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Maker of Opportunities

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<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> Patricia’s dinner drew to its delectable close, and coffee had already been served when the butler went to the front door and brought back a telegram on a silver tray. Patricia picked it up and turned it over daintily. “For you, Aurora,” she said. Aurora with apologies tore open the envelope and read, her brow clouding. “I hope it’s nothing serious,” said Patricia, sweetly sympathetic. Aurora rose hurriedly. “I don’t know,” she said dubiously, and then reading: “‘Aunt Jane sick, motor over this evening if possible.’ There’s no signature. I suppose I’ll have to go.” Her lip protruded childishly. “How tiresome!” “It’s very inconsiderate of her, isn’t it?”[208] said Patricia. The look of incomprehension still lingered on the young girl’s face. “I can’t see what she wants of me,” she murmured. “Perhaps she’s seriously ill,” Patricia volunteered. “Perhaps—yes, I must go, of course. But how can I?” “Mortimer,” Patricia provided the cue. “I’ll drive you, Aurora,” said Crabb. “And Louis?” DeLaunay made no sign. “I will take care of the Monsieur DeLaunay, dear. Do you think you could trust me?” Aurora’s lips said, “Of course,” but her eyes winked rapidly several times as she adapted her mind to the situation. The decision reached, DeLaunay stepped forward. “If you wish that I should go——” “Quite unnecessary,” put in Patricia, quickly. “If your aunt Jane is sick, Aurora——” [209] Aurora hung in the wind a regretful moment. “Oh, yes—he’d be in the way. I’ll leave him with you, Patty. Please don’t flirt any more than you can help.” “My dear child,” said Patty, with solemn conviction, “since poor, foolish Freddy Winthrop, engaged men are taboo. Besides, to-night I have other plans. I would not flirt if you could animate the Apollo Belvedere. As Mortimer so chastely puts it, ‘me for the downy at 10 G. M.’ Monsieur will doubtless practice pool-shots or play a game of Napoleon.” “Oh, yes,” said the Frenchman, with a calmness which scarcely concealed the note of derision. But Aurora, after one long look in his direction, had vanished to don motor clothing, and when she came down, Mortimer Crabb with his quivering car awaited her in the drive. Patricia and the Baron waved them good-by from the porch and then went[210] indoors to the subtle effulgence of the drawing room. Patricia walked to the mantel, turned her back to the fire and stretched her shapely arms along its shelf, facing her guest with level gaze and a smile which was something between a taunt and a caress. DeLaunay inhaled luxuriously the smoke of his cigarette and appraised his hostess through the half-closed eyes of the artist searching for a “motif.” She was puzzling—this woman—like the vagrant color in a landscape in the afternoon sunlight, which shimmered one moment in the sun and in the next was lost in shadowy mystery—not the mystery of the solemn hills, but the playful mystery of the woodland brook which laughs mockingly from secret places. Her eyes were laughing at him. He felt it, though none of the physical symbols of laughter were offered in evidence. “I’m so sorry, Monsieur,” she began in French. “It is such a pity. There is no excuse for any one to have a sick aunt when the[211] stage is set for sentiment. I had planned your evening so carefully, too——” “You are the soul of kindness, Madame,” he said politely, still studying her. “Yes,” she went on, slowly, “I think I am. But then I am chez moi, and charity, you know, begins at home.” “I hope you will not call it charity. Charity they say is cold. And you, Madame, whatever you would seek to express, are not cold.” “How can you know?” “Your eyes——” “My beaux yeux again.” She shrugged her shoulders, and turned toward the door. “It is time, I think, for you to practice pool-shots.” “Ah, you are cruel!” He stepped before her and held out protesting hands. “I do not care for pool, Madame.” “Or Napoleon?” “No—I wish to talk with you. Please!” She paused, appraising him sideways. [212] “I have some letters to write,” she said, briefly. “Please, Madame.” He stood before her, his slender figure gracefully bent, motioning appealingly toward the deep davenport, which was set invitingly in front of the fire. She followed his gesture with her eyes, then with a light