According to the Pattern (13 page)

He had passed through moods enough for a year of
time before he reached his home. He felt more weary
than he remembered to have felt for years when he
applied his latch-key to the door and let himself in.

The light was turned low in parlor and hall as if
awaiting the moment when it would be needed, and
there was a reassuring whiff of something savory from
the regions of the dining room. There was something
substantial and sweet in the home atmosphere, all light
and warmth, with a chatter of children’s voices above
like the babbling of a merry little brook, that gave him
confidence. Strange he had not noticed before how
sweet and safe it all was. Strange he had ever cared for
anything else than this that was all his! But
was
it his? The question brought a twinge of fear. Was is possible he was
about to lose, nay, had already lost, the center and source
of all this—his wife’s love?

He settled down in a large arm-chair and rested his
head back against the cushiony top. How tired he was!
He dropped his eyelids with a sense of relief and wished
that he might also drop his burdens as easily. Oh, if
Miriam would but come softly up behind as she used to
do and kiss his eyelids—so! How sweet, how infinitely
sweet, it had been! And he had scorned it for the touch
of that other woman’s proud lips even for a few days!
How impossible it seemed to him now to choose such a
course.

He waited a few minutes with his overcoat still on
thinking to hear the carriage drive up to the door, for he
had been sure when he entered that Miriam was not yet
in the house, by a hundred little signs and sounds. He
could always tell when his wife was near without need
ing to see or hear her. The children’s voices sounded weary and not glad as when with her. What a mother
she had been! Why had he never taken time to be
thankful for that? For he loved his children though he had paid very little attention to them lately.

But it occurred to him that he had been out of touch
with Miriam for some time. Perhaps his senses for
detecting her presence were not so keen as formerly. She
might be in the house and he not know it, after all. He
rang the bell to inquire, but when the maid appeared she said Mrs. Winthrop had not yet returned from calling.

He tramped up and down the pretty parlors, his watch in his hand, and looked first from one window and then the other. At last he took his hat and went out again. He could not stand this inaction another minute. A hundred frightful fancies were surging through his brain. He remembered Miriam’s intense, impulsive nature in her youthful days. There was no telling but she had been led to do something desperate. Of course that was all fancy,
but he must set his mind at rest. He could not have her
out in the dark alone with such thoughts of him in her
heart as he knew she must have. Down deep in his
innermost soul he began for the first time to have some twinges of shame and sorrow for the way he had brought her to this agony, began to despise himself just a little, as he would have despised another man who had done the same thing.

With troubled brows drawn together he paused on
the street corner and looked this way and that, trying to stop even the beats of his heart that he might listen if a
carriage was coming. But no such welcome sound
greeted his ear. Then he formed his plan hastily. He must
go back to where he had last seen the carriage and try to
trace it. Perhaps she was in need of his help somewhere
at that minute. He walked rapidly now, forgetting his weariness, not thinking to gain time by taking a car or calling a cab. It seemed to him he was more likely to accomplish some
thing on his feet. It was a relief to his tense, strained
nerves to be on the move.

When he arrived at the corner near the Sylvester
mansion all was still and dark, with twinkling lights
glimmering down among the shadowed streets. There
was nothing to show where the carriage had passed a
little over two hours before. Of course there was not. He might have known that. Why had he come here—of all places? He was losing his head.

He looked toward the wide windows of the beautiful house in the next block where the soft roseshaded lights
proclaimed a life of ease, and as he turned his head
quickly away he breathed in his heart a great curse on
the woman who had wrought this mischief, and immediately after upon himself for having been so weak as to have been led by her.

Back he took his weary way once more, following
every turn which the carriage might have taken, as a dog follows a lost scent, and always back to the main way home again. And behind him followed on his trail those horrid wolves of fears and fancies—the thought of what might have happened to Miriam.

Poor little heart!

Did they forget thee?

Then dinna care! Then dinna care! Proud little heart!

Did they forsake thee?

Be debonair! Be debonair!

—Emily Dickinson

WHEN Miriam gave the hasty order to the driver to go
to her aunt’s house on the west side of the city she had
it in mind merely to make time to think before there
would be any possible chance of seeing her husband or children or even her servants again. It was a long drive
to Cresson Avenue, and her mind might become clearer
by the time she reached there and she be able to mark
out some course for herself. At the moment she was
conscious of but one thing, and that was that the worst had happened. Her fears, which she now knew to have
been but fears and not certainties were confirmed at last,
and in such a way that there was no more room left for
hope. She knew that in all the weary work of her
carefully planned campaign she had been upheld by one
great, strong hope
s
and that was that her husband was
true to her after all and that in some mysterious way the
trouble would be all explained so that there would finally
come a glad morning after her night of sorrow. Now hope was stricken, never to rise again, she felt sure:
Could the enemy have been permitted then to look into
Miriam Winthrop’s heart she would have exclaimed in
joyful triumph that her victory was complete.

