[Illustration: Scenes From the Photo-Drama.]
“My wife and I have been detained in New York this evening unexpectedly,” explained Curtis to the hotel clerk. “We want a suite of rooms, a sitting-room, three bedrooms with baths—you would like Marcelle’s room to communicate with yours, wouldn’t you, dear?” and he turned suddenly to Hermione.
“Y-yes,” she faltered, for the attack took her unaware.
“What floor, sir? We have a nice suite on the tenth.”
“Not so high, please,” said Hermione. Then she sprung a mine on her own account. “I know it is stupid, Jack, darling, but I am so afraid of fire.”
“This hotel is absolutely fireproof, madam,” put in the clerk, stating a fact implicitly believed by every hotel proprietor in New York in so far as his own building is concerned, “but we can accommodate you on the second floor, Suite F., fifty dollars a day.”
“Thank you. That will be just right,” said Curtis quickly, for he meant to live like a prince during one night at least, let the morrow bring its own cares. “Now, you understand that we are here without baggage, though my wife’s maid will procure some necessaries while we eat, and I mean to get some clothes later, but, if you would like a deposit of, say, a hundred dollars——?”
He felt for his pocketbook, but, to the credit of the clerk be it said, the suggestion was negatived with a smile.
“No need at all for any deposit, sir,” was the answer. “I wouldn’t be on to my job it I didn’t know how and when to discriminate in matters of that sort. Will you register?”
Curtis took a pen and wrote:
“Mr. and Lady Hermione Curtis, and maid.” Some imp of adventure moved him to inscribe “Pekin” in the column for visitors’ home addresses. But the clerk was obviously impressed by Hermione’s title, no less than the singularly remote locality the couple hailed from. He leant back, and took a key from its hook.
“Page!” he said. “Show Mr. Curtis and her ladyship to Suite F.” Then he added, as an afterthought: “Would you like dinner served in your sitting-room, sir?”
“I think so,” said Curtis, “but my wife shall decide a little later.”
Hermione kept silent until they were safely behind the closed door of a well-furnished and delightfully spacious apartment.
“Of course, I bear all expenses,” she said firmly.
“What—are we quarreling already?” he asked.
“No, but——”
“You think I am being wildly extravagant. Why, bless your ladyship’s dear little heart, this hotel doesn’t begin to know how to charge like a taxi. Now, no argument till to-morrow. An American millionaire can really be quite a decent sort of fellow at times, and, if we may assume that this is one of the times, please let me play at being a millionaire—for once.”
She raised her veil, and looked at him, straight in the eyes.
“Why are you so different from other men? Why have I never before spoken to a man like you?” she asked.
“But I am not different, and there are plenty of men like me; the other poor chaps haven’t had my glorious chance of serving you—that is all. Now, won’t you go and see if your room is comfortable, and whether or not Marcelle’s quarters are just right? Then come back here, and we’ll discuss menus, for which purpose I shall ring for a waiter ek dum.”
“Is that Chinese?”
“No, Hindustani. It means ‘at once,’ but every hotel-wala east of Suez understands it.”
Still she lingered.
“Have you any sisters—a mother living?” she said.
“No. I’m the sole survivor of my own family. But I mean to give myself the pleasure of a full introduction while we dine, or sup. Do say you are hungry.”
“I have not eaten a morsel since luncheon,” she confessed.
“Oh, joy! I must interview the head waiter. No common serf will suffice. Please hurry.”
She left him, not without an impulsive movement as though she meant to utter some further words of thanks, but checked her intent on the very threshold of speech. As the lock of the bedroom door clicked, and he was alone, he essayed a review of the amazing sequence of events which had befallen since he strolled out of the dining-room of the Central Hotel. He stood there, motionless, with hands plunged deep in his pockets, but, at the outset of a reverie in which judgment and prudence might have helped in the council, he happened to catch sight of himself in an oblong mirror over the mantelpiece, for the apartment, redolent of New York’s later architecture, contained an open grate, and was furnished with the chaste beauty of the Chippendale period. In his present position the reflection in the mirror was oddly reminiscent of a half-length portrait of his grandfather, the warrior who rode at the head of the Fifth Cavalry in ’61.
