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by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  CHAPTER XVI

  Young Howe had been firmly resolved to give up all his bachelor habitswith his wedding day. In his indolent, rather selfish way, he was muchin love with his wife.

  But with the inevitable misunderstandings of the first months ofmarriage had come a desire to be appreciated once again at his facevalue. Grace had taken him, not for what he was, but for what he seemedto be. With Christine the veil was rent. She knew him now--all his smallindolences, his affectations, his weaknesses. Later on, like otherwomen since the world began, she would learn to dissemble, to affect tobelieve him what he was not.

  Grace had learned this lesson long ago. It was the ABC of her knowledge.And so, back to Grace six weeks after his wedding day came PalmerHowe, not with a suggestion to renew the old relationship, but forcomradeship.

  Christine sulked--he wanted good cheer; Christine was intolerant--hewanted tolerance; she disapproved of him and showed her disapproval--hewanted approval. He wanted life to be comfortable and cheerful, withoutrecriminations, a little work and much play, a drink when one wasthirsty. Distorted though it was, and founded on a wrong basis, perhaps,deep in his heart Palmer's only longing was for happiness; but thishappiness must be of an active sort--not content, which is passive, butenjoyment.

  "Come on out," he said. "I've got a car now. No taxi working its headoff for us. Just a little run over the country roads, eh?"

  It was the afternoon of the day before Christine's night visit toSidney. The office had been closed, owing to a death, and Palmer was inpossession of a holiday.

  "Come on," he coaxed. "We'll go out to the Climbing Rose and havesupper."

  "I don't want to go."

  "That's not true, Grace, and you know it."

  "You and I are through."

  "It's your doing, not mine. The roads are frozen hard; an hour's runinto the country will bring your color back."

  "Much you care about that. Go and ride with your wife," said the girl,and flung away from him.

  The last few weeks had filled out her thin figure, but she still boretraces of her illness. Her short hair was curled over her head. Shelooked curiously boyish, almost sexless.

  Because she saw him wince when she mentioned Christine, her ill temperincreased. She showed her teeth.

  "You get out of here," she said suddenly. "I didn't ask you to comeback. I don't want you."

  "Good Heavens, Grace! You always knew I would have to marry some day."

  "I was sick; I nearly died. I didn't hear any reports of you hangingaround the hospital to learn how I was getting along."

  He laughed rather sheepishly.

  "I had to be careful. You know that as well as I do. I know half thestaff there. Besides, one of--" He hesitated over his wife's name. "Agirl I know very well was in the training-school. There would have beenthe devil to pay if I'd as much as called up."

  "You never told me you were going to get married."

  Cornered, he slipped an arm around her. But she shook him off.

  "I meant to tell you, honey; but you got sick. Anyhow, I--I hated totell you, honey."

  He had furnished the flat for her. There was a comfortable feeling ofcoming home about going there again. And, now that the worst minute oftheir meeting was over, he was visibly happier. But Grace continued tostand eyeing him somberly.

  "I've got something to tell you," she said. "Don't have a fit, and don'tlaugh. If you do, I'll--I'll jump out of the window. I've got a place ina store. I'm going to be straight, Palmer."

  "Good for you!"

  He meant it. She was a nice girl and he was fond of her. The other wasa dog's life. And he was not unselfish about it. She could not belong tohim. He did not want her to belong to any one else.

  "One of the nurses in the hospital, a Miss Page, has got me something todo at Lipton and Homburg's. I am going on for the January white sale. IfI make good they will keep me."

  He had put her aside without a qualm; and now he met her announcementwith approval. He meant to let her alone. They would have a holidaytogether, and then they would say good-bye. And she had not fooled him.She still cared. He was getting off well, all things considered. Shemight have raised a row.

  "Good work!" he said. "You'll be a lot happier. But that isn't anyreason why we shouldn't be friends, is it? Just friends; I mean that.I would like to feel that I can stop in now and then and say how do youdo."

  "I promised Miss Page."

  "Never mind Miss Page."

  The mention of Sidney's name brought up in his mind Christine as he hadleft her that morning. He scowled. Things were not going well at home.There was something wrong with Christine. She used to be a good sport,but she had never been the same since the day of the wedding. He thoughther attitude toward him was one of suspicion. It made him uncomfortable.But any attempt on his part to fathom it only met with cold silence.That had been her attitude that morning.

  "I'll tell you what we'll do," he said. "We won't go to any of the oldplaces. I've found a new roadhouse in the country that's respectableenough to suit anybody. We'll go out to Schwitter's and get some dinner.I'll promise to get you back early. How's that?"

  In the end she gave in. And on the way out he lived up to the letter oftheir agreement. The situation exhilarated him: Grace with her new airof virtue, her new aloofness; his comfortable car; Johnny Rosenfeld'sdiscreet back and alert ears.

