Love in a Cloud: A Comedy in Filigree

She looked for a moment into his laughing eyes, and then sprang up from her chair with a sudden burst of excitement.

"Oh, you are too cruel!" she cried. "I hate you!"

"Come," he said, not rising, but settling himself back in his chair with a pose of admiring interest, "now we are getting down to nature. Have you ever played in amateur theatricals, May?"

She stood struck silent by the laughing banter of his tone, but she made no answer.

"Because, if you ever do," he continued in the same voice, "you'll do well to remember the way you spoke then. It'll be very fetching in a play."

The color faded in her cheeks, and her whole manner changed from defiance to humiliation; her lip quivered with quick emotion, and an almost childish expression of woe made pathetic her mobile face. She dropped back into her chair, and the tears started in her eyes.

"Oh, I don't think you've any right to tease me," she quavered in a voice that had almost escaped from control. "I'm sure I feel bad enough about it."

Jack's face sobered a little, although the mocking light of humor did not entirely vanish from his eyes.

"There, there," he said in a soothing voice; "don't cry, May, whatever you do. The modern husband hates tears, but instead of giving in to them, he gets cross and clears out. Don't cry before the man you marry, or," he added, a fresh smile lighting his face, "even before the man you are engaged to."

"I didn't mean to be so foolish," May responded, choking down her rebellious emotions. "I'm all upset."

"I don't wonder. Now to go back to this letter. Of course I shouldn't think of reading it without your leave, but I supposed you'd think it proper under the circumstances to tell me to read it. I thought you'd say: 'Dearest, I have no secrets from thee! Read!' or something of that sort, you know."

He was perhaps playing now to cheer May up, for he delivered this in a mock-heroic style, with an absurd gesture. At least the effect was to evoke a laugh which came tear-sparkling as a lark flies dew-besprent from a hawthorn bush at morn.

She rallied a little, and spoke with more self-command.

"Oh, that was the secret of a girl that wasn't engaged to you," she said, "and had no idea of being; no more," she added, dimpling, "than I had."

Jack showed his white teeth in what his friends called his "appreciative grin."

"Perhaps you're right," he returned. "By the way, do you know who Christopher Calumus really is?"

She colored again, and hung her head.

"Yes," she murmured, in a voice absurdly low. "Mrs. Harbinger told me last night. He told her yesterday at the County Club."

"Does he know who wrote to him?"

Her cheeks became deeper in hue, and her voice even lower yet.

"Yes, he found out from Mrs. Harbinger."

"Well, I must say I thought that Letty Harbinger had more sense!"

"She didn't mean to tell him."

"No woman ever meant to tell anything," he retorted in good-humored sarcasm; "but they always do tell everything. Then if you and Dick both know all about it, perhaps I had better give the letter to him."

He offered to put the letter into his pocket, but she held out her hand for it beseechingly.

"Oh, don't give it to anybody else," she begged. "Let me put it into the fire, and be through with it. It's done mischief enough!"

"It may have done some good too," he said enigmatically. "I hope nothing worse will ever happen to you, May, than to be engaged to me. I give you my word that, as little as you imagine it, it's your interest and not my own I'm looking after. However, that's neither here nor there."

He put the letter into his pocket without farther comment, disregarding her imploring look. Then he rose, and held out his hand.

"Good-night," he said. "Some accepted lovers would ask for a kiss, but I'll wait till you want to kiss me. You will some time. Good-night. You'll remember what I wrote you about mentioning our engagement."

She had at the mention of kisses become more celestial rosy red than in the whole course of that blushful interview, but at his last word her color faded as quickly as it had come.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she said, "I had told one person before your note came. She won't tell though."

"Being a 'she,'" he retorted mockingly.

"Oh, it was only Alice," May explained, "and of course she can be trusted."

It was his turn to become serious, and in the cloud on his sunny face there was not a little vexation.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "Of all the women in Boston why must you pick out the one that I was most particular shouldn't know! You girls have an instinct for mischief."

"But I wrote to her as soon as your note came; besides, she has promised not to say anything. She won't tell."

"No; she won't tell," he echoed moodily. "What did she say?"

May cast down her eyes in evident embarrassment.

"Oh, it's no matter," Jack went on. "She wouldn't say half as hard things as she must think. However, it's all one in the end. Good-night."

