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Maker of Opportunities

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<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> After this first success, Patricia was filled with the spirit of altruism, and winter and summer went out upon the highways and byways seeking the raw material for her fateful loom. She was Puck, Portia and Patricia all rolled into one. There were Stephen Ventnor and Jack Masters, whom she still saw occasionally, but they only sighed and even refused to dine at the Castle of Enchantment. She thought sometimes of Heywood Pennington, too, and often found herself wondering how the world was faring with him, hoping that some day chance would throw him in her way. The old romance was dead, of course. But what an opportunity for regeneration! Meantime she had much to do in keeping up her establishment, many friends to make in New York, many social duties to perform.[162] She spent much time with her husband over the plans of the country place he was building on Long Island, which was to be ready for occupancy late in the following spring. Mortimer Crabb had formed a habit of going down town for a part of every day at least, and if he really did no work he created an impression of stability which was rather surprising to those who had known him longest. The Crabbs were desirable acquaintances in the married set, and before two years had passed, Patricia made for herself an enviable reputation as a hostess and dinner guest, to say nothing of that of a model wife. Not a cloud larger than a speck had risen upon the matrimonial horizon and their little bark sailed steadily forward propelled by the mildest of breezes upon an ocean that was all made up of ripples and sunshine. Mortimer Crabb loved abundantly, and Patricia was contented to watch him worship, while she shaped the course to her liking. There were still times, however, when she[163] sat and watched the flames of the library fire while she stirred up the embers of romance. Few women who have been adored as Patricia had been are willing too abruptly to shut the door upon the memory of the might-have-beens. The coquette in her was dying hard—as it sometimes does in childless women. She still liked the attentions to which she had been accustomed, and her husband saw that she was constantly amused—provided with clever men from his clubs as dance partners for the Philadelphia girls who visited them. Stephen Ventnor, who was selling bonds down-town, had been persuaded at last to forget his troubles and now came frequently to dinner. There was nothing Patricia wanted, it seemed, except something to want. One day, quite by chance, she met another one of the might-have-beens upon the street. She did not know him at first, for he now wore a small moustache and the years had not passed as lightly over his head as they had over hers. She felt her way barred by a tall[164] figure, and before she knew it, was shaking hands with Heywood Pennington. “Patty,” he was saying, “don’t you know me? Does four years make such a difference?” A warm tint rose and spread unbidden from Patricia’s neck to temples. It angered her that she could not control it, but she smiled at him and said that she was glad to see him. Together they walked up the Avenue, and, as they went, she questioned and he told her his story. No recriminations passed. He made it plain to her that he was too glad to see her for that. He was in business, he said vaguely, and in the future was to make New York his home. So, when she took leave of him, Patricia asked the prodigal to call. It will be apparent to anyone that there was nothing else to do. Mortimer Crabb received the information at the dinner table that night with a changeless expression. “I’m sure if you want Mr. Pennington[165] here, he’ll be welcome,” he said with a slow smile. “He’s a very, very old friend of yours, isn’t he, Patty?” “Oh, yes—since school days,” she said, quietly. And she blushed again, but if Crabb noticed, it was not apparent, for he immediately busied himself with his soup. “He used to be such a nice boy,” said Patricia. “But I’m afraid he got pretty wild and——” “Yes,” put in her husband, a little dryly. “I’ve heard something about him.” She glanced at him quickly, but he did not look up and she went on: “I thought it would be nice if we could do a little something for him, give him a lift, introduce him to some influential people——” “Make an opportunity for him, in short,” said Crabb. “Er—yes. He has had a pretty hard time, I think.” “I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Crabb, “most people do.” [166] Patricia foresaw an opportunity such as she had never had before, and a hundred plans at once flashed into her pretty head for the prodigal’s regeneration. First, of course, she must kill the fatted calf, and she therefore planned at once a dinner party, at which Mr. Pennington should meet some of her intimate friends, Dicky Bowles and his wife, the Burnetts, who were on from Washington, the Charlie Chisolms and her sister Penelope. For reasons of her own Stephen Ventnor was not invited. Patricia presided skilfully with an air of matronly benevolence not to be denied and dextrously diverted the conversation into channels strictly impersonal. So that after dinner, while Charlie Chisolm was still talking rifle-bores with Mortimer, Patricia and Heywood Pennington went into the conservatory to see the new orchids. That