Perkins, the Fakeer

"You have such excellent taste, Suzanne," I said, proud of my cleverness. "Tog me out in any old thing. But it must be warm and snug, girl. I have had chills up my back until I feel like a small icicle in a cold wind." Suddenly an inspiration came to me. "Suzanne, you'll find a bottled cocktail in the bedroom closet. Never mind the cracked ice. Pour me out about four fingers and bring it to me at once. Don't stare at me like that, girl! Quick work, now. And–ah–don't let Caro–that is, Mr. Stevens hear you. Go!"

Suzanne, pale with amazement, hurried away to find the stimulant that had become suddenly the one thing on earth that I really desired. Presently, she returned, carrying a half-filled cocktail glass.

"Here's how, Suzanne!" I cried, joyously, forgetting caste distinctions in my delight at the opportunity of restoring my waning vitality. I swallowed the smooth concoction at a gulp, Suzanne watching me with a puzzled smile on her disturbed countenance.

"Jenkins is with monsieur," she remarked as she took the empty glass from my white, slender hand. Apprehension clutched at my heart again.

"Does–ah–Mr. Stevens–monsieur–seem to be–ah–quiet?" I asked, eagerly.

"I didn't hear his voice, madame," answered Suzanne, arranging a sky-blue morning-gown for my use. "But Jenkins is talking, talking, talking all the time, madame."

"Damn him for a confounded cockney gas-bag!" I murmured, despondently, but fortunately Suzanne was at that moment busy at the further end of the dressing-room. I stood erect, impatient of further delay.

"Look here, girl," I exclaimed, "will you quit this fussy nonsense and get me out of here? I've got an engagement at–"

My sweet, velvety voice failed me as I realized that I was again forgetting myself, or, rather, Caroline.

The long suffering Suzanne was at my side, instantly.

"Madame may go now," she said, giving a finishing touch here and there to my hair and costume. I made for the bedroom eagerly, but tripped over my dress, recovering my equilibrium and went on. Suzanne said something to herself in French, but the only words that came distinctly to my ears were:

"Le cocktail! Il est diabolique!"

CHAPTER III.

CAROLINE'S USURPATION

In philosophic mood last night, as idly I was lying,That souls may transmigrate, methought, there could be no denying;So just to know to what I owe propensities so strong,I drew my soul into a chat–our gossip lasted long.--Béranger.

It was not wholly unpleasant to find myself facing Caroline across the breakfast-table. There she sat, attired in my most becoming gray business suit, in outward seeming a large, well-groomed man-of-the-world. The light in her–or my–eyes suggested the possibility that she had found compensations for her soul's change of base. If that was the case, Caroline was more to be envied than I was, for, despite the feminine beauty that had become mine for a time, I was wholly ill-at-ease and disgruntled. My hand trembled and I spilled the coffee that it had become my duty to serve. Jones, our phlegmatic butler, appeared to be politely astonished at my clumsiness and glanced at me furtively now and again.

"Two lumps, Caroline?" I asked, absently. Catching my wife's masculine eye, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. "Reginald, I mean!"

"Three lumps, and plenty of cream, Caroline," said my wife, with ready wit. What a domineering note there was in my voice when used vicariously! I wondered if Caroline had noticed it.

"You may go, Jones," I said, presently. "I'll ring if we need you."

A gleam of surprise came into the butler's eyes, but he controlled it instantly, and strode from the breakfast-room like a liveried automaton.

"You are not eating, Reginald," said my wife, in a gruff whisper, glancing at the door through which Jones had made his exit. "You must not give way to your nervousness, dear boy. You'll need all your strength before the day is over."

"Gad, you're right–if I can judge by the last hour, Caroline," I remarked, endeavoring by force of will to beget an appetite for toast and eggs. "Just hand me my letters, will you? Here are yours, my dear."

I saw the masculine cheeks redden, but Caroline made no effort to act upon the suggestion that I had thrown out.

"Reggie! Reggie!" she moaned, hoarsely, "is there no help for us? Can't you think of something that will change us back again? It's simply unbearable. Sometimes it makes me laugh, but I almost died before I got out of the bath-room. And Jenkins was simply detestable! You must get us out of this, Reginald, or I warn you I shall read these letters, go down to your office and your club–and enjoy life in your way for a while, my dear."

