Gibbs George
The Maker of Opportunities

CHAPTER XV

After this first success, Patricia was filled with the spirit of altruism, and winter and summer went out upon the highways and byways seeking the raw material for her fateful loom. She was Puck, Portia and Patricia all rolled into one. There were Stephen Ventnor and Jack Masters, whom she still saw occasionally, but they only sighed and even refused to dine at the Castle of Enchantment. She thought sometimes of Heywood Pennington, too, and often found herself wondering how the world was faring with him, hoping that some day chance would throw him in her way. The old romance was dead, of course. But what an opportunity for regeneration!

Meantime she had much to do in keeping up her establishment, many friends to make in New York, many social duties to perform. She spent much time with her husband over the plans of the country place he was building on Long Island, which was to be ready for occupancy late in the following spring. Mortimer Crabb had formed a habit of going down town for a part of every day at least, and if he really did no work he created an impression of stability which was rather surprising to those who had known him longest. The Crabbs were desirable acquaintances in the married set, and before two years had passed, Patricia made for herself an enviable reputation as a hostess and dinner guest, to say nothing of that of a model wife. Not a cloud larger than a speck had risen upon the matrimonial horizon and their little bark sailed steadily forward propelled by the mildest of breezes upon an ocean that was all made up of ripples and sunshine. Mortimer Crabb loved abundantly, and Patricia was contented to watch him worship, while she shaped the course to her liking.

There were still times, however, when she sat and watched the flames of the library fire while she stirred up the embers of romance. Few women who have been adored as Patricia had been are willing too abruptly to shut the door upon the memory of the might-have-beens. The coquette in her was dying hard – as it sometimes does in childless women. She still liked the attentions to which she had been accustomed, and her husband saw that she was constantly amused – provided with clever men from his clubs as dance partners for the Philadelphia girls who visited them. Stephen Ventnor, who was selling bonds down-town, had been persuaded at last to forget his troubles and now came frequently to dinner. There was nothing Patricia wanted, it seemed, except something to want.

One day, quite by chance, she met another one of the might-have-beens upon the street. She did not know him at first, for he now wore a small moustache and the years had not passed as lightly over his head as they had over hers. She felt her way barred by a tall figure, and before she knew it, was shaking hands with Heywood Pennington.

“Patty,” he was saying, “don’t you know me? Does four years make such a difference?” A warm tint rose and spread unbidden from Patricia’s neck to temples. It angered her that she could not control it, but she smiled at him and said that she was glad to see him.

Together they walked up the Avenue, and, as they went, she questioned and he told her his story. No recriminations passed. He made it plain to her that he was too glad to see her for that. He was in business, he said vaguely, and in the future was to make New York his home. So, when she took leave of him, Patricia asked the prodigal to call. It will be apparent to anyone that there was nothing else to do.

Mortimer Crabb received the information at the dinner table that night with a changeless expression.

“I’m sure if you want Mr. Pennington here, he’ll be welcome,” he said with a slow smile. “He’s a very, very old friend of yours, isn’t he, Patty?”

“Oh, yes – since school days,” she said, quietly. And she blushed again, but if Crabb noticed, it was not apparent, for he immediately busied himself with his soup.

“He used to be such a nice boy,” said Patricia. “But I’m afraid he got pretty wild and – ”

“Yes,” put in her husband, a little dryly. “I’ve heard something about him.”

She glanced at him quickly, but he did not look up and she went on:

“I thought it would be nice if we could do a little something for him, give him a lift, introduce him to some influential people – ”

“Make an opportunity for him, in short,” said Crabb.

“Er – yes. He has had a pretty hard time, I think.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Crabb, “most people do.”

Patricia foresaw an opportunity such as she had never had before, and a hundred plans at once flashed into her pretty head for the prodigal’s regeneration. First, of course, she must kill the fatted calf, and she therefore planned at once a dinner party, at which Mr. Pennington should meet some of her intimate friends, Dicky Bowles and his wife, the Burnetts, who were on from Washington, the Charlie Chisolms and her sister Penelope. For reasons of her own Stephen Ventnor was not invited.