Miriam sank back in the carriage, having first drawn
the curtains, hid her face in her hands and shuddered—
shuddered until she felt she was going into a nervous
chill. Then suddenly she remembered that there was a
great affair on hand that evening—one of the first of the really great functions to which she and Claude had been
invited since her venture into the world. It was to be an
affair of hundreds, not of tens, and its greatness consisted
in the home in which it was held and in the very select
company who were invited. It meant much to the
success of her schemes that she had been invited there.
She had not dared to hope for an invitation, and had
wondered ever since it came to whom she owed the
honor.

This gathering, which a few hours before had meant
so much to her, had suddenly become as nothing. But
somehow the memory of it recalled her to the exact
situation and enabled her to gain command of herself
and look things in the face.

Gradually the whole thing became clear to her. She
must hold down her feelings till she was sure what she
ought to do and not act rashly. In the meantime, it would
not do to let her enemy see her defeat. She must wear a
brave front and not give up the battle even though she
felt that all was lost. Better to die fighting than that. The party, at least, must be gone through with, till she could
get time to think. Mrs. Sylvester, who would be sure to
be there—and a sudden thought like a dart made her sure
to whom she owed the invitation—should see her smil
ing and unabashed, even though Mrs. Sylvester might
have looked from her richly curtained windows but a
few minutes before and seen the last prop swept from her
hope.

But how could she go with Claude after what had happened? Of course she had ridden many times in a carriage with him during the last few weeks in a silence
that was painful to both, or in constrained conversation
of which neither took much account. She had been able
to keep him at a distance when nothing had passed
between them to give tangible expression to the chasm
that lay between their love. But now, after what had
happened, she felt she could not ride with him that
night. It would be impossible for her to control herself.
Besides, she doubted if he would come home at all,
much less accompany her to the party. Some other way
must be thought out. Could she take the maid? But no,
she was not trained, and the nurse was away with her sick
mother. The children must not suffer, whatever hap
pened.

Could she inveigle her aunt into going with her? No; for her aunt would ask a hundred troublesome questions,
and she was noted for sharp eyes and a sharper tongue.
She would pry something out of her niece before she
granted any favors. Her aunt would not do.

She pushed up the silken curtains of the carriage and
looked into the street. She was surprised to find how
dark it had grown. They were driving more slowly now
over a rough pavement by tall houses. It was some
minutes before Miriam could make out the locality.

Then a great club-house loomed up, brilliant with its
many windows and its lavish display of electric lights. In
the arched marble entrance night was made into day. A profusion of flowers and palms veiled some of the windows, and the liveried servants moving here and there,
at the doorways or in the distance behind the windows,
gave some hint of what man’s idea of a heaven upon
earth might be.

Miriam’s notions of a club-house were vague and a
little fearful, but it was a part of the world into which she
had entered, and she looked curiously, and wondered if Claude had found his way in there, and if this grandeur
had made him dissatisfied with all that his home could
give. Her sad eyes looked intently at the windows, noted
the elegance and ease that seemed to pervade even the
entrance-way to the place, and her heart sank. How little
and how ignorant had she been to think to go against a
world such as this was. Even for her one precious love
she had been worse than foolish to try against such odds.

Then, just as they were passing the last window she
saw a gleam of white hair, and a familiar face below
coming down the marble steps.

A quick resolve came to her aid. Here was help. She would make an appeal to Senator Bradenberg.

She stopped the driver and explained to him that she
wished to speak to the gentleman just corning down the
steps, and the gallant senator was by her side in an instant,
his hat lifted in deference.

In the brilliant light that came from the arch over the entrance Miriam’s face shone distinctly. There was not a trace in the lustrous eyes of the storm through which she
had been passing, save a feverish light that but made
them brighter. The excitement of the moment had
brought out the clear red of the cheeks, and the senator
voted her for the hundredth time a very beautiful
woman.

There was a childlike innocence in her appeal that
saved her from any hint of suspicion of motives not the highest.

