Whitewash/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
PHILIPPA thrust Valdeck's card into her bosom as she left the studio, and with a beating heart descended to her rendezvous. She found Valdeck apparently absorbed in the study of the index-board in the lower hall.
"Were you recognized?" she asked, in her deepest conspirator voice.
He started. "No, I think not, and, besides, he really knows nothing, but I am anxious to keep away from all possibly hostile observation."
"Of course," said Philippa, rather disappointed that the danger was not more imminent. She glanced at him sharply as they emerged into the street, and her quick intuition told her that Valdeck had been more disturbed than he was willing to own. "You are not telling me all," she said, reproachfully. "You have had a shock—oh, yes, I can see it! you can't deceive me—and can't you trust me? I thought you said you did, implicitly."
He appeared to hesitate, then abruptly signalled a passing hansom.
"You will drive with me, Philippa?" he said, with sudden authority. "I will tell you, but we must be alone. You can spare me an hour? It's now half-past five."
Philippa considered a moment. "Very well. Tell him to drive round the Park; it's so dark we won't be noticed."
She stepped lightly into the carriage, putting her skirts into place as she settled back and affectionately making room for him. He gave his orders and leaped in beside her with the athletic ease she so much admired.
"Now, what is it?" she demanded, as the hansom jerked forward.
"Not yet. It's a horrid story, and I hate to say anything."
"Get it over with then," she suggested, archly.
"I am going away soon," he said, slowly, "very soon. There are so many reasons why I should. I wonder I have stayed so long. Wisdom and duty bid me depart, and yet, I have not the courage to go."
Philippa experienced one of the few real sensations of her life. The stab of this announcement so surprised her by its acute pain that she turned white to the lips, and the jarring of the carriage having displaced her hat, she did not think to readjust it—an oversight not to be credited by those who knew her well. She was silent a moment, unwilling to trust her voice. At last she moistened her lips and managed to ask "Why?" with a poor semblance of carelessness.
"First my work, my duty, then—because—as you must have realized, dear,—because I love you, and I must not interfere with your life and your future. I have nothing to offer; my fortune is pledged to the cause. I am practically banished, I live a life of forced concealment and intrigue that must make me everywhere, sooner or later, an object of suspicion. I can never hope for any real position to offer you. Besides, I have made you my ideal. I want to see you realize the hopes I have of you. I must see you queen among women, the courted, fêted, admired leader of your world. You will marry—ah! yes, I have even dwelt on that, and it must be with one who will appreciate you and surround your beautiful body with the luxuries it deserves; who will supply the wants of your wonderful mind with the best that literature, art, and social intercourse can offer; who will give you the opportunity to develop into the wonderful woman you will be—for you are yet only a promise of what I hope for you."
He paused and gazed on her white profile, softened in the dusk till it toned into the dark background like some delicately painted miniature. This wholesale burning of incense at her shrine was as meat and drink to Philippa. From any man it would have been welcome; but coming from Valdeck it was food celestial. Moreover, a sense of relief filled her. She would not be obliged to refuse him; he was advancing from his standpoint the arguments she might have been forced gently to insinuate into his mind from hers. All she had to do now was play her game, a beautiful, heart-broken game. He need not know or guess her engagement to Morton Conway. The pang of his announced determination to depart had passed away, leaving her once more her old calculating self.
But he wouldn't go. She should manage that. Of course he must leave sooner or later, but later—much later.
He took her hand and held it. She did not resist, but turned her blue eyes on his.
"I often wonder," she said, softly, "whether it would have been better had we never met."
He entered a vigorous protest. "No. This meeting is, and always will be, the crown of my life, the jewel in my heart. Whatever the cost, it cannot cost too much."
A long silence ensued in which the hansom jangled gaily through the dim poem of the twilight, punctuated at intervals by the staring lamps of the driveway or the passing flash of carriage lights.
"Will you do me a great favor?" he asked, suddenly. "Dine with me to-night. You can manage it; I know you can, you are so clever."
Philippa jumped. "Suppose we should be seen?"
"I'll manage that, if you will trust me."
