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<h3 align="center">Chapter VI A Slammed Door</h3> “Don’t you call her ‘that Desternay woman’!” “I’ll call her what I please! And without asking your permission, either. And I won’t have my wife playing bridge at what is practically a gambling house!” “Nothing of the sort! A party of invited guests, in a private house is a social affair, and you shall not call it ridiculous names! You play for far higher stakes at your club than we ever do at Fifi Desternay’s.” “That name is enough! Fancy your associating with a woman who calls herself Fifi!” “She can’t help her name! It was probably wished on her by her parents in baptism—” “It probably was not! She was probably christened Mary Jane!” “You seem to know a lot about her.” “I know all I want to; and you have reached the end of your acquaintance with her and her set. You are not to go there, Eunice, and that’s all there is about it.” The Emburys were in Eunice’s bedroom. Sanford was in evening dress and was about to leave for his club. Eunice, who had dined in a negligée, was donning an elaborate evening costume. She had dismissed her maid when Embury came into the room, and was herself adjusting the finishing touches. Her gown of henna-colored chiffon, with touches of gold embroidery, was most becoming to her dark beauty, and some fine ornaments of ancient carved gold gave an Oriental touch to her appearance. She stood before a long mirror, noting the details of her gown, and showed an irritating lack of attention to Embury’s last dictum. “You heard me, Eunice?” he said, caustically, his hand on the doorknob. “Not being deaf, I did,” she returned, without looking toward him. “And you will obey me?” He turned back, and reaching her side, he grasped her arm with no uncertain touch. “I demand your obedience!” “Demands are not always granted!” She gave him a dazzling smile, but it was defiant rather than friendly. “I make it a request, then. Will you grant me that?” “Why should I grant your requests, when you won’t grant mine?” “Good Lord, Eunice, are you going to harp on that allowance string again?” “I am. Why shouldn’t I, when it warps my whole life—” “Oh, come, cut out the hifalutin’ talk!” “Well, then, to come down to plain facts, there isn’t a day that I’m not humiliated and embarrassed by the lack of a little cash.” “Bad as that?” “Yes, quite as bad as that! Why, the day we went out to Newark I didn’t have five cents to buy Aunt Abby a newspaper, and she had to get along without one!” “She seemed to live through it.” “Sanford, you’re unbearable! And to-day, at Mrs. Garland’s, a woman talked, and then they took up a collection for the ‘Belgian Home Fires,’ and I didn’t have a cent to contribute.” “Who is she? I’ll send a check.” “A check! You answer everything by a check! Can’t you understand? Oh, there’s no use explaining; you’re determined you won’t understand! So, let us drop the subject. Is to-night the club election?” “No, to-morrow night. But to-night will probably decide it in my mind. It practically hinges on the Meredith set—if they can be talked over—” “Oh, Sanford, I do hope they can!” Eunice’s eyes sparkled and she smiled as she put her hands on her husband’s shoulders. “And, listen, dear, if they are—if you do win the election, won’t you—oh, San, won’t you give me an allowance?” “Eunice, you’re enough to drive a man crazy! Will you let up on that everlasting whine? No, I won’t! Is that plain?” “Then I shall go and get it for myself!” “Go to the devil for all I care!” Sanford flung out of the room, banging the door behind him. Eunice heard him speaking to Ferdinand, rather shortly, and as he left the apartment, she knew that he had gone to the club in their motor car, and if she went out, she would have to call a cab. She began to take off her gown, half deciding to stay at home. She had never run counter to Embury’s expressed orders and she hesitated to do so now. And yet—the question of money, so summarily dismissed by her husband, was a very real trouble to her. In her social position, she actually needed ready cash frequently, and she had determined to get it. Her last hope of Sanford failed her, when he refused to grant her wish as a sort of celebration of his election, and she persuaded herself that it was her right to get some money somehow. Her proposed method was by no means a certain one, for it was the hazardous plan of winning at bridge. Although a first-rate player, Eunice often had streaks of bad luck, and, too, inexpert partners were a dangerous factor. But, though she sometimes said that winnings and losings came out about even in the long run, she had found by keeping careful account, her