There was something in all this that I did not altogether like, but I smiled as I said:

"Are you laboring under the delusion, Caroline, that my daily life, filled to overflowing with business cares that you know nothing about, is pleasanter than yours? You can do as you please all day long–see people or deny yourself to them, as you choose. I had noticed a tendency upon your part, my dear, before this–ah–accident occurred, to complain that your existence was dull, that a man had a happier lot than a woman. It's all bosh, that idea. From the moment when I leave this house in the morning, Caroline, I am a slave to duties that I cannot shirk. I am under a terrific strain all day long. As for you, my dear, you may go and come as you please, see the people you like, and dodge those you detest; take a nap if you're tired, a drive if you're suffocated, a walk if you feel energetic. And you have nothing but petty worries that don't amount to a row of beans. Great Scott! Caroline, what an easy job a woman in your position has!"

Caroline refused to meet my gaze, and I observed with annoyance that my eyes sometimes had a shifty way with them. She had placed one large relentless hand over my small pile of letters. Presently, she said, in a tone that indicated a stubborn spirit:

"You are off the track, Reginald. What I want to know is whether you think that we have exhausted every method for getting out of this queer scrape?"

"Drop that, will you, Caroline?" I exclaimed, petulantly. "I'm no theosophist nor faith-curist. I'm not going to fool with this thing at all. If we get to tampering with it–whatever it is–you may find yourself in Jenkins's shoes and I may be Suzanne or Jones for a change. I'm banking on a readjustment in our sleep to-night. Until then, we'll have to accept the situation as it stands."

"Then I'm going to boss things, Reggie," remarked my wife, firmly. "If I'm obliged to get about in your great, hulking figure, my dear, I'm going to enjoy all the perquisites for the next few hours. I don't believe–I never did believe–that you work half as hard as you say you do, nor that you have such horrible dragons to slay every day before dinner. Then, I want you to see for yourself how much leisure I really enjoy. You can stay at home and run my affairs, Reggie, dear. I'm going down-town to see 'the boys' at work!"

"Good heavens, Caroline, you are joking!" I cried, my delicate hand trembling as I endeavored to raise my coffee-cup to my white lips. "It would be utter madness–what you plan! I'll have to let things slide for to-day. I'll telephone to the office saying that I'm down with the grip. Grip? That's good," I went on, hysterically. "It's just what we've lost, Caroline. But never mind! It's a word that will serve my turn. And then, my dear, we'll pass the day together here. We might get a readjustment at any moment, don't you see, if we stick close to each other. If you're down-town–great Nebuchadnezzar! anything might happen to us, Caroline."

"But there's the telephone, Reginald," suggested my wife, coldly. "As soon as I reach your office I'll call you up. If you don't leave the house to-day you'll have me at the end of a 'phone most of the time. And let me tell you, Reggie, you'll need me. I am very much inclined to think, my dear, that you'll wonder, before the day is over, what has become of my sinecure. I am quite sure that you'll not find time for a great many naps."

"If you leave me, Caroline," I said, musingly, "I shouldn't dare to fall asleep. But I really can't believe, my dear, that you seriously contemplate the expedition you have mentioned. You'll have the devil's own time, let me tell you, Caroline. Let me glance at that memorandum-book in your inside coat-pocket. Thanks. Wednesday? To-day is Wednesday. Nine-thirty–Boggs and Scranton. We'll scratch that off. I'm late for that, as it is. Rogers!" To myself, I cried: "Lord, she mustn't meet Rogers! I shouldn't have given him my office address."

As I glanced through the day's appointments, item by item, my horror grew apace. Caroline, if she went to my office, was bound to derive a wholly false impression of the general tenor of my life. There would be so many things that would be open to misconstruction! Unimaginative I might be, but my memoranda enabled me to foretell just what kind of an experience awaited Caroline in my daily haunts. The methods by which a successful business is conducted in New York would puzzle her sorely, and place me in a most uncomfortable light.

"It can't be done, my dear," I said, presently; and Caroline's sweet voice annoyed me by its lack of an imperative note. It seemed to beat impotently against that stubborn-looking countenance across the breakfast-table. "You'd bungle matters most desperately if I allowed you to go down. As it is, I dread the outcome of my enforced absence. Playing lady to-day will cost me a cool ten thousand, at the very least."

I could see, plainly enough, that what I had said had made very little impression upon my wife. Perhaps she doubted my word or felt confidence in her own business ability. In desperation, I took a new tack.

"I think, Caroline, that, on the whole, it would be much better for you to remain here with me and tell me all about that note to which Suzanne referred. It may take some time, my dear, to get that–ah–little matter straightened out."