Then Curtis laughed, with the pleasant conviction of a man whose mind has been made up for him by circumstances beyond his control.
“It’s bred in the bone—a clear case of Mendelism,” he murmured softly, because he had just remembered how Colonel Curtis, before ever the war was ended and its bitterness assuaged, had decided a Southern girl’s conflict between love and duty by galloping fifty miles across Confederate South Carolina and carrying off the lady.
Grandfather and grandson alike were men of action. Curtis seldom used a gesture, and never cried over spilt milk. Now he merely turned, peered into his own bedroom, assured himself that Hermione would find its prototype to her fancy, and then summoned a waiter.
Behind the closed door of the other room a girl was similarly engaged in taking stock of the situation; but she had feminine assistance, so there was bound to be talk.
“Oh, your ladyship, isn’t this just the dandiest bit out of a novel you ever read?” cried Marcelle when she entered her mistress’s room through a communicating door.
“It might be more thrilling if it were not a page out of my own life,” said Hermione sadly. She, too, was gazing in a mirror, though, being a woman, the oppressive thought bobbed up through a sea of troubles that her hair must be untidy, and she owned neither comb nor brush.
“But, what luck, miss, your ladyship, to have found a gentleman like Mr. Curtis at the right moment. Talk about life buoys for drowning men and rich uncles from California in plays—who ever heard of anyone wanting a nice husband and getting him in such a way!”
Marcelle’s eyes were positively glistening. And these two now were not mistress and maid, but a pair of highly strung women, and young ones at that.
“You have lost your wits in this night’s excitement, Marcelle,” said Hermione. “Don’t you realize that I am only married under mere pretense. Mr. Curtis is nothing to me, nor I to him. He has been kind and gallant, and I am under an obligation which I can never discharge—but that is not marriage.”
“It’s awful like it, your ladyship.”
“No, no. Drive such nonsense from your head. When you marry, don’t you hope to love the man of your choice, and will you not feel sure that he loves you?”
“Oh, yes, miladi.”
“Then how is it possible for any relationship of that sort to exist between Mr. Curtis and me?”
“You’ve gone a long way already, ma’am,” giggled Marcelle.
“Please don’t call me ma’am. It—it irritates me.”
“Sorry, miladi, but you will admit, at least, a marriage being necessary, that you were fortunate in finding Mr. Curtis?”
“Yes, doubly fortunate—it is that fact which makes things hard for me.”
“Makes what things hard, your ladyship?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I scarce recognize my own voice. Marcelle, if I seem distraught and unreasonable, promise me you will pay no heed. For pity’s sake, don’t leave me!”
Hermione’s eyes filled with tears, and Marcelle was on the verge of hysteria.
“I—can’t imagine—what there is—to cry about,” she murmured brokenly. “Nothing on earth would induce me to go away now—but I do hope—and pray—you will be happy—even though—you only met your husband—little more than an hour ago!… And I believe in my heart, Lady Hermione, that you will soon see how fortunate you were in escaping that mincing little Frenchman——”
“Marcelle, the poor man is dead.”
“Then it is the best turn he has done you, miladi. I never fancied him. There was something underhanded and mean about him. I have seen his face when you were not looking, and I’m sure he was a hypocrite.”
“Marcelle, you will drive me crazy. Don’t you understand that I have never intended to marry anybody—really?”
A knock at the door opening into the sitting-room came to Hermione’s relief.
“Yes?” she said.
“If you can spare Marcelle, I would recommend that she should go to your flat for any clothes you may need,” said Curtis’s voice.
Hermione threw open the door.
“A little while ago you told me that it was impossible to think of returning there,” she said.
“For you, yes, but not for your maid. Who is to hinder? That man, Rafferty, looked a decent sort of fellow.”
“I can manage Rafferty all right,” put in Marcelle.