Patricia presided skilfully with an air of matronly benevolence not to be denied and dextrously diverted the conversation into channels strictly impersonal. So that after dinner, while Charlie Chisolm was still talking rifle-bores with Mortimer, Patricia and Heywood Pennington went into the conservatory to see the new orchids.

That was the first of many dinners. Patricia invited all the eligible girls of her acquaintance, one after another, and sat them next to Mr. Pennington in an apparent endeavor to supply the deficiency she had caused in that gentleman’s affections. But new orchids came continually to the conservatory, and Patricia was not loath to show them. Then followed rides in the motor car when Crabb was down-town, and shopping expeditions when Crabb was at the club, for which Patricia chose Heywood Pennington as her escort, and whatever Mortimer Crabb thought of it all, he said little and looked less.

But if her husband had been willing to worship blindly before he and Patricia had been engaged, marriage had cleared away some of the nebulæ. He had learned to look upon his wife as a dear, capricious being, and with the abounding faith and confidence of amply proportioned men he was willing to believe that Patricia, like Cæsar’s wife, was above suspicion. He was quite sure that she was foolish. But Patty’s little finger foolish was more important to Mortimer than a whole Minerva.

Mr. Pennington’s ways were not Crabb’s ways, however, and the husband learned one day, quite by chance, of an incident that had happened in New York which confirmed a previous impression. He went home a little sombre, for that very night Mr. Pennington was to dine again at his house.

After dinner Patricia and Pennington vanished as usual into the conservatory and were seen no more until it was time for Patricia’s guests to go. The husband lingered moodily by the fire after the door had closed upon the last one, who happened to be the might-have-been.

“Patty,” he began, “don’t you think it a little – er – inhospitable – ”

“Oh, Mort,” Patricia broke in, “don’t be tiresome.”

But Mortimer Crabb had taken out his watch and was examining it with a judicial air.

“Do you know,” he said, calmly, “that you’ve been out there since ten? I don’t think it’s quite decent.”

It was the first time her husband had used exactly this tone, and Patricia looked at him curiously, then pouted and laughed.

“Jealous!” she laughed, and blowing him a kiss flew upstairs, leaving her husband still looking into the fire. But he did not smile as he usually did when this was her mood, and in her last backward glance Patricia did not fail to notice it. Instead of following her, Mortimer Crabb lit a cigar and went over to his study. Perhaps he should have spoken more severely to Patricia before this. He had been on the point of it a dozen times. Gossip had dealt with Pennington none too kindly, but Crabb didn’t believe in gossip and he did believe in his wife.

He finished his cigar and then lit another while he tried to think the matter out, until, at last, Patricia, a pretty vision in braids and lace, came pattering down. He heard the footfalls and felt the soft hands upon his shoulders, but did not turn his head. He knew what was to come and had not the humor or the art to compromise. Patricia, with quick divination, took her hands away and went around by the fire where she could look at her husband.

“Well,” she said, half defiantly. Crabb replied without raising his eyes from the fire.

“Patty,” he said quietly, “you mustn’t ask Mr. Pennington to the house.” Patricia looked at him as though she had not heard aright. But she did not speak.

“You must know,” he went on, “that I’ve been thinking about you and Mr. Pennington for some time, but I haven’t spoken so plainly before. You mustn’t be seen with Mr. Pennington again.”

He rose and knocked his cigar ashes into the chimney and then turned to face his wife. Patricia’s foot was tapping rapidly upon the fender while her figure presented the picture of injured dignity.

“It is preposterous – impossible,” she gasped. “I’m going to ride with him to-morrow afternoon.”