My eyes never wavered as I gazed into their depths.

"It's easily explained, Reggie, dear," said Caroline, coldly. "It will take me but a moment. As to your interpretation of what Jenkins has been saying to me–that, of course, is another matter. Your explanations may require considerable time, Reggie, darling."

I dropped my coffee-cup, which went to pieces with its saucer.

"Jenkins?" I cried; in a tone so high that it gave me a headache. "Didn't I warn you that he was a great liar, Caroline? You mustn't believe more than ten per cent. of what he says."

"H'm!" growled Caroline, while she glanced idly at the outside of the envelopes beside her coffee-cup.

"I tell you, Caroline," I went on, feverishly, wondering why I had grown to hate my wife's voice so quickly, "I tell you, Caroline, that Jenkins is a waif from the School for Scandal. He was valet to Lord Runabout before he came over here. Jenkins's standards, I must say, are low. You know what Runabout is, my dear. Well, Jenkins seems to think that to be a gentleman one must have Runabout's tastes. I was idly curious at first to hear what Jenkins had to say. Naturally, he got a wrong impression, and there you are! Sometimes, Caroline, you'd think, to hear Jenkins talk to me, that I was a wild blade, a dare-devil rake, of the latest English pattern. In certain moods, he amuses me; at other times, I don't listen to him. But I can readily understand, my dear, what a shock he must have given you. Of course, you couldn't know–I should have told you more about it in detail–that I'm really a hero to my valet. It's not a nice kind of hero, of course, but it's the kind that Jenkins admires. In short, Caroline, dear, while I'm Dr. Jekyll to the world, I'm Mr. Hyde to my man."

"H'm," came my gruff voice again, and there was a smile on my face that aroused my anger. During our five years of married life I had never lost my temper with Caroline. But her present manner, made doubly offensive by the use of my own body as its medium, filled me with rage.

"By the eternal horn spoon, Caroline, you must drop that!" I cried, in a shrill treble. "If you say 'h'm' to me again in that cheap actor's manner–I'll–I'll–"

"Get a divorce, perhaps," suggested Caroline, pleasantly. "Come, come, Reginald, you've gone far enough. You have no cause for anger–unless, indeed, your conscience goads you. But I've put up a flag of truce. Suppose we drop this unpleasant subject for the present." Here she calmly stuck my letters into a pocket of my coat. "I'll look these over riding down-town. Just ring for Jones, will you, and ask him if the coupé is at the door."

"Caroline! Caroline!" I moaned, falling back in my chair, limp and hopeless, "you must not–you dare not attempt this mad prank! I tell you, Caroline, that you will regret your foolhardiness to the last day of your life."

"Listen to me, Reginald," said my wife, standing erect and drawing herself up to my full height. "Jones will come to you up-stairs for his orders. Think of it, my dear! You can order whatever you like best for dinner. The Van Tromps and Edgertons dine with us to-night. Don't forget that."

I groaned aloud, and felt the tears rushing to Caroline's beautiful eyes.

"This morning," she went on, seemingly in high spirits, "my new ball dress should arrive. Mrs. Taunton–you never liked her, Reggie, but she's really charming–is to lunch with me. Professor Von Gratz will be here at eleven to hear me play Beethoven's Opus 22. He's apt to be severe, but don't mind him, my dear. His bark is worse than his bite." Caroline bent down and touched the bell in front of me.

"Is the coupé ready, Jones?" she asked, as the butler entered.

"Yes, sir."

"Ta-ta, Reggie," cried my wife, in my most playful voice. "I'll call you by 'phone the moment I reach the office. Hope you'll have a pleasant day. Ta-ta!"

A moment later, I sat alone in the breakfast-room, gazing down at my broken coffee-cup and saucer. I regretted their accidental destruction. It would have pleased me now to smash them by design.

CHAPTER IV.

THE STRENUOUS LIFE

No longer memory whispers whence aroseThe doom that tore me from my place of pride.--Whittier.

I had had the telephone placed in the library for reasons that need not be given here, and it was to this room that I betook myself after I had recovered from Caroline's cruel exit. I realized, in a vague kind of way, that the library was not my wife's customary haunt after breakfast, but I lacked the courage to seek a clue to her usual morning habits. That Suzanne would discover me presently in my hiding-place, I had no doubt, but I was safe from intrusion for a time, at least, and might find in solitude a poultice for the blows that this deplorable day–always to be remembered as Black Wednesday–had already given to me.