She pressed his hand gently. "Trust you, of course; but it's awfully improper."
"I know it's not conventional; that's why I called it a great favor. But I can't let you go yet, dear. You see I have no ambitions or hopes for myself, only for you. I am to live by the crumbs that fall from the rich man's table, only by such scraps of your time as you will throw to me. You need never fear that I shall importune you. But to-night—when I have just told you my secret, when you have been so kind and patient—I want this one evening with you to cherish and remember. Just to break bread with you alone, to clink glasses with you alone, sit opposite you, as if I had the right to sit there always—yes, just to hear you called 'madame' by the waiter," he laughed, sadly.
Philippa hesitated. "Are you sure we won't be seen?"
"Positive! Why, I would give my life sooner than have one word said against you, and I know as well as you what the world is. The world never believes in a pure and disinterested love—it does not wish to—it has itself to excuse by the faults of others."
"How true!" she murmured. Then she brightened with glee at thought of the forbidden pleasure of the tête-à-tête dinner. "Listen. Tell the man to drive to—West 57th Street; that's Laura Crosse's. They have a telephone. I'll call Aunt Lucy up and tell her I'm staying to dinner and going to the play. She'll ask to speak to Laura to verify—oh! she's horribly suspicious!—but I'll fix Laura, for I've helped her out lots of times when she was engaged to Tom. You must promise to get me home by half-past ten or eleven, for Auntie is going to dine at the Bishops', and she'll be home early—they are such bores."
"You are the best girl in the world." His voice choked a little. "I shall never forget your kindness to me, a poor beggar whom you hardly know in point of time."
"What is time?" she demanded, with fine scorn; "only what we make it. I knew you as soon as I saw you. I am never mistaken in character, and you were doubly clear to me through sympathy."
He pushed up the little door of communication with the driver, and gave his orders. The hansom paused, wheeled, and started off once more into the darkness. The rest of the way they said little, but sat staring into the gloaming world outside, still hand in hand, till the glare of winking arc lights startled them into formality.
In the excitement of the declaration, Philippa had forgotten the trouble he had promised to reveal, but the recollection smote her and she questioned him suddenly. This abruptness of attack was the result of years of experiment. She had discovered that by firing a point-blank question or stating a good guess with decision, the truth was forthcoming in nine cases out of ten. The questioned persons were startled either into spoken admissions and explanations, or they showed symptoms easy for a shrewd person to interpret. To her surprise she learned nothing further from his face or voice.
"Later," was all he answered.
If there had been any wavering in her decision to dine with him, it was past now; her curiosity had pushed down the balance in his favor.
The cab drew up before a handsome house at which Philippa glanced knowingly, collecting her forces before going into action.
"Wait round the corner," she ordered, as she stepped to the pavement and turned to mount the wide stone steps.
The driver obeyed, and Valdeck laughed silently as he noticed the force of habit back of the command. Evidently, "Wait round the corner" was a familiar phrase with this Philippa.
Meanwhile the object of his plans had been admitted to the elaborate hall by an elaborate butler who invited her to be seated in a parlor whose elaborateness was of the newest and most gorgeous variety, of the sort that secretly filled Philippa with delight, though openly she professed to scorn the upholsterer's style of furnishing as a sort of Cook's personally conducted tour in house decoration.
Mrs. Denison entered, all smiles and rustle. She matched her abode perfectly from the curled and undulated erection of her pale hair to the belaced and bejewelled gray brocade of her tea-gown.
"My dearest girl!" she exclaimed, "are you going to stay to dinner? I'm delighted. You are so good to think of our mourning and how housed we are."
Philippa embraced her friend rapturously. "How sweet you do look! These grays and blacks are so becoming. You ought to kill off an uncle every few months."
"You dreadful girl!" smiled Mrs. Denison.
"But I'm not going to dine with you to-night, dear," Philippa continued, "for I want to dine at a love of a little Bohemian restaurant—oh, it's quite proper—with a party, you know, but Aunt Lucy would't hear of it, you see. So I thought you might let me telephone from here, and tell her I was dining with you—won't you, dear? Auntie is such a stickler for etiquette, and I can't make her understand that everybody nice is going to such places now."