And then after a pause in which she eagerly scanned her husband’s face, she broke forth into a nervous laugh: “Upon my word, Mort, I believe you are jealous.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Crabb, slowly, “but I’m in earnest, too. Do what I ask, Patricia. Don’t ride to-morrow – ”

“And if I should refuse – ”

Crabb shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away.

“It would be too bad,” he said, “that’s all.”

“But how can you do such a thing,” she cried, “without a reason – without any excuse? Why, Heywood has been here every day for – ” and then broke off in confusion.

Crabb smiled rather grimly, but he generously passed the opportunity by.

“Every reason that I wish – every excuse that I need. Isn’t that enough?”

“No, it isn’t – I refuse to believe anything about him.” Crabb looked at his wife sombrely.

“Then we’d better say no more. Your attitude makes it impossible for me to argue the question. Good-night.” He opened the door and stood waiting for her to go out. She hesitated a moment and then swept by him, her very ruffles breathing rebellion.

The next morning he kissed her good-bye when she was reading her mail.

“You’ll write him, Patty, won’t you?” he said, as he went out.

“Yes – yes,” she answered, quickly, “I will – I’ll write him.”

Patricia did write to him. But it was not at all the sort of a letter that Crabb would have cared to see.

Dear Heywood [it ran], something has happened, so can’t ride to-day. Meet me near the arch in Washington Square at three. Until then —

As ever,

P.

CHAPTER XVI

Patricia awoke rudely and with an appalling sense that she had made a shocking fool of herself. Heywood Pennington suddenly vanished out of her life as completely as though Fifth Avenue had opened and swallowed him. Very suddenly he had left New York, they said. And upon her breakfast tray one morning Patricia found the following in a handwriting unfamiliar and evidently disguised:

March 12, 19 —

Mrs. Mortimer Crabb,

Dear Madam:

I have in my possession twenty-one letters and notes written by you to Mr. Heywood Pennington, formerly of Philadelphia. Kindly acknowledge receipt of this communication and bring to this office, in person, on Wednesday of next week, five thousand dollars in cash or the letters will be mailed to Mr. Crabb.

(Signed) John Doe,

Care of Fairman and Brooke,

No. – Liberty Street.

There in her fingers it flaunted its brutality. What could it mean? Her letters? To Heywood Pennington? Why – they were only notes – harmless little records of their friendship. What had she said? How had this odious Doe – ?

It was a week since she had seen the prodigal. They had quarreled some days ago, for Mr. Pennington’s lazy humor had turned to a reckless unconvention which had somewhat startled her. Her secret declaration of independence had led her a little out of her depth, and she began to feel more and more like the child with the jam-pot – only the jam-pot was out of all proportion to real jam-pots and the smears seemed to defy the most generous use of soap and water. This horrible Doe was the neighbor’s boy who told, and Mortimer Crabb was suddenly invested with a newly-born parental dignity and wisdom. Mort! It made her shudder to think of her husband receiving those letters. She knew him so well and yet she knew him so little. She felt tempted to throw all else to the winds and make a full confession – of what? of a childish ingenuousness – which confession would magnify a hundred-fold. What had she to confess? Meetings in the Park? Her face burned with shame. It would have seemed less childish if her face had burned with shame at things a little more tangible. Lunches in out-of-the-way restaurants, innocent enough in themselves, whose only pleasure was the knowledge that she took them unpermitted. She knew that she deserved to be stood in the corner or be sent to bed without her supper, but she quailed at the thought of meeting her husband’s eye. She knew that he could make it singularly cold and uncompromising.

And the letters. Why hadn’t Heywood burned them? And yet why should he have? Pennington’s ideas of a compromising position she realized, with some bitterness, differed somewhat from hers. And she knew she couldn’t have written anything to regret. She tried to think, and a phrase here and there recurred to her. Perhaps Mort might know her well enough to guess how little they meant – but perhaps he didn’t. Words written to another were so desperately easy to misunderstand.