As I seated myself beside a table covered with books and magazines, a feeling of rebellion, not unmingled with envy, came over me. It was a clear, bracing, sunny morning, and Caroline, in my outward seeming, was rolling down-town, rejoicing, doubtless, like a bird that has escaped unexpectedly from a narrow cage. A new life lay before her. She had gone forth to see the world, while I, beautiful but despondent, sat trembling, in momentary dread of discovery by Jones or Suzanne. Menaced by a ball-dress, a music teacher, Mrs. Taunton and various unknown household duties, my mind exaggerated the miseries of my situation. Unworthy passions agitated my throbbing bosom. A longing for vengeance, a mad desire to make Caroline regret her base desertion of the man whom she had vowed to love, honor and obey, swept through me. It would go hard with me, indeed, if some opportunity for punishing my errant spouse did not present itself during the long day that confronted me.

With great presence of mind, despite my agitation, I had brought Caroline's mail into the library with me. Should I open it? Why not? She had carried off my letters with a piratical nonchalance quite consistent with her present high-handed methods of procedure. It was only fair that I should dip into her correspondence at my leisure. But I feared, just now, any further shock to my nerves, and sat motionless, gazing listlessly at the little pile of notes addressed to Caroline. Suddenly, a thought came into my mind that sent the blood rushing through my veins. Was it not more than probable that my library contained a few volumes dealing with the occult sciences? At all events, I was sure that I owned several books relating to Oriental philosophy. Then there was Sir Edwin Arnold's "Light of Asia" at my disposal, and, if I became impatient of research, I could look up "Reincarnation," "Transmigration" and kindred topics in the encyclopædia.

But what had become of my courage? Great as was my curiosity regarding the strange psychical displacement that had made me practically a prisoner in my own home, I feared to take steps that, while they might increase my erudition, might also deprive me of all hope of the night's readjustment.

"I'd better leave it alone," I murmured to myself, despondently. "My very ignorance of this kind of thing may prove to be my salvation in the end. I'm up against it, there's no doubt of that. And the queer thing about it all is that I'm not more astonished at what has happened. It didn't hurt a bit! It was like taking gas. You wake up in a dentist's chair, and the only tooth you knew you possessed has gone. I wonder, by the way, if it would pay to consult a doctor–some specialist in nervous disorders? I could use an assumed name, and– Bosh! I haven't the sand to do it. And it might lead to an investigation as to my sanity. Great guns, girl! You here again?" The last words I spoke aloud, gazing upward into Suzanne's pale, disturbed face.

"I am so worried about madame," said Suzanne in French, glancing nervously around the library, as if she sought in my environment an explanation of her mistress's eccentricity. "Would it not be well for madame to come up-stairs and try to get a nap?"

"A nap!" I cried, in a vibrant treble. "Not on your life, girl! I'm up for all day, you may bet on that. Get me the morning papers, Suzanne. And–wait! Where's Jenkins?"

Suzanne gazed at me in surprise.

"He's eating his breakfast, madame."

"Bring me the papers, and then tell Jenkins to take a day off. Tell him he may go as far away as Hoboken if he wants to. He needn't return until to-morrow."

Suzanne glided from my side with a quick, silent movement that reminded me of a black cat.

A wild, fleeting hope seized me that Jenkins would carry the girl away with him, but presently Suzanne entered the library again.

"Jenkins sends his thanks to madame, and will take a holiday, after reporting to monsieur at his office," said my pretty gadfly, glibly, placing the morning newspapers beside me.

"Confound his impudence!" I exclaimed, and I saw at once that Suzanne considered me "no better."

"And now, girl, what next? Jones, I suppose."

"Yes, madame. He is awaiting your pleasure outside the door."

At that moment Jones entered the library.

"You called me, madame," he said, pompously, magnificent as a liar. "Your orders, madame?"

"We have guests for dinner, Jones," I remarked, bravely.

"Yes, madame. How many?"

"Four, Jones. Six at the table, that is. Cocktails to start with, Jones, and serve my best wines–freely, do you understand? I want you to give us a dinner to-night, Jones, that'll–make a new man of me," I murmured under my breath.

"Yes, madame," said the butler, respectfully, but I certainly caught a gleam of delight in his heavy eyes. "You give me carte blanche, madame?"

"Throw everything wide open, and let 'er go, Jones," I cried, with enthusiasm. Caroline should see that I know how "to provide."

Jones bowed, more, I believe, to conceal his astonishment than for mere ceremony, and turned to leave the room.