With this abrupt farewell he left his betrothed, and went hastily out into the spring night, with its velvety darkness and abundant stars. The mention of Alice Endicott had robbed him of the gay spirits in which he had carried on his odd interview with May. The teasing jollity of manner was gone as he walked thoughtfully back to his chambers.

He found Fairfield in their common parlor.

"Dick," he said without preface, "congratulate me. I'm engaged."

"Engaged!" exclaimed the other, jumping up and extending his hand. "Congratulations, old fellow. Of course it's Alice Endicott."

"No," his friend responded coolly; "it's May Calthorpe."

"What!" cried Fairfield, starting back and dropping his hand before Neligage had time to take it. "Miss Calthorpe? What do you mean?"

"Just as I say, my boy. The engagement is a secret at present, you understand. I thought you'd like to know it, though; and by the way, it'll show that I've perfect confidence in you if I turn over to you the letter that May wrote to you before we were engaged. That one to Christopher Calumus, you know."

"But," stammered his chum, apparently trying to collect his wits, scattered by the unexpected news and this strange proposition, "how can you tell what's in it?"

"Tell what's in it, my boy? It isn't any of my business. That has to do with a part of her life that doesn't belong to me, you know. It's enough for me that she wrote the letter for you to have, and so here it is."

He put the envelope into the hands of Dick, who received it as if he were a post-box on the corner, having no choice but to take any missive thrust at him.

"Good-night," Jack said. "I'm played out, and mean to turn in. Thanks for your good wishes."

And he ended that eventful day, so far as the world of men could have cognizance, by retiring to his own room.

XVIII

THE MISCHIEF OF MEN

Barnstable seemed bound to behave like a bee in a bottle, which goes bumping its idiotic head without reason or cessation. On Monday morning after the polo game he was ushered into the chambers of Jack and Dick, both of whom were at home. He looked more excited than on the previous day, and moved with more alacrity. The alteration was not entirely to his advantage, for Mr. Barnstable was one of those unfortunates who appear worse with every possible change of manner.

"Good-morning, Mr. Fairfield," was the visitor's greeting. "Damme if I'll say good-morning to you, Mr. Neligage."

Jack regarded him with languid astonishment.

"Well," he said, "that relieves me of the trouble of saying it to you."

Barnstable puffed and swelled with anger.

"Damme, sir," he cried, "you may try to carry it off that way, but – "

"Good heavens, Mr. Barnstable," interrupted Fairfield, "what in the world do you mean?"

"Is it your general custom," drawled Jack, between puffs of his cigarette, "to give a Wild West show at every house you go into?"

Dick flashed a smile at his chum, but shook his head.

"Come, Mr. Barnstable," he said soothingly, "you can't go about making scenes in this way. Sit down, and if you've anything to say, say it quietly."

Mr. Barnstable, however, was not to be beguiled with words. He had evidently been brooding over wrongs, real or fancied, until his temper had got beyond control.

"Anything to say?" he repeated angrily, – "I've this to say: that he has insulted my wife. I'll sue you for libel, damme! I've a great mind to thrash you!"

Jack grinned down on the truculent Barnstable from his superior height. Barnstable stood with his short legs well apart, as if he had to brace them to bear up the enormous weight of his anger; Jack, careless, laughing, and elegant, leaned his elbow on the mantle and smoked.

"There, Mr. Barnstable," Fairfield said, coming to him and taking him by the arm; "you evidently don't know what you're saying. Of course there's some mistake. Mr. Neligage never insulted a lady."

"But he has done it," persisted Barnstable. "He has done it, Mr. Fairfield. Have you read 'Love in a Cloud'?"

"'Love in a Cloud'?" repeated Dick in manifest astonishment.

"You must know the book, Dick," put in Jack wickedly. "It's that rubbishy anonymous novel that's made so much talk lately. It's about a woman whose husband's temper was incompatible."

"It's about my wife!" cried Barnstable. "What right had you to put my wife in a book?"

"Pardon me," Neligage asked with the utmost suavity, "but is it proper to ask if it was your temper that was incompatible?"

"Shut up, Jack," said Dick hastily. "You are entirely off the track, Mr. Barnstable. Neligage didn't write 'Love in a Cloud.'"

"Didn't write it?" stammered the visitor.

