21
At the Savoy, Floyd heard many flattering things about his beautiful wife. He was silent, kept turning over the pages of the hotel register, finally found the name he was looking for—“Martin Steele, New York.” Then he wired Miss Mary and left at once for Switzerland, made quick connections, arriving at Tarasp toward evening. The stage-coach from Val Sinestra was expected. He paced up and down before the hotel, his thoughts stinging like a swarm of bees.
He had married well, he was a happy man—in the world’s vocabulary.
Happy? A man who marries Beauty lives on a powder mine. The something which compels adoration makes a woman unfit for matrimony. A man can’t always be on his knees; that’s very well at night—but he becomes a ridiculous figure in the daylight.
The coach shambled up the road. Mary was the only passenger; she nodded and smiled at him. He helped her out.
“Were you surprised to get my telegram?”
“Yes.”
“You understood?”
Mary waited. She wasn’t sure how much he knew.
“Why did Dr. McClaren send my wife to Europe without me?”
“Mrs. Garrison wanted it; there was no peace for her with that man so near.”
He was watching her keenly. Did he think she was in collusion with his wife against him? Her face burned; she looked straight at him.
“Mr. Garrison, it was an experiment and very successful. She is cured.”
He was ashamed. She and the doctor knew his dishonor, and then—the world. His voice was hot—angry.
“He followed her to London; they were together at the Savoy.”
“No!”
“He was there.”
Then she told him of her encounter with Martin, and how he went away without seeing Julie.
He had done them a terrible injustice? He was piteously grateful, held her hands, made a foolish attempt to kiss them. She grew very pale, and said, “Oh! Mr. Garrison!” He dropped them, very much embarrassed, looked at his watch. It was already ten o’clock; the evening had passed quickly, in spite of his misery.
“You are tired. I have been inconsiderate.”
“Oh no, but if you don’t mind, I’ll go to my room now.”
He stood at the foot of the stairs looking after her; she smiled back at him. She was glad she had been able to bring him a hopeful message.
They started off the next morning, in a comfortable open carriage. Mary told him funny stories about the “blood-poor” women and their arsenic intoxication, showed him pretty twists in the splendid road built by the Romans. They stopped at a little inn for a bite of cheese and a glass of beer. He planned a trip to Lugano and over the lake to Italy; he was in good spirits; the sense of relief acted like a strong stimulant.
Mary was very loyal to Julie.
“Mr. Garrison, I can assure you everything is all right. I have written to Rome at Mrs. Garrison’s request. After her cure she has plans to go with you to visit Father Cabello.”
Floyd was very penitent.
“I am glad to know that. Father Cabello has a strong influence over my wife. She has been too worldly; I hope he will bring her back to religion.”
On arriving at the hotel, Mary went at once to Julie’s room; it was in great disorder—everything scattered about, as if she had dressed very hurriedly. Floyd downstairs was questioning the woman manager.
“Madame had gone with Monsieur Steele; they had taken luncheon with them. Did Madame expect Monsieur Garrison?”
“No. I wanted to surprise her. Do you know where they went?”
“Yes. The boy who drove them is here.”
“I would like to find them, if possible.”
The woman went to order the wagon.
Mary was pale, agitated.
“Mr. Garrison, when I left your wife, Mr. Steele was not here.”
He didn’t answer; he frightened her.
“What are you going to do?”
“Find her and bring her back.”
“A storm is brewing,” said the woman. “They come up quickly and are terrible while they last.”
The wagon drove up; he jumped in. Mary stood watching him till he was out of sight. The clouds gathered; the wind slunk into its den.
Floyd pushed back his hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead; it was stifling.