was the first of many dinners. Patricia invited all the eligible girls of her acquaintance, one after another, and sat them[167] next to Mr. Pennington in an apparent endeavor to supply the deficiency she had caused in that gentleman’s affections. But new orchids came continually to the conservatory, and Patricia was not loath to show them. Then followed rides in the motor car when Crabb was down-town, and shopping expeditions when Crabb was at the club, for which Patricia chose Heywood Pennington as her escort, and whatever Mortimer Crabb thought of it all, he said little and looked less. But if her husband had been willing to worship blindly before he and Patricia had been engaged, marriage had cleared away some of the nebulæ. He had learned to look upon his wife as a dear, capricious being, and with the abounding faith and confidence of amply proportioned men he was willing to believe that Patricia, like Cæsar’s wife, was above suspicion. He was quite sure that she was foolish. But Patty’s little finger foolish was more important to Mortimer than a whole Minerva. Mr. Pennington’s ways were not Crabb’s[168] ways, however, and the husband learned one day, quite by chance, of an incident that had happened in New York which confirmed a previous impression. He went home a little sombre, for that very night Mr. Pennington was to dine again at his house. After dinner Patricia and Pennington vanished as usual into the conservatory and were seen no more until it was time for Patricia’s guests to go. The husband lingered moodily by the fire after the door had closed upon the last one, who happened to be the might-have-been. “Patty,” he began, “don’t you think it a little—er—inhospitable——” “Oh, Mort,” Patricia broke in, “don’t be tiresome.” But Mortimer Crabb had taken out his watch and was examining it with a judicial air. “Do you know,” he said, calmly, “that you’ve been out there since ten? I don’t think it’s quite decent.” [169] It was the first time her husband had used exactly this tone, and Patricia looked at him curiously, then pouted and laughed. “Jealous!” she laughed, and blowing him a kiss flew upstairs, leaving her husband still looking into the fire. But he did not smile as he usually did when this was her mood, and in her last backward glance Patricia did not fail to notice it. Instead of following her, Mortimer Crabb lit a cigar and went over to his study. Perhaps he should have spoken more severely to Patricia before this. He had been on the point of it a dozen times. Gossip had dealt with Pennington none too kindly, but Crabb didn’t believe in gossip and he did believe in his wife. He finished his cigar and then lit another while he tried to think the matter out, until, at last, Patricia, a pretty vision in braids and lace, came pattering down. He heard the footfalls and felt the soft hands upon his shoulders, but did not turn his head. He knew what was to come and had not the humor[170] or the art to compromise. Patricia, with quick divination, took her hands away and went around by the fire where she could look at her husband. “Well,” she said, half defiantly. Crabb replied without raising his eyes from the fire. “Patty,” he said quietly, “you mustn’t ask Mr. Pennington to the house.” Patricia looked at him as though she had not heard aright. But she did not speak. “You must know,” he went on, “that I’ve been thinking about you and Mr. Pennington for some time, but I haven’t spoken so plainly before. You mustn’t be seen with Mr. Pennington again.” He rose and knocked his cigar ashes into the chimney and then turned to face his wife. Patricia’s foot was tapping rapidly upon the fender while her figure presented the picture of injured dignity. “It is preposterous—impossible,” she gasped. “I’m going to ride with him to-morrow afternoon.” [171] And then after a pause in which she eagerly scanned her husband’s face, she broke forth into a nervous laugh: “Upon my word, Mort, I believe you are jealous.” “Perhaps I am,” said Crabb, slowly, “but I’m in earnest, too. Do what I ask, Patricia. Don’t ride to-morrow——” “And if I should refuse——” Crabb shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away. “It would be too bad,” he said, “that’s all.” “But how can you do such a thing,” she cried, “without a reason—without any excuse? Why, Heywood has been here every day for——” and then broke off in confusion. Crabb smiled rather grimly, but he generously passed the opportunity by. “Every reason that I wish—every excuse that I need. Isn’t that enough?” “No, it isn’t—I refuse to believe anything about him.” Crabb looked at his wife sombrely. “Then we’d better say no more. Your attitude[172] makes it impossible for me to argue the question. Good-night.” He opened the door and stood waiting for her to go out. She hesitated a moment and then swept by him, her very ruffles breathing rebellion. The next morning he kissed her good-bye when she was reading her mail. “You’ll write him, Patty, won’t you?” he said, as he went out. “Yes—yes,” she answered, quickly, “I will—I’ll write him.” Patricia did write to him. But it was not at all the sort of a letter that Crabb would have cared to see. <div class="blockquot">Dear Heywood [it ran], something has happened, so can’t ride to-day. Meet me near the arch in Washington Square at three. Until then— As ever,       P. </div> <hr class="chap" />[173] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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