"I give you my word he didn't."

Barnstable looked about with an air of helplessness which was as funny as his anger had been.

"Then who did?" he demanded.

"If Mr. Barnstable had only mentioned sooner that he wished me to write it," Jack observed graciously, "I'd have been glad to do my best."

"Shut up, Jack," commanded Dick once more. "Really, Mr. Barnstable, it does seem a little remarkable that you should go rushing about in this extraordinary way without knowing what you are doing. You'll get into some most unpleasant mess if you keep on."

"Or bring up in a lunatic asylum," suggested Jack with the most unblushing candor.

Barnstable looked from one to the other with a bewildered expression as if he were just recovering his senses. He walked to the table and took up a glass of water, looked around as if for permission, and swallowed it by uncouth gulps.

"Perhaps I'd better go," he said, and turned toward the door.

"Oh, by the way, Mr. Barnstable," Jack observed as the visitor laid his hand on the door-knob, "does it seem to you that it would be in good form to apologize before you go? If it doesn't, don't let me detain you."

The strange creature turned on the rug by the door, an abject expression of misery from head to feet.

"Of course I'd apologize," he said, "if it was any use. When my temper's up I don't seem to have any control of what I do, and what I do is always awful foolish. This thing's got hold of me so I don't sleep, and that's made me worse. Of course you think I'm a lunatic, gentlemen; and I suppose I am; but my wife – "

The redness of his face gave signs that he was not far from choking, and out of his fishy eyes there rolled genuine tears. Jack stepped forward swiftly, and took him by the hand.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Barnstable," he said. "Of course I'd no idea what you were driving at. Will you believe me when I tell you something? I had nothing to do with writing 'Love in a Cloud,' but I do know who wrote it. I can give you my word that the author didn't have your story in mind at all."

"Are you sure?" stammered Barnstable.

"Of course I'm sure."

"Then there is nothing I can do," Barnstable said, shaking his head plaintively. "I've just made a fool of myself, and done nothing for her."

The door closed behind Barnstable, and the two young men looked at each other a moment. Neither laughed, the foolish tragedy of the visitor's last words not being mirth-provoking.

"Well, of all the fools I've seen in my life," Jack commented slowly, "this is the most unique specimen."

"I'm afraid I can't blame the divorced Mrs. Barnstable," responded Dick; "but there's something pathetic about the ass."

It seemed the fate of Barnstable that day to afford amusement for Jack Neligage. In the latter part of the afternoon Jack sauntered into the Calif Club to see if there were anything in the evening papers or any fresh gossip afloat, and there he encountered the irascible gentleman once more. Scarcely had he nodded to him than Tom Harbinger and Harry Bradish came up to them.

"Hallo, Jack," the lawyer said cordially. "Anything new?"

"Not that I know of," was the response. "How are you, Bradish?"

"How are you?" replied Bradish. "Mr. Barnstable, I've called twice to-day at your rooms."

"I am sorry that I was out," Barnstable answered with awkward politeness. "I have been here since luncheon."

"I'm half sorry to find you now," Bradish proceeded, while Harbinger and Jack looked on with some surprise at the gravity of his manner. "I've got to do an errand to you that I'm afraid you'll laugh at."

"An errand to me?" Barnstable returned.

Bradish drew out his pocket-book, and with deliberation produced a note. He examined it closely, as if to assure himself that there was no mistake about what he was doing, and then held out the missive to Barnstable.

"Yes," he said, "I have the honor to be the bearer of a challenge from the Count Shimbowski, who claims that you have grossly insulted him. Will you kindly name a friend? There," he concluded, looking at Harbinger and Neligage with a grin, "I think I did that right, didn't I?"

"Gad!" cried Jack. "Has the Count challenged him? What a lark!"

"Nonsense!" Harbinger said. "You can't be serious, Bradish?"

"No, I'm not very serious about it, but I assure you the Count is."

"Challenged me?" demanded Barnstable, tearing open the epistle. "What does the dago mean? He says – what's that word? – he says his honor ex – expostulates my blood. Of course I shan't fight."

Bradish shook his head, although he could not banish the laughter from his face.

"Blood is what he wants. He says he shall have to run you through in the street if you won't fight."

"Oh, you'll have to fight!" put in Jack.

