THE CASE OF THE EVANSTONS
Carty Carteret went into the club one June afternoon with the expectation of finding Braybrooke there, and selling him a horse. Braybrooke was not in the club, but Mr. Carteret came upon three men sitting in the bow-window. They had their backs to the avenue, and were apparently absorbed in discussion. As he approached, Van Cortlandt, who was speaking, glanced up and stopped. At the same moment Mr. Carteret drew back. They were not men with whom he cared to assume the familiarity of intrusion.
“Sit down, Carty,” said Shaw. Mr. Carteret hesitated, and Shaw rose and drew another chair into the circle. “Go on with the story,” he said to Van Cortlandt.
“I dare say Carty has heard it,” observed Van Cortlandt, apologetically, as he was about to resume his narrative; “he’s a pal of Ned’s.”
Mr. Carteret looked at him inquiringly.
“I was telling them about the Evanston affair,” said Van Cortlandt.
Mr. Carteret opened his cigarette-case and took out a cigarette. “What is the Evanston affair?” he said shortly. He was more interested than he cared to show.
“They’ve caught Ned Palfrey,” said Crowninshield, with a laugh. Mr. Carteret turned to Van Cortlandt. “What do you mean?” he said.
“It’s a fact,” said Van Cortlandt. “It seems that last Thursday Frank Evanston came home unexpectedly, and found Ned there. Exactly what happened no one knows, but the story is that the gardener and a footman threw Neddie out of the house and into the fountain.” Mr. Carteret threw away his cigarette, and straightened himself in his chair.
“And they say,” observed Crowninshield, “that his last words were, ‘Come on in, Frank; the water’s fine.’” There was a general laugh in which Mr. Carteret did not join.
“Is that all?” he asked.
“That’s the cream of it,” replied Van Cortlandt. “The rest is purely conventional—separation and divorce proceedings.”
“That’s an interesting story,” said Mr. Carteret, calmly, “but untrue.”
“How do you know?” said Shaw.
“Because,” he answered, “on Thursday, Ned Palfrey was at my house in the country.”
“Dates are immaterial,” said Crowninshield. “Very likely it was Wednesday or Friday.”
“I say,” said Van Cortlandt, “I’ll bet you even, Crowny, it was Friday as against Wednesday.”
“I’ll take that,” said Crowninshield; “but how shall we settle it?”
“Leave it to Ned,” said Van Cortlandt. There was another laugh.
“In the second place,” continued Mr. Carteret, disregarding the interruption, “I know for a fact that last evening the Evanstons were still living together in the country.”
“Well, I know there is going to be a divorce,” said Van Cortlandt. “I got that from a member of Emerson Whittlesea’s firm, and he’s Evanston’s lawyer.”
“A lawyer who would tell a thing like that ought to be disbarred,” said Mr. Carteret. “If I could find out who it is, I should try to have it done.”
“Why?” said Crowninshield.
“Because the three people concerned in the story that he has furnished a foundation for, are my friends.”
“So they are his,” said Van Cortlandt; “so they are ours. That’s what makes it interesting. What’s the use of friends,” he went on, “if you can’t enjoy their domestic difficulties?”
Mr. Carteret rose. “That is a matter of opinion,” he said stiffly.
“Well,” retorted Van Cortlandt, “there’s nothing one can do about it.”
“Have you ever tried?” said Mr. Carteret.
“Have you?” said Van Cortlandt.
Mr. Carteret made no reply. He turned on his heel and left the room. Half-suppressed laughter followed him into the hall, and he went on to the billiard room to “cool out,” as he expressed it. He was very angry. He paced several times to and fro beside the pool-table; then, with a sudden determination, he walked rapidly out of the club and got into his motor.
“Go to Mr. Palfrey’s,” he said to the chauffeur. “Hurry.” A few blocks up the avenue the car drew up to the curb, and he got out. He crossed the sidewalk, and disappeared into the great apartment house where Palfrey had his rooms. Half an hour later he came out and hurriedly entered the car. He motioned to the chauffeur to change places. “I’ll drive,” he said. “How is your gasolene?”
