The Maker of Opportunities

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?”

CHAPTER XVII

Thus ended the might-have-beens. And the thing that Patricia had taken to be the phantom of romance went up in the smoke of John Doe’s fire. Mortimer Crabb never volunteered any information as to how he got the letters, nor any information as to what became of Heywood Pennington. For one horrible moment the thought crossed Patricia’s brain that perhaps there had never been any letters of hers in the package her husband had burned, but she dismissed it at once as reflecting unpleasantly upon the quality of her intelligence. But one thing was sure, she now had an adequate understanding of the mind of her husband. It was the only misunderstanding they had ever had and Patricia knew there would never be another. Mr. Pennington did not appear again and so far as this veracious history is concerned, after his departure from New York, may have gone at once to Jericho. Patricia ceased to think of him, not because he was not present, but because thinking of him reminded her that she had been a fool, and no woman with the reputation for cleverness which Patricia possessed, could afford to make such an admission even to herself. She was now sure of several things – that she loved Mortimer Crabb with all her heart – and that she would never all her life long love anyone else. She might flirt, yes – nay more, she must flirt. What was the use spending one’s life in bringing an art to the perfection Patricia had attained and then suddenly forswearing it? Fortunately her husband did not require that of her. He never quite knew what she was going to do next, but he never really mistrusted her. And to Patricia’s credit it may be said that she never caused pain and that if she flirted – she sometimes did – it was in a good cause.

The building of the country place had gone forward during the winter, and early summer found them installed there. Beginning with the housewarming, which was memorable, guests came and went and upon them all Patricia practiced her altruism which, since the adventure with John Doe, had taken a somewhat different character. Yet even among these she found work for her busy hands to do.

It happened that among their guests the Crabbs had staying with them as a remnant of the housewarming party a young girl who, because she was only a little younger than Patricia in years, but centuries younger in knowledge of the world, had become one of her most treasured friends.

Little Miss North loved her, too – looked up to her as the ignorant do to the wise, and when her engagement to the Baron DeLaunay was announced Aurora came and told Patricia even before she told her family. Yet Patricia’s shrewd mind found something wrong and she urged the girl to come and join her housewarming for the sole reason of finding out the true inwardness of the engagement, and perhaps, too – who shall say? – to practice her arts again.

After a day or two of mild questioning, of studying, of watching, she began to see light.

Then she invited the Baron for a week end, and made certain preparations.

Then she waited his arrival with her nerves tingling.

She met her husband and the Baron at the steps as they ascended from the machine which brought them from the station.

“Ah monsieur! so glad! I was wondering if you’d be here in time for tea.”

“Wild horses could not have detained me longer, from a glimpse of your beaux yeux, Madame.”

He bent forward with a handsome gesture and kissed the tips of Patricia’s fingers, but she laughed gaily.

“Don’t waste pretty speeches, Baron. Besides – ” she paused significantly and pointed toward the door through which her husband’s shoulders had disappeared, “she is there,” she finished.

“Hélas!” The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders expressively; then straightened and showed his teeth in a smile.

“Since my speeches are wasted, I will follow you in, Madame.”

Patricia paused.

“All the world loves a lover – even I – ”

“Yes – yes – ”

“If I could be sure that you loved – ”

“You?”

“Her,” sternly.

He shrugged again, “Ah, yes – I love her – of course! Why, otherwise, should I wish to marry her?”

“I wonder,” slowly, “why you speak of my beaux yeux?” she said thoughtfully.

“Because I cannot help it – ”

“A lover should be blind,” she put in.

“Like a husband?” he asked, significantly.

“Like a wife,” she corrected, soberly.

He followed her indoors, where Aurora met them at the door of the library.

“Tea, Aurora,” she announced. “Will you pour it? Mort and I will be in in a moment.”

She hovered in the doorway insistently until she saw DeLaunay safely seated on the davenport at the tea-table by Aurora’s side, and only then she departed in the direction of the smoking room.

Mortimer Crabb was drinking a glass of whiskey and water. At the sound of his wife’s voice he turned.

“Did you get it, Mort?” she asked.

For reply he fumbled in the pockets of his dust-coat and brought forth a small package.

“Oh, yes. Here it is. Pretty insignificant affair to make such a fuss about,” and he handed it to her.

“It’s the little things that mean the most, my dear husband – like that,” she said significantly, “and this,” and she kissed him for his reward.

He held her away from him and looked at her good-humoredly – the quizzical humor that was characteristic of him.

“You never kiss me unless you’re up to some mischief, Patty.”

“Then you ought to be glad I’m mischievous, Mort. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.”

“H – m. Why all the mystery? Can’t you tell a fellow?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because then you don’t know as much as I do.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he protested. “I’m your husband.”

“Because if you knew as much as I do – ” She paused. “You know, Mort, it’s only the ignorant husband who’s entirely, blissfully happy.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” he laughed.

“Aren’t you happy, Mort?” she asked.

“Ah, hang it, yes. But – ”

“Then there’s nothing left to be said,” and she kissed him again.

“I can’t understand – ”

She laid resisting fingers on his arm.

“Of course you can’t. That’s one of your charms, Mort, dear. It’s much better for a woman to be misunderstood. The husband who ‘understands’ his wife is on the highway to purgatory. Ask no more questions. If I answer them I surely will lie to you.”

“What the deuce can Daggett and McDade be doing for you. They’re job-printers. They don’t engrave your cards or stationery or anything – ”

“N – o,” with a rising inflection.

“Well – what?”

“I needed some printing.”

“Well, why not go to Tiffany’s? The idea of your sending me away over on the East side – ”

“They’re such adorable printers, Mort.”

“Who ever heard of a printer being adorable? Fudge! What’s the game now? Can’t you tell a fellow?”

“No,” firmly.

Crabb always recognized the note of finality in his wife’s voice, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and followed her with his eyes as she blew another kiss in his direction and vanished up the stairs.

In the privacy of her own room Patricia did some cryptic things with newspapers, a pair of scissors, and the package from the adorable printers, and when she had finished, she folded up the newspapers, with their mysterious contents, including the scissors, and with a fleeting glance at herself in the mirror, went down stairs.

She entered the library noiselessly and after a glance at her guests at the tea-table, she slipped her package into the drawer of the library table and joined them.

“How envious you make me – you two,” she sighed, sinking into a chair, “you’re so satisfied with yourselves – and with each other.”

DeLaunay smiled and fingered his tea-cup.

“Would you have it otherwise?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” she said lightly, “I’m a professional nursery governess to polite and well-meaning persons of opposite sexes. Nursery governesses are not permitted emotions or opinions of any kind, my dears.”