"The Count's a regular fire-eater," declared Tom. "You wouldn't like to be run through in the street, Barnstable."

Barnstable looked from one to another as if he were unable to understand what was going on around him.

"Curse it!" he broke out, his face assuming its apoplectic redness. "Curse those fellows that write novels! Here I've got to be assassinated just because some confounded scribbler couldn't keep from putting my private affairs in his infernal book! It's downright murder!"

"And the comic papers afterward," murmured Jack.

"But what are you going to do about it?" asked Tom.

"You might have the Count arrested and bound over to keep the peace," suggested Bradish.

"That's a nice speech for the Count's second!" cried Jack with a roar.

"What am I going to do?" repeated Barnstable. "I'll fight him!"

He struck himself on the chest, and glared around him, while they all stood in astonished silence.

"My wife has been insulted," he went on with fresh vehemence, "and I had a right to call the man that did it a villain or anything else! I owe it to her to fight him if he won't take it back!"

"Gad!" said Jack, advancing and holding out his hand, "that's melodrama and no mistake; but I like your pluck! I'll back you up, Barnstable!"

"Does that mean that you'll be his second, Jack?" asked Harbinger, laughing.

"There, Tom," was the retort, "don't run a joke into the ground. When a man shows the genuine stuff, he isn't to be fooled any longer."

Bradish followed suit, and shook hands with Barnstable, and Harbinger after him.

"You're all right, Barnstable," Bradish observed; "but what are we to do with the Count?"

"Oh, that ass!" Jack responded. "I'd like to help duck him in a horse-pond; but of course as he didn't write the book, Mr. Barnstable won't mind apologizing for a hasty word said by mistake. Any gentleman would do that."

"Of course if you think it's all right," Barnstable said, "I'd rather apologize; but I'd rather fight than have any doubt about the way I feel toward the whelp that libelized my wife."

Jack took him by the shoulder, and spoke to him with a certain slow distinctness such as one might use in addressing a child.

"Do have some common sense about this, Barnstable," he said. "Do get it out of your head that the man who wrote that book knew anything about your affairs. I've told you that already."

"I told him too," put in Harbinger.

"I suppose you know," Barnstable replied, shaking his head; "but it is strange how near it fits!"

Bradish took Barnstable off to the writing room to pen a suitable apology to the Count, and Jack and Harbinger remained behind.

"Extraordinary beggar," observed Jack, when they had departed.

"Yes," answered the other absently. "Jack, of course you didn't write 'Love in a Cloud'?"

"Of course not. What an idiotic idea!"

"Fairfield said Barnstable had been accusing you of it, but I knew it couldn't be anything but his crazy nonsense. Of course the Count didn't write it either?"

Jack eyed his companion inquiringly.

"Look here, Tom," he said, "What are you driving at? Of course the Count didn't write it. You are about as crazy as Barnstable."

"Oh, I never thought he was the man; but who the deuce is it?"

"Why should you care?"

Harbinger leaned forward to the grate, and began to pound the coal with the poker in a way that bespoke embarrassment. Suddenly he turned, and broke out explosively.

"I should think I ought to care to know what man my wife is writing letters to! You heard her say she wrote that letter to Christopher Calumus."

Jack gave a snort of mingled contempt and amusement.

"You old mutton-head," he said. "Your wife didn't write that letter. I know all about it, and I got it back from the Count."

"You did?" questioned Harbinger with animation. "Then why did Letty say she wrote it?"

"She wanted to shield somebody else. Now that's all I shall tell you. See here, are you coming the Othello dodge?"

Tom gave a vicious whack at a big lump which split into a dozen pieces, all of which guzzled and sputtered after the unpleasant fashion of soft coal.

"There's something here I don't understand," he persisted.

Jack regarded him curiously a moment. Then he lighted a fresh cigarette, and lay back in his chair, stretching out his legs luxuriously.

"It's really too bad that your wife's gone back on you," he observed dispassionately.

"What?" cried Tom, turning violently.

"Such a nice little woman as Letty always was too," went on Jack mercilessly. "I wouldn't have believed it."

"What in the deuce do you mean?" Tom demanded furiously, grasping the poker as if he were about to strike with it. "Do you dare to insinuate – "

Jack sat up suddenly and looked at him, his sunny face full of earnestness.