"Why, of course," Mrs. Denison volunteered, completely deceived by the excuse. "I'll telephone to Mrs. Ford myself; that will be better yet. But do come in and dine any evening when you have nothing to do. It's so lonesome all by ourselves, and as we inherited so much by old Mr. Ventimore's will we positively can't go about, it looks so heartless."
"But think how you would have really mourned if he hadn't left you anything, you ungrateful girl! You're a dear, just the same, and I'm everlastingly obliged to you. You'll telephone at once, won't you? Auntie dines with the Bishops, and she'll leave the house by seven, they live so far up-town."
"At once, of course. Run on and have a good time, dearie. When we are able to go about, Tom and I are going to give some really Bohemian things ourselves, a tamale party or a cakewalk, you know; so get all the points you can for us."
Mrs. Denison conducted her guest to the portières, where the elaborate butler took her in hand and ceremoniously opened the doors as she passed out. She walked decorously down the steps till she heard the bang of both doors; then she hurried with joyful anticipation to the waiting carriage. She jumped in gaily and settled herself.
"I've fixed it," she announced, with childish delight.
Valdeck looked his thanks, and called to the driver, who awaited instructions. "To Gagano's."
Philippa started. "Oh!" she asked, "do you think that's quite safe?"
He nodded. "Quite. We'll have a private room, and I'll manage it so you won't be seen."
The hansom rattled on, taking, by his direction, an unfashionable, smaller vein in the city's system of circulation, in preference to the greater and more frequented arteries. Philippa had by this time turned to her muttons with intent to shear to the very last thread of wool. Curiosity stalked hungry through her mind.
"Do tell me what was wrong. It troubles me to see you troubled, and we must get it over with; otherwise it will lie between us and make us both uncomfortable."
He was not ready to divulge, and turned to his love for her and descriptions of her loveliness and how it affected him—divining that her own adored person was the only subject likely to distract her curiosity. In this he sufficiently absorbed her till the cab turned down a quiet side street and drew up before an unpretentious door, over which an illuminated sign announced "Gagano's Restaurant."
Delighted excitement thrilled Philippa as she pulled up her collar and drew down her hat, with the traditional gestures of disguise.
Valdeck restrained her as she gathered her belongings preparatory to alighting. "Stay here," he said, quietly. "I'll go up and arrange so you won't have to wait in hallways." He paid the driver, ran up the steps, and disappeared between the ground-glass doors.
Several minutes elapsed, during which Philippa, from the darkness of her shelter, looked out with fear and curiosity at the men and women who passed in the street or hurried into the restaurant. At last Valdeck came rapidly down the steps, glancing sharply up and down the street as he did so, assisted her to alight, and escorted her into the house. A narrow corridor opened before her, stairs loomed upward, with an obsequious waiter bowing on the landing. A door to the right gave a glimpse of the main dining-room. It stood ajar, and, annoyed at the oversight, she turned her face away, and fled up the stairs. The floor above showed another narrow hall, where busy servants ran to and fro. To Philippa it was all evil and mysterious, and filled her with delighted trepidation. The sound of smothered laughter, the faint chink of glasses and plates, the sight of champagne bottles cooling in the silver-plated buckets on the floor,—all impressed her with a sense of delicious naughtiness. The obsequious waiter ushered them into a tiny room, and discreetly closed the door.
Philippa looked about her with interest. Before her stood a table, neatly set for two, adorned with a scanty bunch of carnations. Everything was worn. The mirror was scratched, the velvet of the upholstery showed the nap, the carpet was dulled by the frequent upsetting of viands. The air was hot, the only ventilation being a small electric fan, now motionless, fixed in one corner near the lights. A room attractive and repellent enough, but to Philippa, soaked in French novels, it was the realization of the baleful and belauded cabinet particulier. Valdeck apologized for the shabbiness of his hospitality, but pointed out the fact that a meeting with any of their acquaintances would be practically out of the question.
