In Her Own Right. Scott John Reed
Cavendish came home, after three years spent in out-of-the-way corners of the globe, and, straightway, bound him to her chariot wheels.
At least, so the women said – who make it their particular business to observe – and they never make mistakes. They can tell when one is preparing to fall in love, long before he knows himself. Indeed, there have been many men drawn into matrimony, against their own express inclination, merely by the accumulation of initiative engendered by impertinent meddlers. They want none of it, they even fight desperately against it, but, in the end, they succumb.
And Geoffrey Croyden would have eventually succumbed, of his own desires, however, had Elaine Cavendish been less wealthy, and had his affairs been more at ease. Now, he thanked high Heaven he had not offered himself. She might have accepted him; and think of all the heart-burnings and pain that would now ensue, before he went out of her life!
“What were you men doing to Montecute Mattison?” she asked presently. “He appeared perfectly furious when he came out, and he went off without a word to anyone – even Charlotte Brundage was ignored.”
“He and Colloden had a little difficulty – and Mattison left us,” Croyden answered. “Didn’t he stop to say good-night?”
She shook her head. “He called something as he drove off – but I think he was swearing at his man.”
“He needed something to swear at, I fancy!” Croyden laughed.
“What did Roderick do?” she asked.
“Took him by the collar and shook him – and told him either to go home or be quiet.”
“And he went home – I see.”
“Yes – when he had recovered himself sufficiently. I thought, at first, his anger was going to choke him.”
“Imagine big, good-natured Roderick stirred sufficiently to lay hands on any one!” she laughed.
“But imagine him when stirred,” he said.
“I hadn’t thought of him in that way,” she said, slowly – “Ough!” with a little shiver, “it must have been terrifying – what had Mattison done to him?”
“Nothing – Mattison is too much of a coward ever to do anything.”
“What had he said, then?”
“Oh, some brutality about one of Colloden’s friends, I think,” Croyden evaded. “I didn’t quite hear it – and we didn’t discuss it afterward.”
“I’m told he is a scurrilous little beast, with the men,” she commented; “but, I must say, he is always polite to me, and reasonably charitable. Indeed, to-night is the only deliberately bad manners he has ever exhibited.”
“He knows the men won’t hurt him,” said Croyden, “whereas the women, if he showed his ill nature to them, would promptly ostracize him. He is a canny bounder, all right.” He made a gesture of repugnance. “We have had enough of Mattison – let us find something more interesting – yourself, for instance.”
“Or yourself!” she smiled. “Or, better still, neither. Which reminds me – Miss Southard is coming to-morrow; you will be over, of course?”
“I’m going East to-morrow night,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“But she is to stay two weeks – you will be back before she leaves, won’t you?”
“I fear not – I may go on to London.”
“Before you return here?”
“Yes – before I return here.”
“Isn’t this London idea rather sudden?” she asked.
“I’ve been anticipating it for some time,” sending a cloud of cigarette smoke before his face. “But it grew imminent only to-day.”
When the smoke faded, her eyes were looking questioningly into his. There was something in his words that did not ring quite true. It was too sudden to be genuine, too unexpected. It struck her as vague and insincere. Yet there was no occasion to mistrust – it was common enough for men to be called suddenly to England on business. —
“When do you expect to return?” she asked.
“I do not know,” he said, reading something that was in her mind. “If I must go, the business which takes me will also fix my return.”
A servant approached.
“What is it, Hudson?” she asked.
“The telephone, Miss Cavendish. Pride’s Crossing wishes to talk with you.”
Croyden arose – it was better to make the farewell brief – and accompanied her to the doorway.
“Good-bye,” he said, simply.
“You must go?” she asked.
“Yes – there are some things that must be done to-night.”
She gave him another look.
“Good-bye, then – and bon voyage,” she said, extending her hand.
He took it – hesitated just an instant – lifted it to his lips – and, then, without a word, swung around and went out into the night.
The next day – at noon – when, her breakfast finished, she came down stairs, a scare headline in the morning’s paper, lying in the hall, met her eyes.
She seized the paper, and nervously ran her eyes down the columns until they reached the list of those involved. —
Yes! Croyden’s name was among them! That was what had taken him away!
And Croyden read it, too, as he sped Eastward toward the unknown life.
III
CLARENDON
Croyden left Northumberland in the morning – and his economy began with the ride East: he went on Day Express instead of on the Limited, thereby saving the extra fare. At Philadelphia he sent his baggage to the Bellevue-Stratford; later in the evening, he had it returned to the station, and checked it, himself, to Hampton – to avoid the possibility of being followed by means of his luggage.
He did not imagine that any one would go to the trouble to trace him, but he was not taking any chances. He wanted to cut himself away, utterly, from his former life, to be free of everyone he had ever known. It was not likely he would be missed.
Some one would say: “I haven’t seen Croyden lately,” would be answered: “I think he went abroad suddenly – about the time of the Royster & Axtell failure,” and, with that, he would pass out of notice. If he were to return, any time within the next five years, he would be met by a languid: “Been away, somewhere, haven’t you? I thought I hadn’t noticed you around the Club, lately.” – And that would be the extent of it.
One is not missed in a big town. His going and his coming are not watched. There is no time to bother with another’s affairs. Everyone has enough to do to look after his own. The curiosity about one’s neighbors – what he wears, what he eats, what he does, every item in his daily life – that is developed by idleness, thrives in littleness, and grows to perfection in scandal and innuendo – belongs solely to the small town. If one comes down street with a grip – instantly: So and so is “going away” – speculation as to why? – where? – what? One puts on a new suit, it is observed and noted. – A pair of new shoes, ditto. – A new necktie, ditto. Every particular of his life is public property, is inspected for a motive, and, if a motive cannot be discovered, one is supplied – usually mean and little, the latter unctuously preferred.
All this Croyden was yet to learn, however.
He took the night’s express on the N. Y., P. & N., whence, at Hampton Junction, he transferred to a branch line. For twenty miles the