How could these letters have fallen into the hands of a stranger? The more she thought of it the more impenetrable became the mystery. How could this villainous Doe have guessed her identity? A few of these letters were signed merely “Patty,” but most of them were not signed at all. It was dreadful to be insulted with no redress at any hand. Five thousand dollars! The very insignificance of the figures made her position worse. Was this the value of her reputation? Truly her fortunes had sunk to their lowest ebb. She tried to picture John Doe, a small ferret of a man with heavy eyes, red hair, and a rumpled shirt-front, sitting in a dingy office up three flights of stairs, fingering her little scented notes with his soiled fingers. Oh, it was horrible – horrible! Yet how could she escape? Would she not tarnish her soul still more by paying the wretched money – Mort’s money – in forfeit of her disobedience to him? Every instinct revolted at the thought. Wouldn’t it be better after all to throw herself upon Mort’s mercy? She knew now how much bigger and better he was than anything else in the world. She loved him now. She knew it. There wouldn’t ever be any more might-have-beens. She longed to feel his protecting arms about her and hear his quiet steady voice in her ears, even though it was to scold her for the mere child that she was. His arms seemed the greater sanctuary now – now that she was not sure that they ever could be opened to her. Still clasping the letter she buried her face in the pillows of her couch and wept. That night she sent down word that she had a headache, but a night’s rest did wonders. A cheerful, smiling person descended on Crabb in the midst of his morning coffee.

“What! Patty! At the breakfast table? Will the wonders never cease?”

“I didn’t come to breakfast, Mort. I wanted to see you before you went out.”

Crabb smiled over the top of his coffee cup.

“What is it, Patty? A hat bill or an opera cloak? I’m prepared. Tell me the awful worst.”

“Don’t, Mort – please. I can’t bear you facetious. It’s – er – about Madame Jacquard’s bill and some others. They’ve gotten a little large and she – she wants me to help her out to-day – if I can – if you can – and I told her I would – ”

Crabb was wrapped in contemplation of his muffin. But he allowed his wife to struggle through to the end. Then he looked up a little seriously from under heavy brows.

“Um – er – how much, Patty? A thousand? I think it can be managed – ”

“No, Mort,” she interrupted, tremulously, “you see I have had to get so many things of late – we’ve been going out a great deal you know – a lot of other things you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh! Perhaps I might.”

“No – I – I’m afraid I’ve been rather extravagant this winter. I didn’t tell you but I – I’ve used up my allowance long – ever so long ago.”

Mortimer Crabb’s brows were now really menacing.

“It seems to me – ” he began. But she interrupted him at once.

“I know I ought to be called a beggar on horseback, because I really have ridden rather – rather fast this winter – ”

“Two thousand?” he questioned.

“No, Mort, you see, it isn’t only the dresses and the hats. I’m afraid I’ve been losing more than I should have lost at auction.”

“Bridge!” he said, pitilessly, “I thought – ”

“Yes – bub – bridge.”

“I thought my warning might be sufficient. I’m sorry – ”

“So am I,” she whispered, her head lowered, now thoroughly abased. “I am not going to play any more.”

“How much – three thousand?” he asked again.

“No,” she said, desperately, “more. I’m afraid it will take five thousand dollars to pay everything.”

“Phew!” he whistled. “How in the name of all that’s expensive – ”

“Oh, I don’t know – ” helplessly, “money adds up so fast – I suppose that father might help me if you can’t – but I didn’t want to ask him if I could help it; you know he – ”

“Oh, no,” said Crabb, with a sudden move of the hand. “It can be managed, of course, but I admit I’m surprised – very much surprised that you haven’t thought fit to take me closer into your confidence.”

“I’m sorry, Mort,” she muttered, humbly. “It won’t happen again.”

Crabb pushed back his chair and rose. “Oh, well, don’t say anything more about it, Patty. It must be attended to, of course. Just give me a list of the items and I’ll send out the checks.”

