesterday, Radwalader! Youmay as well tell me what I want to know: it isn't much. Is he stilltrotting about with that Tremonceau woman?"
"Now, Mrs. Carnby!" protested Radwalader. "Is that a fair question?"
"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Carnby dryly, "but you've answered it already,so never mind! Let me tell you that I'm quite through with Andrew Vane.He didn't even have the grace to answer a telegram that Margery Palffysent him, three weeks ago, asking him to come down."
"Three weeks ago?" repeated Radwalader reflectively. "But, Mrs. Carnby,he was here three weeks ago. We all were--don't you remember?"
"Naturally I remember," said Mrs. Carnby impatiently, "but there wereurgent reasons for his return. Now, don't tell me you don't know_that_!"
"Know it? How _should_ I know it? Vane doesn't confide his privateaffairs to me. Do you mean that--"
"I mean that Margery had made a great mistake, in the course of aconversation they had on the last evening he was here--a mistake whichimperilled the happiness of them both, and which it was of the utmostimportance to set right. At the time, perhaps, he showed himself to bethe victim of an unjust accusation; but since, he has shown himself tobe a cad. If you've never known--but I'd not have believed it ofyou--that Margery was in love with him, and that he's pretended to be inlove with her, then it's time you did!"
"What a pity!" observed Radwalader. "I wish I'd known all this before: Imight have done something. But, after all, it's just as well. Itwouldn't have done for Miss Palffy to humiliate herself; and the littleTremonceau--"
"Is his mistress?" put in Mrs. Carnby.
"Of course," said Radwalader, with a skilful sigh. "There's no doubtwhatever about that."
"I'd have wagered a good bit on his innocence!"
"When you wager anything on the innocence of a young man who's been theclose companion of Mirabelle Tremonceau for six weeks or so," answeredRadwalader, "it's nothing less than a criminal waste of money."
"Then he's not only a cad," said Mrs. Carnby angrily, "but a liar aswell; and, as I've said already, I'm through with him!"
She was more than astounded when, two mornings later, a telegram washanded her at the breakfast-table. It was from Andrew, and requestedpermission to come down at once and spend one night.
"I think I'll leave you to answer that," she observed to Margery, whowas alone with her at table, Jeremy having gone up to town by the earlytrain. "The boy's waiting."
She tossed the despatch across the table as she spoke.
She was more astounded still when Margery looked up at her with thefirst spontaneous smile which Mrs. Carnby had seen upon her lips formany days.
"Please ask him to come," she said.
"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Carnby, "_do_ be careful! Remember howmuch has happened. If only you'd let me advise you!"
"You've advised me once already, fairy godmother," said Margery,laughing.
"Heaven help me, so I have!" replied her hostess. "Do you mean it,Margery?"
"I was never more in earnest," answered the girl, turning suddenly graveagain.
So Mrs. Carnby sent the required answer.
All that morning she was more puzzled than ever she had been in thewhole course of her life. It was certain that the girl's mood hadchanged. The doubtful shadow in her eyes had given place to a clear glowof confidence, and her laugh was free from any suggestion of restraint.That in itself was curious. Depression, melancholy, even resentment,were to be expected as a result of the news that Andrew Vane was on thepoint of entering her life once more. Of late he had shown himself in amore unfavourable light than ever, and yet in her eyes, her smile, herlight-hearted animation there was something akin to a suggestion that hehad been fully exonerated from suspicion, rather than freshly and moresignificantly subjected to it. She was emphatically happy--and Mrs.Carnby could not comprehend. The thought, indeed, came to her that theexplanation which Andrew had denied her, these three weeks past, hadbeen given to Margery, in some fashion as yet unexplained. But thistheory was wholly incompatible with his bearing when he arrived at noon.He looked wretchedly ill, and was prey to a visible embarrassment. Hetook her hand, but did not meet her eyes, and the credit she wasbeginning to accord him gave way, once more, to anger. As a result, hergreeting was conspicuously cool. After dinner he and Margery playedbilliards, while Jeremy dozed, with the _Temps_ over his placid face,and Mrs. Carnby did more to ruin a piece of embroidery than she had doneto further it in the past six months. Suddenly the good lady retired toher room, with a violent and fortuitous headache. She had relinquishedany attempt to fathom the situation: she had frankly thrown up thesponge!
"Shall we take a walk in the garden?" asked Andrew.
When they were alone with the silence and the stars, his hand soughthers.
"Margery!"
"Andy!"
"I've simply come to say good-by, my dear. You were quite right: I'm notworthy of you. I'm going back to the States as soon as I can get away.All I want you to remember is this: I've been careless--reckless--whollyat fault from the beginning to the end--but I've loved you always, mydearest--always--always! I won't go into all the miserable details.Paris has made a fool of me, that's all. I'm not the first idiot tothrow away his chance of happiness because of the big city over there,and I'm not the first to pay the penalty I deserve. Once, perhaps, I hadthe right to demand something at your hands; but now I've no right toask for anything. I ask for nothing! I've come to beg for yourforgiveness, and to say good-by. Will you forgive me, Margery?"
r /> "I want to ask you just one question," said Margery steadily. "When Iaccused you of--of _that_--the other night, was I right or wrong?"
"Wrong," said Andrew Vane; "but now--"
Suddenly she leaned toward him, stopping his speech with her soft andopen palm.
"I've thought of another question," she said. "Do you love me--now?"
"Love you?" answered Andrew. "Ah, Margery!"
"Then I wish to hear no more. The past is the past, do you hear? I loveyou! I've learned much in these few weeks. I love you, and I need you.You can't leave me now. I've been so weary for you, my love! Ah,whatever there has been between us in the past, don't let anything standbetween us now!"
"But you don't understand," faltered Andrew. "Things have changed. Thereis much that you have to forgive me--much that I have to explain--"
"As to what I have to forgive you," answered Margery, "I think there isalso much for you to forgive me; and as to what you have to explain--oh,explain it later, Andy--explain it, if you like, when we--"
"Are married!" exclaimed Andrew. "No! Things must be made clear now.I've transgressed, my love--transgressed beyond hope of forgiveness.What would you say if you knew--?"
"I know already!" answered the girl. "I know more than you think--and Iforgive it all. Oh, Andy, _don't_ make it too hard for me! Helpme--won't you?"
Suddenly, with a realization of what all this meant, he opened his arms,as to a child, and, like a confiding child, she went into them.
"I love you," she whispered. "That's all--I love you!"
"My love--my love--_my love!_" said Andrew.