Corthell came to the Cresslers quite as a matter of course. He had dined with the Jadwins at the great North Avenue house and afterwards the three, preferring to walk, had come down to the Cresslers on foot.
But evidently the artist was to see but little of Laura Jadwin that evening. She contrived to keep by her husband continually. She even managed to get him away from the others, and the two, leaving the rest upon the steps, sat in the parlour of the Cresslers’ house, talking.
By and by Laura, full of her projects, exclaimed:
“Where shall we go? I thought, perhaps, we would not have dinner at home, but you could come back to the house just a little—a little bit—early, and you could drive me out to the restaurant there in the park, and we could have dinner there, just as though we weren’t married just as though we were sweethearts again. Oh, I do hope the weather will be fine.”
“Oh,” answered Jadwin, “you mean Wednesday evening. Dear old girl, honestly, I—I don’t believe I can make it after all. You see, Wednesday—”
Laura sat suddenly erect.
“But you said,” she began, her voice faltering a little, “you said—”
“Honey, I know I did, but you must let me off this time again.”
She did not answer. It was too dark for him to see her face; but, uneasy at her silence, he began an elaborate explanation. Laura, however, interrupted. Calmly enough, she said:
“Oh, that’s all right. No, no, I don’t mind. Of course, if you are busy.”
“Well, you see, don’t you, old girl?”
“Oh, yes, yes, I see,” she answered. She rose.
“I think,” she said, “we had better be going home. Don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” he assented. “I’m pretty tired myself. I’ve had a hard day’s work. I’m thirsty, too,” he added, as he got up. “Would you like to have a drink of water, too?”
She shook her head, and while he disappeared in the direction of the Cresslers’ dining-room, she stood alone a moment in the darkened room looking out into the street. She felt that her cheeks were hot. Her hands, hanging at her sides, shut themselves into tight fists.
“What, you are all alone?” said Corthell’s voice, behind her.
She turned about quickly.
“I must be going,” he said. “I came to say good night.” He held out his hand.
“Good night,” she answered, as she gave him hers. Then all at once she added:
“Come to see me again—soon, will you? Come Wednesday night.”
And then, his heart leaping to his throat, Corthell felt her hand, as it lay in his, close for an instant firmly about his fingers.
“I shall expect you Wednesday then?” she repeated.
He crushed her hand in his grip, and suddenly bent and kissed it.
“Good night,” she said, quietly. Jadwin’s step sounded at the doorway.
“Good night,” he whispered, and in another moment was gone.
During these days Laura no longer knew herself. At every hour she changed; her moods came and went with a rapidity that bewildered all those who were around her. At times her gaiety filled the whole of her beautiful house; at times she shut herself in her apartments, denying herself to everyone, and, her head bowed upon her folded arms, wept as though her heart was breaking, without knowing why.
For a few days a veritable seizure of religious enthusiasm held sway over her. She spoke of endowing a hospital, of doing church work among the slums of the city. But no sooner had her friends readjusted their points of view to suit this new development than she was off upon another tangent, and was one afternoon seen at the races, with Mrs. Gretry, in her showiest victoria, wearing a great flaring hat and a bouquet of crimson flowers.
She never repeated this performance, however, for a new fad took possession of her the very next day. She memorised the role of Lady Macbeth, built a stage in the ballroom at the top of the house, and, locking herself in, rehearsed the part, for three days uninterruptedly, dressed in elaborate costume, declaiming in chest tones to the empty room:
“ ‘The raven himself is hoarse that croaks the entrance of Duncan under my battlements.’ ”
Then, tiring of Lady Macbeth, she took up Juliet, Portia, and Ophelia; each with appropriate costumes, studying with tireless avidity, and frightening Aunt Wess’ with her declaration that “she might go on the stage after all.” She even entertained the notion of having Sheldon Corthell paint her portrait as Lady Macbeth.
As often as the thought of the artist presented itself to her she fought to put it from her. Yes, yes, he came to see her often, very often. Perhaps he loved her yet. Well, suppose he did? He had always loved her. It was not wrong to have him love her, to have him with her. Without his company, great heavens, her life would be lonely beyond words and beyond endurance. Besides, was it to be thought, for an instant, that she, she, Laura Jadwin, in her pitch of pride, with all her beauty, with her quick, keen mind, was to pine, to droop to fade in oblivion and neglect? Was she to blame? Let those who neglected her look to it. Her youth was all with her yet, and all her power to attract, to compel admiration.
When Corthell came to see her on the Wednesday evening in question, Laura said to him, after a few moments, conversation in the drawing-room:
“Oh, you remember the picture you taught me to appreciate—the picture of the little pool in the art gallery, the one you called ‘Despair’? I have hung it in my own particular room upstairs—my sitting-room—so as to have it where I can see it always. I love it now. But,” she added, “I am not sure about the light. I think it could be hung to better advantage.” She hesitated a