“The tank’s full, sir,” said the man.
“Good,” he answered.
He started the car, and began to thread his way up the avenue. At 59th street the clock on the dash-board said ten minutes to six.
He turned into the Park and ran through the avenues at a speed which made arrest imminent, yet he escaped. The Park was a miracle of flowering things, of elms feathering into leaf, of blossom fragrances, of robins at their sunset singing; but Mr. Carteret was unaware of it all. At ten minutes past six he was in the open country. Here he opened the throttle and advanced the spark. He called upon the great machine for speed, and the great machine lifted its shrill roar and gave generously. The clock and the trembling finger of the speedometer showed that many of the miles and minutes passed together. At ten minutes of seven he turned into the gateway of a great country-place, and a few moments later came upon its master on the west terrace. Evanston greeted him pleasantly, but was evidently surprised to see him.
“Did you motor down?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Mr. Carteret; “sixty minutes from 59th street.”
Evanston gave a low exclamation.
“It wasn’t difficult,” said Mr. Carteret, “the road’s very good.” An awkward silence followed, which both men felt.
“Lovely view,” said Mr. Carteret, looking off across the lake toward the sunset. Then there was another silence.
Evanston broke it. “Have you still got that horse that you wanted to sell me?”
“I think so,” said Mr. Carteret; “but I’m not trading horses this afternoon.” His voice changed and he looked at Evanston.
“Frank,” he said, “can you keep your temper?”
“I’ve had some practice,” said Evanston. “Why?”
“Because,” said Mr. Carteret, “I’m going to irritate you. I’m going to butt in. I’m going to mix up in a matter that is none of my business. If you want to knock me down, I sha’n’t like it, but I sha’n’t resent it.”
Evanston looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?” he said.
“From what I’ve heard,” said Mr. Carteret, “your private affairs are in a tangle.”
“So you’ve heard?” said Evanston.
“Yes, I have heard a good many things which are probably not so. I want to know the facts.”
Somewhat to his surprise, Evanston made no show of resentment. “The facts are simple,” he said. “I’m tired of this thing, and I’m going to put an end to it.”
“I’ve heard that,” said Mr. Carteret; “but if you don’t mind telling me, I’d like to know why. I like you, Frank,” he added; “I like your wife; I like your children—I don’t want to see you bust up.”
“You are very good, Carty,” said Evanston, “but nothing can be done about it. It’s a long story, with rights and wrongs on both sides; but at the beginning it was my fault, and I am ready to pay for it.”
“What do you mean by ‘your fault at the beginning’?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“I married her,” said Evanston.
“Well, didn’t you want to?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“I wanted to too much,” said Evanston; “that was the trouble.”
Mr. Carteret looked puzzled. “I don’t think I understand,” he said. From his somewhat objective point of view the more complex personality of Evanston was baffling.
“It was this way, Carty,” Evanston went on. “Her mother—you know her mother?”
Mr. Carteret nodded. “Always for the stuff,” he observed.
“Exactly,” said Evanston. “Well, to put it bluntly, she made the match.”
“But I thought you were rather keen about her.”
“So I was,” said Evanston; “but Edith wasn’t keen about me. The mother forced her into it, and I was foolish enough to believe that if she married me, she would care for me. The fact was,” he added, “I was walking on air, with my head in a dream.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Well, we were married,” continued Evanston, “and then suddenly out of a blue sky came the panic and the T. & B. failure, and I was flat broke and a defaulter.”
“Defaulter!” said Mr. Carteret.
“Defaulter as to my side of the matrimonial bargain, which was to provide the establishment,” said Evanston. “The realization of this fact was sudden and painful.”
“Sudden? How do you mean sudden?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“Something happened,” said Evanston, “that opened my eyes.”
“Do you mean the loss of your money?”