“Are you going to the Washburns’ to-night, and have you promised to escort any one? Because if you haven’t won’t you please take me? Circumstances have arranged
themselves in such a way that it will be impossible for
my husband to accompany me. I shall be ready to start
by nine o’clock. Now tell me frankly, please, if you have another engagement, or I shall never ask you again. You have been so good a friend, you know, that I have made
bold to appeal to you, as I happened to see you in
passing. You see I began to fear I might not get there at all.”

The senator beamed. If he had other engagements he chose to keep them in the background. He was a man
whose engagements were always subject to his own
pleasure in the matter. He felt that Miriam’s appeal gave him a decided advantage over this beautiful woman, and his eyes gleamed with a light that was not wholly saintly as he responded graciously that he would be charmed to accompany her to the Washburns’. He blessed the happy circumstances that had made him her choice.

He studied her face keenly with his hawk eyes to see
if there was aught between herself and her husband that could give him more advantage with her, and he pressed her hand with a lingering tenderness wholly unnecessary
as he paid her a pretty compliment. Then the carriage
moved on, and Miriam was wrapped in the darkness of
her thoughts once more, giving no heed to the lover-
like words that had been murmured in her ear by the
“dear kind old man,” as she phrased it to herself.

Miriam reviewed with burning brain and nerves held
in control like a vise, the movements it would be
necessary for her to make. The gown she was to wear lay at this moment in her dressing room, the crowning creation of her skillful fingers. On it had been put more expense than all her other wardrobe together, and into it was woven the most careful and laborious needlework of which she was capable. In her own mind, after the experience she had had so far, it compared well with the
costly imported robes the rich ones wore. It was filmy
and encrusted here and there, not too much, with the
frost-like lace-work carefully chosen and curiously
blended with the lace-work of the owner’s own daring fingers. It was white, all creamy white, and out of it her well-set shapely head had risen like a queen’s when last she tried it on. Her dark, rich hair would set all off. She was almost sure the garment would be a success. But a daring thought for her was hovering in her breast. It was
to bare her neck and arms. She had not done it before,
for all the prejudices of her up-bringing in a country
town where tradition did not call such dress modest, had
been against it, and though she had deferred to inexora
ble custom by having her evening dresses made low, she had invariably managed to fill the vacant space with
something soft and white which, while a cover, was yet
a concession. And for her arms, gloves and lace made it quite possible to keep one’s ideals even in a world where such notions were at a discount.

But now her eyes gleamed in the darkness. It seemed
to her a devil perhaps might be whispering the sugges
tion. A daring like none she had ever felt before came to her. She would do it. Claude should see her in the same way in which he saw Mrs. Sylvester. He should see that
his wife’s neck was as white and her arms as well rounded
as those of her adversary. For once she would appear as did others. If she was to die fighting, and she felt it was near the end of the battle now, whatever the result, she would die brilliantly. Any scruples she might have had before had fled. What were scruples at such a time? If it was this that Claude admired he should see that his wife could be as beautiful as any. She would die leaving him with the pain of regret in his heart.

The turning of the carriage from the smooth asphalt pavement to the cobblestones reminded her suddenly
that she was nearing her aunt’s, and that now she had no
desire to see that excellent woman. She leaned forward
and by the light of the passing street lamps examined her
watch. It was growing late. She must hurry home to
dress or she would not be ready when the senator came.

She gave the directions to the coachman, who occu
pied his homeward ride in some very uncomplimentary
reflections on “parties who never knew their own
minds,” and settled herself to relax perfectly and rest
during the homeward ride.

It was evidence of the wonderful control she had
acquired over herself during the last few months that she
was able to do this in the face of all she had gone through
and all that was yet to come.

Arrived at home she went at once to her room, and the first thing she did after locking her door and turning
up the gas, was to cut with determined hands the care
fully arranged white drapery from the neck and sleeves
of her dress. She held her breath as she did it lets her
courage fail, and she crushed the soft mass into a hopeless
heap in the waste-basket lest she should be tempted to replace it. Then with bated breath she set about her preparations.

There was no thought of the untasted dinner. She did
not remember it till the maid, coming at her summons
to help fasten her gown, spoke of it. Then she answered that she was detained elsewhere and could not get home
for dinner. She did not question if her husband had
returned. It did not occur to her that he might have done
so. She felt almost certain he had stayed with Mrs.
Sylvester. She had not permitted herself one backward glance from her fast-moving carriage that afternoon.