  The adventure had all the thrill of a new conquest in it. He treated thegirl with deference, did not insist when she refused a cigarette, feltglowingly virtuous and exultant at the same time.

  When the car drew up before the Schwitter place, he slipped afive-dollar bill into Johnny Rosenfeld's not over-clean hand.

  "I don't mind the ears," he said. "Just watch your tongue, lad." AndJohnny stalled his engine in sheer surprise.

  "There's just enough of the Jew in me," said Johnny, "to know how totalk a lot and say nothing, Mr. Howe."

  He crawled stiffly out of the car and prepared to crank it.

  "I'll just give her the 'once over' now and then," he said. "She'llfreeze solid if I let her stand."

  Grace had gone up the narrow path to the house. She had the gift oflooking well in her clothes, and her small hat with its long quilland her motor-coat were chic and becoming. She never overdressed, asChristine was inclined to do.

  Fortunately for Palmer, Tillie did not see him. A heavy German maidwaited at the table in the dining-room, while Tillie baked waffles inthe kitchen.

  Johnny Rosenfeld, going around the side path to the kitchen door withvisions of hot coffee and a country supper for his frozen stomach, sawher through the window bending flushed over the stove, and hesitated.Then, without a word, he tiptoed back to the car again, and, crawlinginto the tonneau, covered himself with rugs. In his untutored mind werecertain great qualities, and loyalty to his employer was one. The fivedollars in his pocket had nothing whatever to do with it.

  At eighteen he had developed a philosophy of four words. It took theplace of the Golden Rule, the Ten Commandments, and the Catechism. Itwas: "Mind your own business."

  The discovery of Tillie's hiding-place interested but did not thrillhim. Tillie was his cousin. If she wanted to do the sort of thing shewas doing, that was her affair. Tillie and her middle-aged lover, PalmerHowe and Grace--the alley was not unfamiliar with such relationships. Itviewed them with tolerance until they were found out, when it raised itshands.

  True to his promise, Palmer wakened the sleeping boy before nineo'clock. Grace had eaten little and drunk nothing; but Howe was slightlystimulated.

  "Give her the 'once over,'" he told Johnny, "and then go back and crawlinto the rugs again. I'll drive in."

  Grace sat beside him. Their progress was slow and rough over thecountry roads, but when they reached the State road Howe threw open thethrottle. He drove well. The liquor was in his blood. He took chancesand got away with them, laughing at the girl's gasps of dismay.

  "Wait until I get beyond Simkinsville," he said, "and I'll let her out.Yo
u're going to travel tonight, honey."

  The girl sat beside him with her eyes fixed ahead. He had been drinking,and the warmth of the liquor was in his voice. She was determined on onething. She was going to make him live up to the letter of his promise togo away at the house door; and more and more she realized that it wouldbe difficult. His mood was reckless, masterful. Instead of laughing whenshe drew back from a proffered caress, he turned surly. Obstinate linesthat she remembered appeared from his nostrils to the corners of hismouth. She was uneasy.

  Finally she hit on a plan to make him stop somewhere in her neighborhoodand let her get out of the car. She would not come back after that.

  There was another car going toward the city. Now it passed them, and asoften they passed it. It became a contest of wits. Palmer's car lost onthe hills, but gained on the long level stretches, which gleamed with acoating of thin ice.

  "I wish you'd let them get ahead, Palmer. It's silly and it's reckless."

  "I told you we'd travel to-night."

  He turned a little glance at her. What the deuce was the matter withwomen, anyhow? Were none of them cheerful any more? Here was Grace assober as Christine. He felt outraged, defrauded.

  His light car skidded and struck the big car heavily. On a smooth roadperhaps nothing more serious than broken mudguards would have been theresult. But on the ice the small car slewed around and slid over theedge of the bank. At the bottom of the declivity it turned over.

  Grace was flung clear of the wreckage. Howe freed himself and stooderect, with one arm hanging at his side. There was no sound at all fromthe boy under the tonneau.

  The big car had stopped. Down the bank plunged a heavy, gorilla-likefigure, long arms pushing aside the frozen branches of trees. When hereached the car, O'Hara found Grace sitting unhurt on the ground. In thewreck of the car the lamps had not been extinguished, and by their lighthe made out Howe, swaying dizzily.

  "Anybody underneath?"

  "The chauffeur. He's dead, I think. He doesn't answer."

  The other members of O'Hara's party had crawled down the bank by thattime. With the aid of a jack, they got the car up. Johnny Rosenfeld laydoubled on his face underneath. When he came to and opened his eyes,Grace almost shrieked with relief.

  "I'm all right," said Johnny Rosenfeld. And, when they offered himwhiskey: "Away with the fire-water. I am no drinker. I--I--" A spasm ofpain twisted his face. "I guess I'll get up." With his arms he liftedhimself to a sitting position, and fell back again.

  "God!" he said. "I can't move my legs."