“No,” said Evanston, “you know the money end of it came out all right. My uncle died, and I inherited more than I had lost; but I had already learned how much and how little money could do. And so things drifted along, and now the only course open seems to be to call it all off.” Evanston was silent.
“Is that all?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“Yes,” replied the other.
“Frank,” said Mr. Carteret, “you have told me everything but the facts. Don’t interrupt,” he went on, as Evanston made a gesture of protest. “The essence of the matter is this—you think that your wife is in love with Ned Palfrey; you believe Palfrey in love with her, and you are jealous of him.”
“I don’t see the need of going into that,” said Evanston. “There is no scandal. I trust my wife and I trust Palfrey.”
“The need of going into it,” said Mr. Carteret, “is to set you right on two points. First, your wife doesn’t care for Palfrey except as a friend, and if I am any judge of what is going on in a woman’s mind, she cares more about you than you will allow her to show you. Secondly, except as a friend, Palfrey doesn’t care for your wife.”
“Carty,” said Evanston, “you are wasting your time and mine. I know that a man is foolish to be jealous of any other man, and I know that Ned Palfrey is all right. I’m sorry for Palfrey. He has as much cause for resentment against me as I have against him. If it hadn’t been for me he would have married her. If he marries her later on, I shall have no feeling about it. But I can’t stand the situation as it is, and I don’t care to have you tell me there is nothing in it.”
“You have no proof,” said Carteret, “that there is anything in it.”
“No proof?” said Evanston. He smiled bitterly. “Only the proof of my eyes.”
Carteret threw away his cigarette. “The proof of your eyes!” he said.
Evanston nodded. “Perhaps you remember,” he went on, “that just after the crash I disappeared for a week.”
“Yes,” said Carteret; “it was two years ago, just before Christmas.”
“People said that I was hiding from my creditors; that I had gone to Australia; and some that I had killed myself.”
“That was what Edith believed,” said Mr. Carteret. “It nearly killed her.”
Evanston laughed scornfully. “Women don’t die of such things,” he said. “Well, to go on, it happened that the day I disappeared, Palfrey called upon my wife. We were at the house in 70th street then.” He paused uneasily, and Mr. Carteret began to wonder. “I came up-town late in the afternoon,” he continued, “and let myself in with a key. I heard voices in the drawing-room and went down the hall. The curtains in the drawing-room doorway had fallen apart, and I looked in. Palfrey was there. They were standing by the fireplace and had dropped their voices so that I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I saw him take a step toward her, and then he took her hand.” Evanston stopped. “And then,” he added, “the sawdust dropped out of my doll.”
“What happened?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“He kissed her,” said Evanston.
Mr. Carteret started inwardly. Then an illumination came to him. “No,” he said; “she kissed him.”
“As a gentleman,” said Evanston, “I would rather put it the other way.”
“As a gentleman,” said Mr. Carteret, “you must put it the way it was.”
“Does it make any difference?” asked Evanston.
“The difference between right and wrong,” said Mr. Carteret. “Listen to me. You knew, I suppose, that Palfrey wanted to marry Edith’s sister Louise.”
A look of wonder came into Evanston’s face. “No,” he said.
“Well,” said Mr. Carteret, “he did. I know it, and when you saw him at their house and thought he was after Edith, you were barking up the wrong tree.”
Evanston had risen, and was listening apprehensively. His face had grown white.
“What has this to do with the case?” he demanded.
“The afternoon that you speak of,” Mr. Carteret went on, “Louise told Palfrey that she was going to marry Witherbee. With that piece of news he went to your house, to the woman who had been his friend and confidante—your wife. He was a good deal cut up, and when he said good-by—you know he sailed for Europe the next day—I presume she was sorry for him, and, being a generous woman, an impulsive woman, she showed her sympathy; she kissed him as you would kiss a broken-hearted child.”
Evanston made a strange gesture, as if to put away by a physical action the thoughts that were forcing themselves into his mind. “No,” he said huskily; “it isn’t true, it can’t be true.”