"What the deuce do you mean?" he echoed. "What can a man mean when he begins to distrust his wife? Heavens! I'm beastly ashamed of you, Tom Harbinger! To think of your coming to the club and talking to a man about that little trump of a woman! You ought to be kicked! There, old man," he went on with a complete change of manner, "I beg your pardon. I only wanted to show you how you might look to an unfriendly eye. You know you can't be seriously jealous of Letty."

The other changed color, and looked shame-facedly into the coals.

"No, of course not, Jack," he answered slowly. "I'm as big an idiot as Barnstable. I do hate to see men dangling about her, though. I can't help my disposition, can I?"

"You've got to help it if it makes a fool of you."

"And that infernal Count with his slimy manners," Tom went on. "If he isn't a rascal there never was one. I'm not really jealous, I'm only – only – "

"Only an idiot," concluded Jack. "If I were Letty I'd really flirt with somebody just to teach you the difference between these fool ideas of yours and the real thing."

"Don't, Jack," Tom said; "the very thought of it knocks me all out."

XIX

THE CRUELTY OF LOVE

What might be the result of such a match as that of May Calthorpe and Jack Neligage must inevitably depend largely upon the feelings of one or the other to another love. If either were constant to a former flame, only disaster could come of the mariage de convenance which Mrs. Neligage had adroitly patched up. If both left behind forgotten the foolish flares of youthful passion, the married pair might arrange their feelings upon a basis of mutual liking comfortable if not inspiring. What happened to Jack in regard to Alice and to May's silly attraction toward the unknown Christopher Calumus was therefore of much importance in influencing the future.

Since Alice Endicott knew of the engagement of May and Jack it was not to be supposed that the malicious fates would fail to bring her face to face with her former lover. The meeting happened a couple of days after. Jack was walking down Beacon street, and Alice came out of May's just in front of him. He quickened his steps and overtook her.

"Good-morning," he said; "you've been in to May's, I see. How is she to-day?"

The tone was careless and full of good-nature, and his face as sunny as the bright sky overhead. Alice did not look up at him, but kept her eyes fixed on the distance. To one given to minute observation it might have occurred that as she did not glance at him when he spoke she must have been aware of his approach, and must have seen him when she came out from the house. That she had not shown her knowledge of his nearness was to be looked upon as an indication of something which was not indifference.

"Good-morning," she answered. "May didn't seem to be in particularly good spirits."

"Didn't she? I must try to find time to run in and cheer her up. I'm not used to being engaged, you see, and I'm not up in my part."

He spoke with a sort of swagger which was obviously intended to tease her, and the heightened color in her cheeks told that it had not missed the mark.

"I have no doubt that you will soon learn it," she returned. "You were always so good in amateur theatricals."

He laughed boisterously, perhaps a little nervously.

"'Praise from Sir Hubert,'" he quoted. "And speaking of engagements, is it proper to offer congratulations on yours?"

She turned to him with a look of indignant severity.

"You know I am not engaged, and that I don't mean to be."

"Oh, that's nothing. I didn't mean to be the other day."

"I am not in the market," she said cuttingly.

"Neither am I any more," Jack retorted coolly. "I've sold myself. That's what they mean, I suppose, by saying a girl has made her market."

Alice had grown more and more stern in her carriage as this talk proceeded. Jack's tone was as flippant as ever, and he carried his handsome head as jauntily as if they were talking of the merriest themes. His brown eyes were full of a saucy light, and he switched his walking-stick as if he were light-heartedly snapping off the heads of daisies in a country lane. The more severe Alice became the more his spirits seemed to rise.

As they halted at a corner to let a carriage pass Alice turned and looked at her companion, the hot blood flushing into her smooth cheek.

"There is nothing in the world more despicable than a fortune-hunter!" she declared with emphasis.

"Oh, quite so," Jack returned, apparently full of inward laughter. "Theoretically I agree with you entirely. Practically of course there are allowances to be made. The Count has been brought up so, and you mustn't be too hard on him."

"You know what I mean," she said, unmoved by the cunning of his speech.

"Yes, of course I can make allowances for you. You mean, I suppose, that as long as you know he's really after you and not your money you can despise public opinion; but naturally it must vex you to have the Count misjudged. Everybody will think Miss Wentstile hired him to marry you."