laugh passed before him and sat down. “Nothing about my beaux yeux then,” she mocked. He glanced at her with a smile which showed his fine teeth and sank beside her and at a distance. “Voilà, Madame! You see? I am an angel of discretion.” She smiled approvingly. “I’m glad we understand each other.” “Do we?” he asked with a suggestion of effrontery. “I hope so.” “I’m not so sure. To me you are still a mystery.” [213] “Am I? That’s curious. I’ve tried to make my meaning plain. Perhaps I can make it clearer. For some weeks you have been making love to me, Monsieur. I don’t like it. I never flirt, except with the very ancient or the very youthful,” she said mendaciously. “You don’t come within my age limits.” He laughed gayly. “Love is of all ages and no ages. I am both ancient and youthful. Old in hope, young in despair—in affairs of the heart, I assure you, a veritable babe in the arms. I have never really loved—until now.” “Why do you marry Aurora then?” she put in. He looked at her with a puzzled brow, then laughed merrily. “Madame, you are too clever to waste your time in America.” But as Patricia was looking very gravely into the fire, he too relapsed into silence, and frowned at the ash of his cigarette. “I do not see, Madame, why we should speak of her,” he said, sulkily. “It must be[214] clear to you that our understanding is complete. The marriages in my country, as you know——” “Oh, yes, I know,” she interrupted, “but Miss North is different. She has not the social ambitions of other girls. Miss North is romantic but quite unspoiled. Has it occurred to you that perhaps she may hope for a somewhat different relation between you?” “We are good friends—very good friends. She is enchanting,” he said with enthusiasm, “so innocent of the ways of the world, so talented, so charming. We shall be very happy.” “I hope so,” dryly. He examined her shrewdly. “You have her happiness close to your heart! Is it not so? What is to be feared? I shall be very good to her. We understand each other. She will be glad of the splendor of my ancient name, and I desire the means to restore my estates and place myself in a position of influence among my people. I care for[215] her as one cares for a lovely flower—but the mind—the soul, Madame, I have found them—elsewhere,” he leaned forward and touched her fingers with his own. Patricia’s gaze was far away. It seemed as though she was unconscious of his touch. “It is a pity,” she said, softly, “a great pity. I am very sorry.” “Could you not learn to care a little?” She turned on him then, but her voice was still gentle. “We are not in France, Monsieur,” she said coldly. “What does that matter?” he urged. “Love knows nothing of geography. Love is a cosmopolite. It cares not for time or place or convention. I care for you very much, Madame, and whatever you may think, it makes me happy to tell you so.” “And Aurora?” Patricia reiterated the word, like the clanging of an alarm bell. The Baron relaxed his grasp and lowered his head. [216] She leaned forward, elbow on knee, looking into the fire. “You know, Baron, I’m very sorry for Aurora.” As he made no comment she went on: “She has always been a very sweet, amiable, honorable child. I’m very fond of her. She was very much alone with her books and her family. She has always lived in an atmosphere of her own—an atmosphere that she made for herself, without companions of her own age. Her mother brought her up without the slightest knowledge of the guile, the deceit, or wickedness of the world in which some day she was to live. They used even to scan the newspapers before she was permitted to read them, and clip out objectionable paragraphs. Even I have done that since she has been here visiting me. Her father was always too busy making money to bother. At the age of twenty she is still a dreamer, old in nothing but years, living in an idyl of her own, the sleeping princess in the fairy-tale whom you,[217] the gallant prince, have awakened with a kiss.” DeLaunay’s shoulders moved slightly as he sighed. “That kiss, Monsieur! You have awakened her,” she went on, “to what?” She paused abruptly and turned toward him for a reply. “Your question is hardly flattering to my vanity,” he said, smiling. “There are women——” “She is a child.” “All women are children. I shall find means to make her happy.” Patricia resumed her study of the fire. “I hope so. With money your opportunities