“Do you think I would come to you with a lie?” said Mr. Carteret.
“But you weren’t there,” said Evanston. “How do you know?”
“Neither were you,” said Mr. Carteret. “Why didn’t you go in like a man and find out your mistake?”
For a time Evanston made no answer. Then his voice sank to a whisper. “I was afraid,” he said. “If I had gone in I was out of my head.” He dropped into his chair again, and turned his face away. His body shook convulsively, but he made no sound. Carteret stepped awkwardly to the terrace balustrade and stood gazing at the sunset. The silence lasted for several minutes. Then Evanston spoke; his voice was still uncertain. He rose and walked unsteadily toward the balustrade.
“Carty,” he said, “I believe you. What shall I do? It’s awful,” he muttered; “it’s awful.”
“It’s awfully lucky,” said Mr. Carteret, “that we have straightened things out.”
Evanston shook his head wearily. “But we haven’t,” he said; “we can’t. It’s too late.”
“Look here,” said Mr. Carteret, impatiently, “don’t be an ass.”
“But don’t you understand,” said Evanston. “If what you say is true,—and I believe you,—then I have acted—” he stopped and thought for the right words, but they did not come. “I left her that afternoon without a word. A week later, without explanation, I came back, and for two years I have treated her—God knows how I have treated her!” he murmured. “If she did care for me at the first,” he went on, “if she cared for me after the failure, the end of it must have come when I went away and came back as I did. And now to put an obstacle in the way of her freedom, to try to buy her again, would be the act of a blackguard.”
“But suppose she loves you?” said Mr. Carteret.
“That,” said Evanston, “is impossible.”
“It ought to be impossible,” said Mr. Carteret. “If she poisoned you any jury would acquit her; but, fortunately for us, women are not logical.”
“No,” said Evanston again; “it is impossible.”
“That is your view of it,” said Mr. Carteret. “Would anything convince you that you are wrong?”
Evanston was silent a moment. Then he smiled bitterly. “If the thoughts she had about me in those days,” he began,—“in those days after I had come home,—if they could come back like ghosts, and should tell me that all that time she cared for me, in spite of what I was and did—” He paused.
“Then of course it is impossible,” said Mr. Carteret, dryly.
He turned away toward the sunset again and looked at his watch. It was a quarter past seven. In the last twenty-five minutes his hopes had flown high and fallen dead. Evanston’s point of view was beyond his comprehension. He felt that the man was mad, and that he had come upon a fool’s errand.
He turned back toward Evanston. “I must be going,” he said. At that moment a servant came from the house and approached them.
“Mr. Whitehouse is on the telephone, sir,” the man said to Evanston. “He says his cook has been taken suddenly ill, and may he come to dine to-night and bring Professor Blake.”
Evanston looked helplessly at Mr. Carteret. “That’s odd,” he said, “isn’t it?”
“He evidently hasn’t heard,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Evidently,” said Evanston. “But why shouldn’t he come?” he added. He turned to the man. “Tell Mr. Whitehouse that Mrs. Evanston and myself will be glad to have him and Professor Blake.” The man bowed and went back to the house.
“It’s better that way,” continued Evanston. “We’ll have a party. I don’t know who Blake is; but Whittlesea’s coming down, and you’ll stay.”
“I can’t; I have no clothes,” said Mr. Carteret.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Evanston.
“No,” said Mr. Carteret, “I must go. I’m of no use here.”
“Don’t say that,” said Evanston. He held out his hand. “Carty, you are the only human being that understands or wants to understand.”
“Then,” said Mr. Carteret, “I’ll stay.”