The waiter, after discreetly knocking, entered with cocktails on a silver waiter, and presented the bill of fare and wine-card with a gesture worthy of Lord Chesterfield.
Valdeck acquitted himself of the task of selection, ordered the champagne to be brut and frappé, and by his evident knowledge of things culinary, went up several points in his guest's estimation.
Left alone once more, he seated Philippa on the divan, took his place on the chair opposite, persuaded her to remove not only her wraps but her hat, and showed himself a thoughtful and attentive host. Presenting her with the cocktail, he bowed gravely.
"A vos beaux yeux," he murmured, tenderly.
She drank the beverage, and as its glow began to course through her veins, she raised her smiling eyes to his.
"What would our friends think of this?" she asked, again with that delightful ingénue blush of hers.
"Just at present I don't in the least care," he answered, gaily; "but I promise you they won't be able to say anything."
The waiter appeared with oysters.
"Are you still determined to go away?" she asked, after a moment's silence.
"I ought to—" he answered, uncertainly.
"But that's not the question. Are you, I said?" and she raised her violet eyes to his face, half-wistful, half-mocking.
"To explain just why," he said, gravely, "I must tell you. I was taken aback when I saw you this afternoon sitting with a girl I never expected to see again, a girl whom I saw last in Europe; whose gray eyes I shall never forget."
Philippa dropped her oyster-fork, and her eyes dilated.
"Victoria Claudel! For goodness sake, what do you mean?"
He appeared to hesitate, and the conversation ceased as the servant served the soup.
"My dear girl," he resumed, after a moment, "I must, to protect myself and your good opinion of me, do a thing that is considered, and rightly considered, dastardly among men. I must speak ill of a woman to whom I am indebted, more than indebted."
Philippa turned scarlet, her heart beat heavily. Here, indeed, was a dramatic situation.
"She is, I know, from your manner toward her, your very dear friend," he went on, "and you must not only forgive me for what I have to say, but both for my sake and hers, promise me the most rigid secrecy, the most absolute silence—"
"I swear!" said Philippa, her cheeks crimsoning with excitement.
"—even to her. She must not know that I have told you. But I know what a woman's jealousy can be and is. I know that Victoria would do all in her power to harm me. She is vindictive beyond belief, and all her intelligence, her strength and will go into her plans. I do not know that she followed me, but I fear it. Now that she has found me, she undoubtedly will do her best to oust me from my position here. What stories she will circulate I cannot guess as yet; but I know from past experience what she can do. Has not one of your poets said, 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'? And to you, Philippa, to you she will certainly come with her accusations, for she will inevitably see that you have absorbed my life. Whatever I am, whatever I may have been, you know that you are my love, my only love, and I cannot bear that she should turn you from me."
Philippa was splendid. Holding out her hand across the table, she took his in a firm and friendly grasp. You were right to trust me with your secret. She cannot hurt you in my eyes. But what shall we do if she tries to circulate anything against you among others? She has the advantage—she is known here, you are not. You cannot tell the reason of her hatred of you; that would be unforgivable in every one's eyes. Yet if you go away she may wither your reputation at her ease."
"If you stand my friend," he went on, "it is all I ask of fate."
"But she must not injure you."
Again the waiter interrupted, but Philippa was beyond paying any attention to his presence. Valdeck shrugged his shoulders.
"It can't be helped, unless, perhaps, you find out and tell me in what direction her enmity will show itself. I might plan to meet it. But that would entail too much on you. You could never play the ignorant; let her confide in you and show her hand. You are too open and clear a nature to meet the wiles of a woman of her stamp."
"Indeed I can—trust me. I'll know every plan, I'll fathom her every thought, I'll not leave her for a moment. If she doesn't come directly to me, and she is quite clever enough to work through other people, if she imagines I know anything or suspect her honesty, why, then I'll go to her. I'll give you my word that you shall know just what is afoot as soon as she does herself. It will be a little thing to do in return for your friendship."
Valdeck lost himself in a maze of thanks and adoring admiration.