“But, Mort, I’d like to – ”

“I’ll just stop in at Madame Jacquard’s on the way uptown and – ”

Patty started up and then sank back weakly.

“Oh, Mort, dear,” she faltered, “it isn’t worth while. It would be so much out of your way – ”

“Not a bit,” said Crabb, striding cheerfully to the door. “It’s only a step from the subway, and then I can come on up the Avenue – ”

But Patricia by this time had fastened tightly upon the lapels of his coat, and was looking half tearfully up into his face.

“I – I want to see Madame about some things she hasn’t sent up yet – I must go there to-day. I’ll – I’ll tell her, Mort, and then if you’ll arrange it, I’ll just send it to her to-morrow.”

Mortimer Crabb looked into the blue eyes that she raised to his and relented.

“All right,” he said, “you shall have your own way.” And then, with the suspicion of a smile, “Shall I make a check to your order?”

“To – to mine, Mort – it always makes me feel more important to pay my bills myself – and besides – the bub – bridge, you know.”

When Patricia heard the front door shut behind her husband, she gave a great sigh and sank on the divan in a state of utter collapse.

The next day Patricia dressed herself in a plain, dark skirt, a long grey coat and wore two heavy veils over an unobtrusive sailor hat. In her hand she clutched a small hand satchel containing the precious check and the odious letter of John Doe. First she went to the bank and converted the check into crisp thousand dollar notes. Then walking rapidly she took the elevated for that unknown region which men call down-town. There was little difficulty in finding the place. The narrow doorway she had imagined was wide – even imposing, and an Irish janitor with a cheerful countenance, was sweeping the pavement and whistling. It was not in the least Dickens-ish, or Machiavellian. The atmosphere was that of a very cheerful and modern New York and Patricia’s spirits revived. A cleanly boy in buttons ran the elevator.

But as the elevator shot up, Patty’s heart shot down. She had hoped there would be stairs to climb. The imminence of the visit filled her with alarm, and before she realized it, she was deposited – a bundle of quivering nerves, before the very door. Gathering her shattered forces together, she knocked timorously and entered. It was a cheerful room with a bright carpet and an outlook over the river. A small boy who sat inside a wooden railing, sprang up and came forward.

“I wish to see Mr. Doe,” stammered Patty, “Mr. John Doe.”

“Must be a mistake,” said the youth. “This is Fairman & Brookes, Investments. Nobody that name here, ma’am.”

At that moment an elderly man of very proper appearance came forward from an inner office.

“Mrs. Crabb?” he inquired, politely. “That will do, Dick, you may go inside,” and then rather quizzically: “You wished to see Mr. – er – Mr. – Doe? Mr. John Doe? I think he was expecting you. If you’ll wait a moment I’ll see,” and he entered a door which led to another office.

Patricia dropped into a chair by the railing completely baffled. This villainous creature expected her! How could he expect her? It was only Friday and the appointment was not until the Wednesday of the following week. She looked at her surroundings, trying to find a flaw in their prosperous garb of respectability. That such rascality could exist under the guise of decent business! And the benevolent person who had carried her name might very properly serve upon the vestry of St. – ’s church! Truly there were depths of iniquity in this vile community of business people that her little social plummet could never seek to sound. The little red-headed man with the ferret eyes had vanished from her mind. In his place she saw a type even more alarming – the sleek, well-groomed man with dissipated eyes that she and Mort had often seen dining at popular restaurants. Her mission would not be as easy to accomplish as it had seemed. Her speech to the ferret-eyed man which she had so carefully rehearsed had gone completely from her mind. What she should say to this other man, whom she both loathed and feared, her vagrant wits refused to invent. So in spite of a brave poise of the head she sat in a kind of syncope of dismay, and awaited – she knew not what.

The benevolent vestryman returned smiling.

