According to the Pattern (7 page)

THE hostess had been trembling but a moment before at thought of the possibilities of the next few minutes. But when the arrival paused in the doorway of the pretty reception room with eyebrows slightly uplifted, and glanced about superciliously as if to take in the entire situation, new strength seemed to come to her. All the puzzling questions that had troubled her for the past
week vanished. She forgot that the woman who was entering the room was an entire stranger to her, that she had dared to invite her without introduction or the usual formalities of calling. Her mind bravely rose above the thought of broken laws of etiquette and ignored everything but the mere fact that the woman was here, in spite of it all. What motives had brought her were not her concern now. That she had chosen to come to the house of an obscure stranger was enough. There might be, there doubtless were curiosity, condescension, amusement— and worst of all, an interest in the house of Winthrop — mingled together as an incentive. Nevertheless she had accepted the challenge and was here.

As though she had been all her life accustomed to such
functions the hostess calmly finished her sentence to the fine, erect, white-haired old lady of undoubted respectability to whom she was talking. It was a satisfaction to her afterward that Mrs. Sylvester had entered just at the moment when Mrs. Carroll stood by her side. The visitor would see that her other friends were not altogether unknown.

Then glancing up as though she had just become aware of the new arrival, she came forward a step to greet her, unconsciously assuming a graceful, condescending manner. She wondered why her heart did not palpitate and why stumbling apologies did not frame themselves on her lips. But no! she seemed not to be herself.

“So glad you could come,” she said graciously, and quite as if she had been saying those things for half a century, and not a hint of what was running through her mind, “I wonder why you came? I wonder why you came?”

The caller viewed the hostess as Goliath might have looked at David, and so well was the role assumed that she could not decide whether Mrs. Winthrop was wholly innocent or wholly subtle.

Others arrived just then. Mrs. Winthrop was obliged to turn to greet them. Therefore she was enabled to turn away without being either embarrassed or effusive. Mrs. Sylvester drifted a little farther away speaking to one or two whom she knew slightly. As a whole the assembled company were not intimates of Mrs. Sylvester’s. She still wore a half-amused, half-curious expression, and kept her eyes fixed upon the hostess, even while talking with others. She studied her face, the becoming arrangement of the soft hair on the shapely head, then the dress, and a look of surprise grew in her eyes.

All these expressions were noted by another onlooker who had not yet entered the room.

Claude Winthrop had stopped before his own door and looked up at the house in bewilderment. What had happened since he left? The street was surely the right one. He glanced across to make sure. Yes, there were the familiar landmarks. Had Miriam moved away? Strange. Then the door was opened by the demure Jane in garb of black with immaculate linen, the insignia of her office, who explained in low tones that Mrs. Winthrop had some guests and would be glad if he would dress and come down as soon as possible. He would find everything prepared for him in the nursery.

With a hasty vision of elegant bonnets and silken robes he slipped quickly through to the back stairs, and went up to the nursery in no pleasant frame of mind. What could all this mean? It was very careless of Miriam to have such a state of things going on when he arrived, and after so long an absence. It was not like a loving wife to be so thoughtless. He was weary too, and what kind of people were downstairs? A lot of relatives of hers per
haps. He would just let them understand that for the present it would be more convenient for them to postpone any further visits. He had come home and wanted his house to himself, and a chance to rest. These and like ill-natured thoughts passed through his mind while he impatiently went through the details of his toilet. But who could the people below stairs be? They wore bonnets many of them. It must be they were not here to stay. What in the world could it all mean? He was baffled in any attempt to answer his own questions. He grew angrier as his toilet progressed. He half resolved not to go down. It would serve his wife right for not coming to meet him. This had been what she had feared he would do. But his curiosity, as much as anything else, made him go down. He came in from the back hall, that he might view the room before entering. His first glimpse showed him rooms quite unfamiliar in arrangement and filled with well-dressed, well-bred people who were chatting pleasantly and sipping cups of tea. Over in the center, near the front of the house, he caught a glimpse of a beautiful woman. The oval of her face seemed familiar and reminded him strangely of something he had once loved. She was exquisitely dressed in a gown all gray and shining with soft touches of sunset pink about it, that recalled the rose-hue in her cheek. He was glad that he was well dressed himself. Who could that woman be? A dart of memory brought a shaded lane with wild roses growing on either hand, roses the color of that soft pink stuff in the front of her gown, and the flush on the oval cheek—and Miriam turned her face to the front and raised her eyes, bright with excitement, for the moment deep with the brilliancy they had worn long ago on that summer evening in the lane of sweetbrier. Her husband’s heart stood still. Was that Miriam, or was it some wraith of his bewildered vision? That beautiful woman his wife? Strange he had forgotten, during his absence, how lovely she was. It was worth while going away to come home to such enchantment. How lovely, how graceful, how perfectly gowned! Oh, the joy of his young love returned to him! With one heart’s throb he was a youth again and Miriam more beautiful than ever before him. He stood entranced in the doorway of his own parlor, gazing at his own wife.

And then what evil spell was this that brought a memory of the times when he had forgotten her? Who was that? Could it be? He rubbed his eyes. Mrs. Sylvester! In his home! In their home! The thought of her was repugnant to him just now, for his heart had been recalled to the days of simple joys and innocent love. Her haughty, supercilious bearing, her lofty, commanding smile, so familiar, were suddenly grown hateful. He saw her look at his wife—his
wife! What did she mean by that amused, quizzical expression? She was not worthy to touch so much as a finger of his spotless Miriam, and yet—there came his wife forward to greet her. He caught his breath and was conscious that he was glad she paid no further homage to that guest than a mere greeting. His brows contracted angrily. It was not pleasant to think that he had paid sweet compliments to Mrs. Sylvester. He would rather forget that part now. What a fool he had been! He distinctly remembered that he had considered her beautiful. So she was, with a certain style of beauty, but—compare her with that flower-like loveliness of his wife! Two sides of his nature were fighting in the man’s heart. He did not wish to meet that other woman now. He would wipe out some experiences of the past from his mind. Mrs. Sylvester had been well enough to while away an idle moment with, but why had he ever wished to leave Miriam’s side?