"Isn't it strange," she murmured, "isn't it wonderful, that things should work out this way? I understand it all now. She pretended to be puzzled as to where she had seen you before—asked me who you were, to sound me, you see, concerning our relations. She seemed absent-minded and ill at ease. And then, when I left her, she happened to see the pin you gave me. She was really overcome, turned pale, and fairly shook me, demanding where I got it."
"Yes," he nodded, reminiscently. "She knew how much I thought of that trinket. I remember she once asked me to let her wear it, and I refused. She never quite forgave me. Of course when she saw it in your possession she was enraged. What did you say?"
Philippa colored. "Well, I couldn't tell her the truth, you know. I said it was an old thing of my mother's, but I saw she knew better."
He laughed, shortly. "Knew better!" Inwardly he congratulated himself on his judgment in taking the bull by the horns. He was certain now to be informed of whatever danger threatened him, of what steps would be taken. Another week, and it made little difference what came out. Till then he must play the game carefully. He looked at Philippa, and felt grateful to his lucky stars that she was so fair to look on and so pliable to his will. It enabled him to throw himself heartily into his part. He always was fortunate with his women confederates, conscious or unconscious, he commented. There was Eugenia, what a jewel the woman was. It was unfortunate that the police had suspected her, it prevented his seeing her as often as he would like.
Squab and salad were served, and Valdeck came over to the divan and sat beside Philippa.
"Let's drop all this for the present," he said, gently taking her hand; "let's talk of you, it's a pleasanter subject; only tell me that this confidence hasn't completely barred me from your respect. What can you know of a man's life and temptations!" He bowed his head on his free hand and looked gloomily into the mirror opposite.
She followed his glance and gazed approval on their common reflections. How handsome he was! and how well she was looking herself! The wine and excitement had flushed her cheeks and lighted her eyes with a starry radiance; a dew of perspiration had dampened her hair and ruffled it into soft curls. Her satisfaction in her own appearance made her the more ready to admire him, made her the more lenient to his avowed fault; besides, what woman ever scorns to triumph over a rival in any man's estimation?
"A woman's intuition permits her to divine conditions that are not actually within her experience," she answered, softly, sipping the glass of champagne before her with grave appreciation, "and I think I can fairly say that you have not fallen in my estimation. One learns," and here Philippa looked vastly worldly-wise and bitter, "not to expect a man's life to be as spotless as a woman's, or even a woman's as spotless as it ought to be. I must own, though, that what you tell me of Victoria would surprise most of her friends more than it does me. I have never quite held her in my esteem to the point of absolute trust. There is a suggestion of defiance in her Bohemianism. She permits herself liberties that are not wise. She lunches with any man she likes, whenever she pleases, in the most public places. I often used to speak to her about it, and she always resented it, maintaining that as long as a woman stayed in broad daylight, and in a public place, she was sufficiently chaperoned. But such things show a disregard of public opinion that sooner or later leads to graver offences, not only against the laws of convention, but against the laws of God."
Valdeck hid a smile with his serviette. She was too delicious, this girl. His curiosity began to rise concerning this Victoria whose character he had just destroyed. Evidently she was a woman of independence and intelligence. It was rather a pity to spoil her reputation; but it had to be done. Besides, he reflected, was it not a custom current in society, was it not sufficient to justify any calumny, that the person thus punished should happen to know things derogatory to the calumniator? "The greater the truth the greater the libel" works more ways than one.
"Philippa," he said, apparently coming out of a brown study, "you are the sweetest, dearest woman in the world. I shall never forget your kindness and charity, as I can never forget your loveliness and truth. My lady of goodness! I believe there is not another such combination of beauty, brains, and sincerity on the face of the earth." "How she swallowed it all!" he added to himself.
She drew out her tiny jewelled watch and glanced at it with a pout. "We must go soon," she murmured, reluctantly. "Aunt Lucy keeps such close count of my every moment, and"—she turned her innocent eyes to his face—"I do so hate deception."
"And she really believes it," he thought, delightedly; "she honestly thinks herself the soul of truth!"