"Jones," I called, before he had disappeared, "if you talk to Jenkins before he leaves the house I shall discharge you."

The butler turned, with a flush in his face, and gave me a haughty stare. Then he said, recovering his machine-made humility:

"Yes, madame. Your orders shall be obeyed." With that he was gone.

"Go to the 'phone, Suzanne," I said at once, "and call up 502, Rector. When you've got 'em, let me know."

Suzanne was too nervous to accomplish this task, and I was forced to go to her assistance.

"Hello!" I heard Caroline's voice crying presently, and it warned me to be careful.

Standing at a 'phone it was hard for me to remember that I was far from being quite myself.

"Who's this?" came to my ears from 502, Rector.

"Has–ah–Mr. Stevens reached the office yet?" I asked.

"We expect him every moment. He's late this morning," came the answer in a man's voice, (I had grown very sensitive to sex in voices.) "Who is this?"

"I am–ah–Mrs. Stevens." Suddenly, I realized that I was talking to Morse, my head-clerk. How he happened to be in my inner office puzzled me. "Anything new this morning, Morse?" I inquired, impulsively. There was a sound that can be described as an electric gurgle at his end of the line.

"Hello," he cried, above a buzzing of the wires that might have been caused by his astonishment. "Are you still there, Mrs. Stevens?"

"Well, rather," I said to myself. Then aloud: "Will you kindly call me up–ah–Mr. Morse, the moment Mr. Stevens arrives?"

"On the instant, Mrs. Stevens," said Morse, deferentially.

Curiosity overcame my discretion.

"How did the market open, Mr. Morse?" I asked, recklessly.

Again that electric gurgle escaped from my startled clerk.

"It seems to be very feverish, madame," answered Morse, evidently recovering his equanimity.

"Naturally!" I exclaimed, feelingly, but I doubt that Morse caught the word.

"Is that all, Mrs. Stevens?" he asked, presently.

"That'll do for the present–ah–Mr. Morse," I said, reluctantly. "Good-bye!"

I returned to my seat beside the reading-table and found Suzanne gazing at me with soft, sympathetic eyes.

"If I had but dared to tell him to unload," I mused aloud, but went no further, for the French girl's glance had become an interrogation-mark.

"Tell monsieur to unload?" murmured Suzanne, who sometimes spoke English when she especially craved my confidence. "But–mon Dieu!--monsieur is not–what you say, madame, loaded?"

I broke into a silvery, high-pitched laugh that annoyed me, exceedingly. But it was not unpleasant to realize that the girl knew that Mr. Stevens was a gentleman. I felt grateful to Suzanne for her good opinion. A moment later, the telephone rang, sharply.

"There's Caroline," I said to myself; but I was quickly undeceived when I had placed the receiver to my ear.

"Is that you, Caroline?" I heard a voice saying. "This is Louise. What have you decided to do about those lectures on Buddhism? Will you join the class, my dear?"

"Not in a thousand years!" I fairly shrieked through the 'phone. "Good-bye!"

"More trouble, madame?" asked Suzanne, as I tottered back to my chair. "I am so sorry. Really, I think madame should come up-stairs with me and lie down. I will bathe madame's head, and she may drop off for a time."

"Suzanne," I said, solemnly, making a strong effort of will and controlling my temper nicely–"Suzanne, if you suggest a sleep to me again to-day I shall be forced to send you to Hoboken to find Jenkins. What's that? The telephone again? Ah–Mr. Stevens must have reached his office."

I was right this time. If my memory is not at fault, our conversation across the wire ran as follows.

"Hello!"

"Hello!"

Silence for a time and a buzzing in my ear.

"Is that you, Caroline?" from my office.

"You know best–ah–Reginald," in the sweetest tones that I could beget in my wife's voice.

"Hello!"

"Hello!" I returned. "Pleasant ride down–ah–Reginald?"

"Do be serious, will you?" gruffly, from the office.

"Tell Morse to sell L stock and industrials at once. Do you get that?"

"I'll have to use my own judgment in that matter, Caroline." My voice came to me through the 'phone with its own stubborn note.

"Great Scott!" I cried, realizing that I was absolutely helpless. "Be careful what you do–ah–Reginald. It's a very treacherous market. For heaven's sake, sell out at once, will you?"

"I must get to work now, my dear," said my wife, gruffly. "There's a heavy mail this morning, and several men are waiting to see me. Mr. Rogers comes in to me at once."