skill made it probable for her to win more than she lost, and this reasoning prompted her to risk high stakes in hope of winning something worth-while. Fifi Desternay was a recent acquaintance of hers, and not a member of the set Eunice looked upon as her own. But the gatherings at the Desternay house were gay and pleasant, a bit Bohemian, yet exclusive too, and Eunice had already spent several enjoyable afternoons there. She had never been in the evening, for Embury wouldn’t go, and had refused to let her go without him. Nor did she want to, for it was not Eunice’s way to go out alone at night. But she was desperate and, moreover, she was exceedingly angry. Sanford was unjust and unkind. Also, he had been cross and ugly, and had left her in anger, a thing that had never happened before. And she wanted some money at once. A sale of laces was to be held next day at a friend’s home, and she wanted to go there, properly prepared to purchase some bits if she chose to. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered Mason Elliott’s offer to give or lend her money, but she smiled gently, as she remembered the true friendliness of the man, and his high-mindedness, which took all sting from his offer. As she brooded, her anger became more fierce, and finally, with a toss of her head, she rose from the chair, rang for the maid, and proceeded to finish her toilette. “Lend me some money, will you, Aunt Abby?” she asked, as, all ready to go, she stepped into the livingroom. She had no hesitancy in making this appeal. If she won, she would repay on her return. If she lost, Aunt Abby was a good-natured waiter, and she knew Eunice would pay later. “Bridge?” said the old lady, smiling at the lovely picture Eunice made, in her low gown and her billowy satin wrap. “I thought Sanford took the car.” “He did. I’m going in a taxi. What a duck you are to let me have this,” as she spoke she stuffed the bills in her soft gold mesh-bag. “Don’t sit up, dear, I’ll be out till all hours.” “Where are you going?” “To the end of the rainbow—where there’s a pot of gold! You read your spook books, and then go to bed and dream of ghosts and specters!” Eunice kissed her lightly, and gathering up her floating draperies, went out of the room with the faithful and efficient Ferdinand. On his way to the club, Embury pursued that pleasing occupation known as nursing his wrath. He was sorry he had left Eunice in anger—he realized it was the first time that had ever happened—and he was tempted to go back, or, at least to telephone back, that he was sorry. But that would do little good, he knew, unless he also said he was willing to accede to her request for an allowance, and that he was as sternly set against as ever. He couldn’t quite have told himself why he was so positive in this matter, but it was largely owing to an instinctive sense of the fitness of having a wife dependent on her husband for all things. Moreover, it seemed to him that unlimited charge accounts betokened a greater generosity than an allowance, and he felt an aggrieved irritation at Eunice’s seeming ingratitude. The matter of her wanting “chicken-feed” now and then seemed to him too petty to be worthy of serious consideration. He really believed that he gave her money whenever she asked for it, and was all unaware how hard he made it for her to ask. The more he thought about it, the more he saw Eunice in the wrong, and himself an injured, unappreciated benefactor. He adored his wife, but this peculiarity of hers must be put an end to somehow. Her temper, too, was becoming worse instead of better; her outbreaks were more frequent, more furious, and he had less power to quell them than formerly. Clearly, he concluded, Eunice must be taught a lesson, and this occasion must be made a test case. He had left her angrily, and it might turn out that it was the best thing he could have done. Poor girl, she doubtless was sorry enough by now; crying, probably. His heart softened as he conjured up the picture of his wife alone, and in tears, but he reasoned that it would do her good, and he would give her a new jewel to make up for it, after the trouble was all over. So he went on to the club, and dove into the great business of the last possible chance of electioneering. Though friendly through all this campaign, the strain was beginning to tell on the two candidates, and both Embury and Hendricks found it a little difficult to keep up their good feeling. “But,” they both reasoned, “as soon as the election is over, we’ll be all right again. We’re both too good sports to hold rancor, or to feel any jealousy.” And this was true. Men of the world, men of well-balanced minds, clever, logical