for happiness would be greater. Without money——” she paused and shook her head slowly. The Baron turned abruptly, but Patricia’s gaze was fixed upon the fire. When he spoke his tones were suppressed—his manner constrained. “Madame—what do you mean?” [218] She faced him slowly, her expression gently sympathetic. “Have you not heard?” “Heard what, Madame?” “Of Monsieur North’s misfortune—you must have seen it in the newspapers——” “The newspapers! No—what is it?” “Monsieur North has lost his money.” DeLaunay rose quickly, one hand before him as though to ward off a blow. “What you tell me is impossible,” he said thickly. “No,” gravely. “It is true.” He stared at her unbelieving, but her eyes met his calmly, eagerly, and in their depths he saw only pity. “Would I not have heard this dreadful thing, Madame? Aurora would have told me.” “She might have told you if she had known.” “She did not know?” “They want to save her the pain. They always have. That is one reason why she is[219] stopping here with me. Don’t you understand?” DeLaunay showed other signs of inquietude and was now pacing the rug nervously. “It is incredible!” he was saying, “incredible! I cannot—no——” And he stopped before her. “No, I will not believe it!” Patricia clasped her hands over her knees and was looking very gravely into the fire. She had the air of a person who is mourning the loss of a very dear friend. “How do you know this?” he asked again, anxiously. “From Mrs. North a week ago, when she let Aurora come to me. But it is no secret now, as it has been in the newspapers. I have kept them from Aurora. She is so happy here with you—I hadn’t the heart to do anything to destroy her pleasure.” “But North and Company is a very great business house. So rich that even in France we have heard of them.” “Yes—Mr. North has been rich for years,”[220] and then with a sigh, “It is very sad—very, very sad.” “But how could such a thing happen? Surely he is wise enough——” “Speculation!” said Patricia, simply. “All of our business men speculate. Even the oldest—the wisest.” DeLaunay sank into a chair at some distance, his head in his hands. “Dieu!” she heard him mutter. “What a terrible country. I cannot believe——” Patricia got up at last and walked over and put her hand quietly on his shoulder. She was even smiling. “I am so sorry, Monsieur. Of course you know that, don’t you? But I am sure everything will turn out for the best. Aurora loves you. You must remember that poverty will make no difference in the relations between you. She will even welcome the chance to be poor—she wants to be of some real use in the world—she has said so—you had even planned that, Monsieur!” [221] The Frenchman turned just one look in her direction, a look in which despair, inquietude, inquiry and anger were curiously blended and then rose and strode the length of the room away. “You are mocking me. You know, Madame—that—that it is impossible—this marriage—if—what you tell me is true.” “I wish I could reassure you,” slowly. “What proofs have you?” “Isn’t my word enough?” “Yes, but——” “You want confirmation. Very well!” Patricia walked to the library table, opened its drawer, and took out the Sun and Herald. As she opened them two paper cuttings and a pair of scissors fell to the floor. She picked them up before DeLaunay could reach her, opening the newspapers, both of which bore signs of mutilation. And while he wondered what she was about to do or say, she resumed calmly, even indifferently. “I had clipped these papers that Aurora might not see them.[222] Since you profess some incredulity, perhaps you’d rather read for yourself.” And she handed them to him. He adjusted his monocle with trembling fingers, and began reading the slips, his lips moving, his eyes dilated, while Patricia watched him, her eyes masked by her fingers. She saw him read one article through, then scan the other, his lips compressed, his small chin working forward. “Five million dollars!” he whispered at last. “It is terrible—terrible. And there will be nothing at all.” “It looks so, doesn’t it?” she replied. “Read on.” And he read the remainder of it aloud, pausing at each sentence as though fascinated by the horror of it. When he had read the last word, the papers dropped from his fingers upon the tea-table beside him. At a grimace his eye-glass dropped the length of its cord and he stood erect, squaring his shoulders and straightening