But these thoughts went like flashes through his mind as he watched. A moment after a group standing close to the door turned and recognizing him drew him at once into the room, and he began making his way toward his wife, for he had a sudden longing to be near her—to protect her from the woman whose friend he had been glad to count himself but a little while before.

He spoke to this and that one, answering questions with little knowledge of what he said, his eyes always as much as possible, like Mrs. Sylvester’s, upon his wife. People looked after him and noticed his gaze, and murmured, “How fond he is of his wife! A most charming couple,” and then dropped back to themselves and their own petty themes.

He had almost reached his wife’s side now. He could see the fine tendrils of hair as it waved up from her neck, just as he used to admire it long ago. How was it that he had not noticed her beauty lately? Was it all because of his little while away from her? There was but a divan between him and his wife now. He could reach over and touch her ann. He could see the texture of her gown and see the crystal of her clear eyes.

And then she turned, just in front of him, to speak once more to Mrs. Sylvester.

“It is good of you to be so unconventional as to come to us,” she said brightly. “You have been so kind to my husband. He did enjoy his drive with you so much the other day. Do let me give you another lump of sugar in your tea? Miss Lyman, have you the sugar there?”

It was the inspiration of the moment. Just what, in her desperation, she hoped to accomplish, she was hardly sure herself. She did not know that her husband was within hearing, though she had seen him coming toward her a few moments before, and her heart had stood still, knowing that the next few minutes would tell much for or against her cause.

Miriam was perfectly at her ease. She wondered at herself as she heard the words that dared come to her lips, and knew that a smile was upon her face whose import was not felt in her cold, frightened heart. She chatted on brightly.

Mrs. Sylvester was nonplussed. How did Mrs. Winthrop learn about the drive? Had her husband been giving his own version to prevent trouble? Was she so very innocent, or was it consummate skill? She regarded her hostess critically. Claude Winthrop, standing just behind and a little to one side, felt angered by her expression.

Just then she turned, saw him, and came forward, still with the same curious expression on her face, regarding him half-quizzically.

“Ah, Sir Claude,” she said, her eyes lighting with a new interest.

At the sound of her husband’s name spoken so famil
iarly, Miriam also turned and saw him, and then facing her guest and opponent flashed one look, a challenge to the enemy. It was but an instant that the clear eyes looked into the hard, unscrupulous ones, but the other understood. With a half-amused smile still upon her face she accepted the challenge, and Miriam moved quickly to greet a caller, a silver-haired gentleman of distinction to whom she talked eagerly, thinking the while how he had weathered the storms of youth and was coming near the end of the toilsome journey, and she searched in his face for some trace of peace at the thought of victory.

The little by-play between the two women would not have been noticed by an observer. Only they two un
derstood. Claude Winthrop, looking on with disturbed mien, comprehended only vaguely. He greeted Mrs. Sylvester coldly, suddenly aware that his own wife had met him after weeks of absence without so much as a look of greeting.

His eyes followed her as she moved toward the man with white hair, and his face grew rigid as he saw her eagerly talking with him. He knew the handsome old face crowned with the silver of honor to be but the white sepulchre covering of a reprobate, a man without a conscience, who had no scruples whatever against satisfying his selfish nature. This was the weary, sainted pilgrim to whom his wife thought she was talking. He wondered once more over this strange gathering. How came these people here? Where did Miriam get to know them all? The scoundrel was a man of influence and reputation, not easily secured outside certain circles of society, because though he was bad, he was also rich, influential, graceful in society, and withal knew how to ingratiate himself into the favor of women.

Claude Winthrop was suddenly recalled to himself by the voice of Mrs. Sylvester.

“I wish you would tell me what it is all for,” she said
playfully.

“I beg your pardon?” he said coldly, not understanding.

“Why all this?” answered the lady, waving her hand toward the roomful of people. “Why did you make her do it? Were you not satisfied with things as they were?”

“I do not understand you,” he said, beginning to feel with rising anger that perhaps he did.

“How exceedingly obtuse you arc this afternoon, Claude,” she replied, laughing lightly and touching his sleeve with the tip of her fan as she darted a glance at Miriam, who seemed not to see it, but turned her deep eyes up to the white hair and gold spectacles, her face fairly glowing with a pleasure in his company which she did not feel. Instinctively she knew she must not seem to care.

Claude Winthrop drew back slightly at sound of his name. He felt a shame creeping into his face at thought
of the pride he had felt when she had first called him thus. What had happened that had made things so different? How far had he gone? What a fool he had been! Did Miriam suspect? And how did Miriam know about that
ride?

“Where have you been all this time, Claude?” said Mrs. Sylvester in her pleasantest tone. “You have not been near me for ages. I actually accepted your wife’s invitation this afternoon to hunt you up. I have sent two or three notes and invitations to your usual city address hut have heard nothing from you. I suppose she found you out from the fact that she knows about the ride. Poor boy, won’t she let you have a little innocent amusement?”

Her tone had in it that caressing quality with which she had first subdued him to her feet. Its spell might have worked fully once more had it not been for that contemptuous, covert sneer as she spoke of his wife. His beautiful wife! He glanced over again at Miriam.

“Oh, she won’t hear us; she’s thoroughly engaged with Senator Bradenburg. She certainly cannot object so long as she amuses herself with such as he.”