and just, they were fighting hard, each for his own side, but once the matter was decided, they would be again the same old friends. However, Embury was just as well pleased to learn that Hendricks was out of town. He had gone to Boston on an important business matter, and though it was not so stated, Embury was pretty sure that the important business was closely connected with the coming election. In his own endeavor to secure votes, Embury was not above playing the, to him, unusual game of being all things to all men. And this brought him into cordial conversation with one of the younger club members, who was of the type he generally went out of his way to avoid. “Try to put yourself in our place, Mr. Embury,” the cub was saying. “We want this club to be up-to-date and beyond. Conservatism is all very well, and we all practiced it ‘for the duration,’ but now the war’s over, let’s have some fun, say we!” “I know, Billy, but there is a certain standard to be maintained—” “We, the people of the United States—and tiddle tya—tya—tya! Why, everybody’s doing it! The women—bless ‘em!—too. I just left your wife at a table with my wife, and the pile of chips between ‘em would make some men’s card-rooms hide their diminished walls!” “That so? You saw my wife this evening? Where?” “As if you didn’t know! But, good heavens! perhaps you didn’t! Have I been indiscreet?” “Not at all. At Mrs. Desternay’s, wasn’t it?” “Yes, but you gave me a jolt. I was afraid I’d peached.” “Not at all. They’re friends.” “Well, between you and me, they oughtn’t to be. I let Gladys go, under protest—I left her there myself—but it’s never again for her! I shall tell her so to-night.” Embury changed the subject and by using all his self-control gave no hint of his wrath. So Eunice had gone after all! After his expressly forbidding it! It was almost unbelievable! And within an hour of his receiving information, Sanford Embury, in his own car, stopped at the Desternay house. Smiling and debonair as he entered the drawingroom, he greeted the hostess and asked for his wife. “Oh, don’t disturb her, dear Mr. Embury,” begged the vivacious Fifi; “she’s out for blood! She’s in the den, with three of our wizards and the sky’s their limit!” “Tut, tut! What naughtiness!” Embury’s manner was just the right degree of playful reproach, and his fine poise and distinguished air attracted attention from many of the players. The rooms were filled, without being crowded, and a swift mental stock-taking of the appointments and atmosphere convinced the newcomer that his preconception of the place was about right. “I must take her away before she cleans out the bunch,” he laughed, and made progress toward the ‘den.’ “Here you are,” he said lightly, as he came upon Eunice, with another woman and two men, all of whom were silently concentrating on what was quite evidently a stiff game. “Yes, here I am,” she returned; “don’t speak please, until I finish this hand.” Eunice was playing the hand, and though her face paled, and a spot of bright color appeared on either cheek she did not lose her head, and carried the hand through to a successful conclusion. “Game and rubber!” she cried, triumphantly, and the vanquished pair nodded regretfully. “And the last game, please, for my wife,” Embury said, in calm, courteous tones. “You can get a substitute, of course. Come, Eunice!” There was something icy in his tones that made Eunice shiver, though it was not noticeable to strangers, and she rose, smiling, with a few gay words of apology. “Perfectly awful of me to leave, when I’m winning,” she said, “but there are times, you know, when one remembers the ‘obey’ plank in the matrimonial platform! Dear Fifi, forgive me—” She moved about gracefully, saying a word or two of farewell, and then disappeared to get her wrap, with as little disturbance as possible of the other players. “You naughty man!” and Mrs. Desternay shook her finger at Embury; “if you weren’t so good-looking I should put you in my black books!” “That would at least keep me in your memory,” he returned, but his smile was now quite evidently a forced one. And his words of farewell were few, as he led Eunice from the house and down to the car. He handed her in, and then sat beside her, as the chauffeur turned homeward. Not a word was spoken by either of them during the whole ride. Several times Eunice decided to break the silence, but concluded not to. She was both angry and frightened, but the anger predominated. Embury sat motionless, his face pale and stern, and when they arrived at their own house, he assisted her from the car, quite as usual, dismissed the chauffeur, with a word of orders for the next day, and then