“Of course you can,” smiled Curtis. “Just pack a trunk or a couple of bags with Lady Hermione’s belongings—you know what to bring—and get Rafferty to call a taxi without attracting too much notice. If you think you are being followed, put your pursuers off the scent. But my own view is that 1000 59th Street is the last place anyone will think of watching to-night.”
“Shall I go at once, your ladyship?” said Marcelle, and Hermione said “Yes,” with a meekness that was admirable in a wife.
Curtis looked at his pretty bride’s hat.
“I have ordered a meal,” he said. “It will be served in a few minutes.”
“I shall be ready,” she replied, beginning nervously to take off her gloves. The wedding ring was inclined to accompany the left hand glove, but, after a second’s hesitation, she replaced it. When she appeared in the sitting-room she had discarded her jacket, a close-fitting one of a style that fastened à la militaire, high in the neck. Beneath it she had been wearing a white silk blouse, and the delicate pink of her arms and throat was revealed now through its diaphanous sheen. A string of pearls supported a diamond cross on her breast, and on her left wrist was a watch set in small diamonds and turquoises and carried by a bracelet of gold filigree. She wore only one ring—the ring—and even the slight glance which Curtis gave it brought a vivid blush to her cheeks.
“I am not a past master in the art of ordering banquets,” he said cheerily, turning at once to draw her attention to the table, “but the head-waiter here is a gourmet. He suggested caviare, a white soup, a king-fish, a tourne-dos, and a grouse—does that appeal?”
“You take my breath away,” she said, with valorous effort to seem at ease.
“Now—as to wine?”
“I seldom touch wine.”
“To-night it will make you sleep. What do you say to a glass of Clos Vosgeot?”
“Is that a claret?”
“Yes.”
“Well, as it happens, that is the one wine I take.”
The dinner proceeded most pleasantly. To his own astonishment, Curtis worked up sufficient appetite to enjoy the meal, though he would have stuffed himself remorselessly to save his charming vis-à-vis from the slightest embarrassment. But he only sipped the wine, for a sixth sense warned him that he must keep a clear head that night.
By inference rather than plain statement, for a deft waiter was constantly coming in and out, he supplied Hermione with glimpses of his own career, and ascertained from her that she had secured Marcelle’s services through the good offices of a lady who was a fellow-passenger on the ship.
“She comes from New Orleans, but, notwithstanding her name, she does not speak French,” said Hermione. “I think that rather accounts for——”
She stopped, and Curtis did not press for an explanation, but she continued, after a second’s pause:
“Marcelle did not like Monsieur de Courtois. I imagined she was annoyed because he always conversed with me in a language she did not understand.”
“Then I shall avoid Chinese,” he laughed.
“Marcelle——”
Again she hesitated. She was positively dismayed by consciousness of the imminent disclosure, yet too well-bred even to appear to be withholding confidences.
“You have won Marcelle’s golden opinion already,” she said. “But let us talk of something else.”
For the moment they were alone, and she glanced at the watch on her wrist.
“Have you made any plans?” she inquired, and her voice was low, yet sufficiently composed.
“For the future?”
“Yes.”
“When Marcelle arrives, I am going to my hotel for some baggage. You, I suggest, are going to bed.”
“You will return?”
“Within the hour—if I am alive.”
“And to-morrow?”
“To-morrow, may it please your ladyship, we breakfast together at nine o’clock.”
“Your plan, then, is mainly composed of eating and sleeping?”
“What else—our policy is one of drifting.”
“You are extraordinarily good to me, Mr. Curtis.”
“It is ‘Jack’ in the compact.”
She sighed.
“Alas, this compact reads only one way. It means that you give and I receive. Will you—will you believe, in the future, that despair alone could have driven me to the course I have pursued?”
“No,” he said sturdily.
“No? That is the only unkind thing you have said.”
“I refuse to vilify happy chance in the name of black despair. But—here is Marcelle, and slaves bearing packages. I hear thuds in the next room.”
And, indeed, the waiter entering just then with coffee, Marcelle’s voice reached them sharply from the corridor:
“Now, you boy, be careful with that hat-box! Do you think you are an express man, or what?”