“Mr. Doe has just come in, Mrs. Crabb. If you’ll kindly come this way.” He opened the door and stood aside with an old-world courtliness that all but disarmed her. He followed her into the inner corridor and opened another door, smiling the while, and Patricia, trembling from head to foot, yet resolute, went in, while the elderly person carefully closed the door behind her. A tall figure in an overcoat and soft hat was bending over the fireplace upon the opposite side of the room adjusting a log.

“Mr. Doe?” came in a small, muffled voice from behind Patricia’s veil.

The man at the fireplace still poked at the logs and made no move to take off his hat.

“The brute – the utter brute,” thought Patricia – and then aloud, “Mr. Doe, I believe.”

“Yes, madam,” said a voice at last. “I’m John Doe – what can I do for you?”

“I came about the letters – the letters, you know, you wrote me about. I am prepared to – to redeem them.”

“H – m,” growled the overcoat. “It’s Crabb, isn’t it? Mrs. Crabb? I’m always getting the Cobb and Crabb letters mixed – six of one and half a dozen of the other – ”

“I beg pardon,” faltered Patty.

“Cases very similar. Bad man – good woman. Trusting husband – hey? Well,” he muttered brutally, “did you bring the money?”

“It is here,” said Patricia, trembling. “Now the letters – and let me go.”

The man moved slowly toward a desk against the wall with his back still turned, took out a package, rose and, turning, handed it to Patricia.

Had her gaze not been fixed so eagerly upon the handwriting on the package she could not have failed to note the smiling gray eyes above the upturned coat collar.

“Why, it is sealed and addressed to me!” she cried, in surprise. “The package hasn’t even been opened.”

“I never said it had,” said the man in the overcoat, removing his hat. “I didn’t want to read the stuff, Patty.”

The package fell to the floor amid the fluttering bills. Patricia’s knees trembled and she would have fallen had not a pair of strong arms gone about her and held her up.

“It’s only Mort, Patty,” said a voice. “Don’t you understand? It’s all been a deception and mistake. There isn’t any John Doe. It’s only your husband – ”

“Oh, how could you, Mort?” sobbed Patricia. “How could you be so hard – so – so cruel?”

Crabb’s answer was to push the veil back from his wife’s face and kiss away her tears. She did not resist now and sank against him with a restful sigh that told him more than any words could do the full measure of her penitence. But in a moment she started up pale and wide-eyed.

“But this office – these people – do they know – ”

“Bless you, no,” laughed Crabb. “Fairman’s a sort of business associate of mine. I only borrowed his private office for an hour or so. He thinks it is a practical joke. It was – is – a cruel one – ”

“But he’ll guess – ”

“Oh, no, he won’t,” laughed Crabb.

Patricia’s gaze fell quietly upon the floor where the bills and the package still lay in disordered confusion.

“And the letters – you never even read them?”

“Oh, Patty,” said her husband, “I didn’t want to read ’em.”

“Can you ever forgive me, Mort?” She broke away from him, bent to the floor, picked up the package, and broke the seal.

“But you shall read them, Mort,” she cried, her face flaming, “every last silly one of them.”

But Crabb’s hands closed over hers and took the package gently from her. His only answer was to throw the papers into the fire.

“Oh, Mort,” she murmured, horrified, “what have you done – you might believe anything of me now.”

“I shall,” he chuckled, “that’s your penance.”

“Please, Mort – there’s time yet – just read a few – ”

Crabb poked vigorously at the fire.

“Oh, Mort, it’s inhuman! You only knew Heywood Pennington – ”

“Sh – ” said Crabb, putting his hand over her lips. “No names – ”

“But he – ”

“No, no.” And then, after a pause, “He wasn’t even a might-have-been, Patty.” She said no more. They sat hand in hand watching the record of Patricia’s foolishness go up in smoke. And when the last scrap had vanished, he sprang cheerfully to his feet and picked up the scattered bills.

“Come, Patty, luncheon! And after that” – Mortimer Crabb stopped again and blinked quizzically at the fire – “hadn’t we better keep your engagement – with Madame Jacquard?”