It was nine o’clock, and they had finished dinner. From the dining-room the men went to the library to smoke, and Whitehouse’s friend, the Professor, began to talk. He was an Orientalist, and had recently discovered a buried city on the plateau of Iran. Mr. Carteret was not interested in buried cities, so he smoked and occupied himself with his own thoughts. From the distant part of the house came the music of a piano. He knew that it was Edith playing in the drawing-room. It occurred to him that it would be pleasant to go out upon the terrace and listen to the music. He was meditating the execution of this project when he saw Whittlesea slip out; the same idea had occurred to the lawyer.
Mr. Carteret watched him go with chagrin, but he felt that it would be rude for him to follow, so he sat where he was, and bore up under the buried city. The talk went on until suddenly the cathedral clock in the hallway began to strike in muffled arpeggios. Whitehouse started up and looked at his watch.
“It’s half-past nine,” he said to the Professor. “If you really must take the night train, we ought to be starting.”
“I’ll ring,” said Evanston, “and have somebody order your trap.”
“Thank you,” said Whitehouse, “I would rather order it myself; I want to speak to my man. I know where the stable telephone is.” He went out.
“I am sorry you have to go,” said Evanston to the Professor.
“So am I,” the Professor replied. “This has been a most delightful evening.”
Just then Whitehouse put his head in the door. “The stable telephone is out of order,” he said, “I’ll have to ask you to send some one, after all.”
“The telephone’s all right,” replied Evanston; “the trouble is, you don’t know how to use it.” He rose, and joining Whitehouse, left the room.
As he went out, the Professor started to rise, but something held him, and he sat back awkwardly. His sleeve-link had caught in the cord of the cushion on which his arm had been resting. He stooped to disentangle it, and turning the cushion over, his eyes rested on a curious pattern worked in gold. He gave a low exclamation of surprise, and carried the cushion into the lamplight.
“Anything the matter?” inquired Mr. Carteret. To him the Professor was rather curious than human, but he felt that it was civil to show an interest in him.
“There’s a verse,” replied the Professor, “embroidered in Persian characters on this cushion. It’s the work of a poet little known in Europe. It’s very extraordinary to find it here.”
“Really,” said Mr. Carteret, suppressing a yawn.
“I’ll make you a translation of it,” said the Professor.
“I should be pleased,” said Mr. Carteret.
There was a silence, during which the Professor wrote on a stray sheet of paper, and Mr. Carteret speculated on the chance of his horse Balloonist in the Broadway steeplechase. The Professor was handing the slip of paper to Mr. Carteret when Whitehouse and Evanston came hurriedly into the room.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to hurry,” said Whitehouse. “We have very little time.”
“All right,” said the Professor; “but I must say good-by to Mrs. Evanston.” He nodded a good-night to Mr. Carteret, and went out of the room, followed by Evanston and Whitehouse.
Mr. Carteret heard the music stop in the drawing-room, and he knew that the Professor was taking his leave. He heard it begin again, and he knew that the guests had gone.
“I must go myself,” he thought. “Evanston wants to talk with Whittlesea.”
He was about to rise when he glanced idly at the sheet of paper which the Professor had given him. Mr. Carteret was not fond of poetry. He considered it a branch of knowledge which concerned only women and literary persons. But the words of the translation that he held in his hand he read a first time, then a second time, then a third time.
He rose, with a startled sense of being on the brink of discovery, and then Evanston came in.
“You are not going,” said Evanston.
“No,” said Mr. Carteret, vaguely. “Frank,” he went on, “do you know anything about that sofa pillow?”
“What sofa pillow?” asked Evanston.
Mr. Carteret took the cushion with the strange embroidery, and held it in the lamplight.
“That?” said Evanston—“Edith gave me that.”
“When?” asked Mr. Carteret.
“It was a Christmas present,” said Evanston—“the Christmas after the failure.”
“After you came back?”
Evanston nodded.
“Do you know where she got it?” asked Mr. Carteret. “I mean the embroidery.”
“She worked it,” said Evanston.
“But,” said Mr. Carteret, “it’s Persian.”
“Very likely she got the design from her uncle,” said Evanston. “She used to be a great deal with him. You know he was Wyeth, the Orientalist. But what is all this about? Why are you interested in this sofa pillow?”