"Not yet," he begged aloud; "a few moments more or less count very little to Aunt Lucy, while to me—you don't realize what they are to me! And when shall I see you again? To-morrow? where?"
Philippa remembered with annoyance that Morton Conway was coming to take her driving in the afternoon. She couldn't very well refuse. She had a luncheon engagement, and dressmaker's in the morning, dinner and theatre-party at the Wellsleys—oh, dear! The dressmaker would have to wait.
"I'll go over to Victoria's early in the morning," she said, slowly, "about ten—I can't very well go earlier. I'll make her tell me what she intends to do, and—let me see—suppose you wait in the Turkish room at the Waldorf, at twelve. If by any chance I should be detained, I'll call you up on the telephone at half after. I'll be there, though," she added, looking her sweetest.
"You are so good!" he said again. "Now that I have the assurance that you will not believe anything that will be said against me,—now that you know the very worst that can be said with truth, I can't tell you how relieved I am. Confession lightens one's load wonderfully. The Catholic doctrine is founded on a real human need. If every one loved God as I love you—"
"Oh!" cried Philippa, interrupting with almost terrified emphasis; "don't, don't say such things—to compare me with the Deity!"
She was genuinely shocked, for Philippa was very devout on Sundays and in Lent.
"Forgive me," he begged, humbly. "I did not mean to hurt your beautiful faith. Unfortunately, I can believe in nothing—only in you and my duty to my fellow man."
She was not displeased. Atheism sat not unbecomingly on manly shoulders, though to her thinking it was to the last degree bad form in a woman. Religion, like one's evening dress, was the proper thing and indispensable for certain occasions, though she attributed her religious fervor to quite different emotions.
The more Valdeck turned the leaves of his companion's character, the greater was his amusement. It was like reading some written study of the ultrafeminine. It might be worth one's trouble to sketch out a romance with her for the sake of watching her clockwork. But time pressed; another week and he would have dropped from this crude sphere as completely as if he had never existed—to reincarnate himself under another name, in another country, and build up an excellent reputation that would shield the sources of his wealth, if all went well.
Philippa rose, and began the various adjustments of hairpins and garments, always premonitory of her going forth.
"Must you go now?" he asked. "I won't tease; you know best—but must you?"
She nodded, almost sadly.
He bowed his head in acquiescence to the inevitable, and rang the bell for the waiter. Hastily settling his bill, he turned to her once more. She was carefully prodding her hat with a topaz-headed pin, as she studied her face in the glass. He crossed over and stood beside her. She thrilled with his presence.
"You are so beautiful!" he whispered. "May I?" And before she could protest he folded her in his arms, turned her flushed face to his, and kissed her on the mouth.
For an instant she yielded to his arm, resting her head on his breast for the infinitesimal fraction of a second. A quivering delight mounted from her heart and dimmed her eyes. But in a moment she was herself again.
"Mr. Valdeck!" she said, severely. "And I trusted you in coming here!"
The tone was perfect. "Just as if she hadn't been waiting for that all the evening," he thought, admiringly. "She's a genius." He kept silent, only looking at her with humble, dog-like eyes, as a hound reproved for showing too much exuberance of affection.
With a petulant movement she caught up her jacket, pouted, smiled, looked at him and then at it, and finally held it out with an inimitable gesture of amused reluctance.
"You'll have to help me into it, I suppose."
He sprang forward, took the outstretched garment and clasped it fondly.
"No, no, it isn't for you to keep," she laughed.
The operation of getting into the wrap was prolonged, and difficult, numerous hooks had to be attended to and sleeves smoothed, to all of which Philippa laughingly submitted, unconscious of the deft unfastening of her treasured jewel, and its sudden disappearance down a concealing sleeve. At the door he took her hand and kissed it fervently.
"Let me go first, dear," he said, passing in front. "I want to see if the coast is clear. I told the waiter to call a cab."
Feeling more deliciously wicked than ever, Philippa crept through the hall and down the stairs. All was quiet, and with the glee of a schoolboy who successfully carries out a dangerous prank, she sprang into the waiting carriage.