the pair went into the house. Ferdinand met them at their door, and performed his efficient and accustomed services. And then, after a glance at her husband, Eunice went into her own room and closed the door. Embury smoked a cigarette or two, and at last went to his room. Ferdinand attended him, and the concerned expression on the old servant’s face showed, though he tried to repress it, an anxiety as to the very evident trouble that was brewing. But he made no intrusive remark or implication, though a furtive glance at his master betokened a resentment of his treatment of Eunice, the idol of Ferdinand’s heart. Dismissed, he left Embury’s room, and closed the door softly behind him. The door between the rooms of Embury and his wife stood a little ajar, and as his hand fell on it to shut it, he heard a stifled gasp of “Sanford!” He looked in, and saw Eunice, in a very white heat of rage. In all their married life he had never seen her so terribly angry as she looked then. Speechless from very fury, she stood, with clenched hands, trying to command her voice. She looked wonderfully beautiful like some statue of an avenging angel—he almost fancied he could see a flaming sword! As he looked, she took a step toward him, her eyes burning with a glance of hate. Judith might have looked so, or Jael. Not exactly frightened, but alarmed, lest she might fly into a passion of rage that would really injure her, Embury closed the door, practically in her very face. Indeed, practically, he slammed it, with all the audible implication of which a slammed door is capable. The next morning Ferdinand waited for the usual summons from Embury’s bedroom. The tea tray was ready, the toast crisp and hot, but the summons of the bell was unusually delayed. When the clock pointed to fifteen minutes past the hour Ferdinand tapped on Embury’s door. A few moments later he tapped again, rapping louder. Several such attempts brought no response, and the valet tried the door. It would not open, so Ferdinand went to Eunice’s door and knocked there. Jumping from her bed, and throwing a kimono round her, Eunice opened her own door. Ferdinand started at sight of her white face, but recovered himself, and said, “Mr. Embury, ma’am. He doesn’t answer my knock. Can he be ill?” “Oh, I guess not,” Eunice tried to speak casually, but miserably failed. “Go through that way.” She pointed to the door between her room and her husband’s. Ferdinand hesitated. “You open it, Mrs. Embury, please,” he said, and his voice shook. “Why, Ferdinand, what do you mean? Open that door!” “Yes, ma’am,” and turning the knob, Ferdinand entered. “Why, he’s still asleep!” he exclaimed. “Shall I wake him?” “Yes—that is—yes, of course! Wake him up, Ferdinand.” The door on the other side of Eunice’s room opened, and Aunt Abby put her head in. “What’s the matter? What’s Ferdinand doing in your room, Eunice? Are you ill?” “No, Aunt Abby—” but Eunice got no further. She sank back on her bed, and buried her face in the pillows. “Get up, Mr. Embury—it’s late,” Ferdinand was saying, and then he lightly touched the arm of his master. “He—he—oh, Miss Eunice! Oh, my God! Why, ma’am—he—he looks to be dead!” With a shriek, Eunice raised her head a moment and then flung it down on the pillows again, crying, “I don’t believe it! You don’t know what you’re saying! It can’t be so!” “Yes, I do, ma’am—he’s—why, he’s cold!” “Let me come in!” ordered Aunt Abby, as Ferdinand tried to bar her entrance; “let me see, I tell you! Yes, he is dead! Oh, Eunice—now, Ferdinand, don’t lose your head! Go quickly and telephone for Doctor—what’s his name? I mean the one in this building—on the ground floor—Harper—that’s it—Doctor Harper. Go, man, go!” Ferdinand went, and Aunt Abby leaned over the silent figure. “What do you suppose ailed him, Eunice? He was perfectly well, when he went to bed, wasn’t he?” “Yes,” came a muffled reply. “Get up, Eunice; get up, dear. That doctor will be here in a minute. Brush up your hair, and fasten your kimono. You won’t have time to dress. I must put on a cap.” Aunt Abby flew to her bedroom, and returned quickly, wearing a lace cap Eunice had given her, and talking as she adjusted it. “It must be a stroke—and yet, people don’t have strokes at his age. It can’t be apoplexy—he isn’t that build—and, too, he’s such an athlete; there’s nothing the matter with him. It can’t be—oh, mercy gracious! it can’t be—Eunice! Sanford wouldn’t kill himself, would he?” “No! no! of course not!” “Not just now before the election—no, of course he wouldn’t! But it can’t be—oh, Lord, what can it be?” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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