Mr. Carteret gazed searchingly at Evanston. “The design,” he said, “that is embroidered is a verse.”
Evanston looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Well,” he said, “what of it?”
“I want you to ask Edith what it is,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Why?” said Evanston.
“Don’t ask why. Do it.”
“What use can there be in calling up the past?” said Evanston. “It can only be painful to both of us.”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Carteret; “do it as a favor to me.”
“I think you will have to excuse me, Carty,” said Evanston, somewhat stiffly.
Mr. Carteret moved to the wall and rang the bell. Neither man spoke until the servant appeared. “Please say to Mrs. Evanston,” said Mr. Carteret, “that Mr. Evanston and Mr. Carteret wish very much that she would come to the library.” As the man left the room, Evanston came forward.
“What does this mean?” he demanded.
“My meaning ought to be plain,” said Mr. Carteret. “I intend to have you ask your wife what is on that cushion.” There was something in his tone, in the look in his eyes, which made Evanston’s protest melt away, then transfixed him, then made him whiten and tremble.
Presently they heard the rustle of a woman’s dress in the hallway. “Do you understand?” said Mr. Carteret, quickly. “You must ask her. You must force it out of her. If she refuses to tell you, you must choke it out of her. The ghosts have come back!” Then he hurriedly crossed the room to the French window that opened upon the terrace. As he reached the window, Edith stood in the doorway.
“Do you want me?” she asked.
“Frank wants you,” he answered, and stepped out blindly into the night. He groped his way across the terrace, and from the terrace went on to the lawn. Overhead the stars looked down and studded the lake with innumerable lights. The night insects were singing. The fireflies glimmered in the shrubbery. The perfume from the syringa thicket was heavy on the still air. Ordinarily these things did not appeal strongly to Mr. Carteret; but to-night they thrilled him. A few steps across the grass and he stopped and looked back. The house was silent. From the library windows the lamplight streamed out upon the terrace lawn. He turned away again and stood listening to the night things—the measured chorus of the frogs in the distant marsh, the whippoorwill that was calling in the darkness on the point. Then he resumed his progress across the lawns. Suddenly he came upon a figure in the darkness, and started.
“Has that fellow gone?” It was Whittlesea’s voice.
“Yes,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Then I must go back,” said the lawyer. “Carteret,” he went on, “this is wretched business. One would think that, in a spot like this, on such a night, people ought to be happy.”
“You are right,” said Mr. Carteret. “Whittlesea,” he added, “come along but don’t speak.” He slipped his arm through the lawyer’s and guided their steps back toward the terrace. They mounted it and stealthily approached the library window. From the darkness they could see into the lighted room, and not be seen. The lawyer gave a low exclamation, and drew his arm away.
Evanston and his wife were sitting side by side upon the couch. His arm was about her, and his face was bent close to hers. They made no sound, but her body shook a little, and trembled as if she were weeping silently. The two men parted in the darkness, Mr. Carteret retreating back across the terrace.
Evanston and his wife were sitting side by side upon the couch
The fireflies still were glimmering in the syringa-bushes, the night voices still were chorusing, but Mr. Carteret was unaware of them. He looked vaguely into the heavens. The Milky Way glimmered from horizon to horizon.
“‘Has the singing nightingale a thought of the grainfields?’”
he began to murmur.
“‘If I love you, oh, my beloved, what are poverty or riches?’”
It was the verse upon the cushion.
He stumbled over a croquet ball in the darkness and brought his eyes down from the heavens.
“Carteret, you’re an ass,” he muttered. He fumbled for his pocket handkerchief and blew his nose. Then wandered on across the lawn till he came to the path that led to the stables, where his motor was waiting. Here he stopped and looked back at the house. The lamplight was still streaming from the library windows, and the silence, save for the night things, was still unbroken. For perhaps a minute he stood and gazed; then he turned and went down the pathway.