to his small height[223] with the air of a man who has made a resolution. “Madame,” he said, more calmly, “this is very disagreeable news.” “It’s quite sad, isn’t it? But I must warn you against speaking to Aurora just yet. The news is spreading fast enough and to-morrow it may be necessary to tell her. In the meanwhile you must be gentle with her and tender—you can comfort her so much. She will need all your kindness now, Monsieur.” But DeLaunay had taken out his watch. “Madame, I thank you for your kindness to me, but I am—I am much perturbed—I—I do not want to see Miss North until I can think what I must do. Would you mind if I went in town to my hotel——” “To-night?” “Yes—to-night.” “She will think it strange for you to go without a word.” “I—I——” [224] “You could leave a note.” “You will permit me?” Patricia watched him seat himself heavily at her writing-desk. “Monsieur,” she asked, “what will you say to her?” “That I am ill—that I——” “How will that help either you or her?” He shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. “What then, Madame?” “I don’t know,” she said, slowly. “It is a very painful note to write. I am very sorry for you, sorry for Miss North, sorry for myself that you learned of this through me. It is curious that no one told you,” she sighed. “But perhaps it is just as well that you know.” “I am grateful, Madame, I cannot tell you how grateful,” he began, but she held up her hand. “It pains me to see Miss North unhappy, but I know more of life than she does. I was educated in France, Monsieur, and I know what is expected of American girls who marry[225] into the ancienne noblesse—the noblesse de souche. Of course, without a dot, this marriage is impossible.” “Yes, Madame, that is true. It is—impossible, absolutely impossible.” “Aurora—Miss North believes in your love for her—she will hardly understand——” DeLaunay swung around in his chair and rose, facing the hostess. “There must be no misunderstanding between us,” decisively, “I shall go at once.” “That’s your decision—your final decision?” “It is—final.” By this time she stood beside him at the desk, and as she spoke her finger pointed to the paper and ink. “Then you must write her to-night—before you go. It would not be fair to leave matters to me. It is not fair to her or to yourself. Sit down, Monsieur, and write.” He sank into the chair again. “And what shall I write?” [226] “If I can help you——” sweetly. “I will write what you say,” with a sigh of relief. So Patricia seated herself beside him and with a troubled brow dictated in English. <div class="blockquot">“My dear Miss North: “I have learned with horror and dismay of the great bereavement which has fallen upon you and your family, but in view of this misfortune, I have thought it wisest to take my departure at once. “You will understand, of course, that under these conditions it is advisable to discontinue our present relations at once, and as my presence might prove embarrassing I leave with feelings of great unhappiness. You are doubtless aware of the customs of my country in the matter of settlements, the absence of which would preclude the possibility of marriage on my part. “Mrs. Crabb has kindly consented to make my apologies and excuses to you for my abrupt departure which I take with deep regret, the deeper because of my profound esteem for your many delightful qualities, of which you[227] may be assured I shall never cease to think with tender and regretful sentiments——” </div> Patricia broke off abruptly. “I think that is all, Monsieur. Will you finish it—as you please?” The baron nodded and added: <div class="blockquot">“I am, Mademoiselle, with profound assurances of my friendship and consideration, “Yours,               “Louis Charles Bertram de Chartres,    “Baron DeLaunay.” </div> Patricia meanwhile had ordered the Baron’s suitcase packed and had ’phoned for a station wagon and a while later stood in the hallway speeding the parting guest. “Must you go, Monsieur? I am so very sorry. I understand, of course. I am the loser.” And with all the generosity of a victorious general whose enemy is no longer dangerous. “If you are nice you may kiss my hand.” As DeLaunay bent over her fingers he murmured: “If it had only been you, Madame.” And in a moment he had gone. <hr class="chap" />[228] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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