There were days when in the seclusion of her own bedroom she gave way freely to her tears. She wanted to be happy; she wanted to be a good manager of her house, a good wife to Martin. Life often seemed to demand more from her than she was capable of giving. Concede—concede—concede! It was all concession for her; Martin gave nothing.
§ 7
There came another Fourth of July, one year from the time of the visit to the Gibbses. Doc French was a member of the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club as well as of the Family Yacht Club. There was to be a wonderful party at the former on the evening of the Fourth; it was the Club’s annual show. A dinner was to be followed by a vaudeville entertainment provided by a number of talented actors from the Lambs Club, and after that a dance which would probably last all night. Doc French invited Martin Devlin and his wife to be his guests; he was giving a little dinner party for his sister-in-law, Lou, and her cousin, Mrs. Edith Prentiss, who were spending the holiday with him.
Jeannette was overjoyed at the prospect. She spent a day shopping in New York, and bought herself silver satin slippers, a pair of gray silk stockings to wear with a silver dress,—part of her trousseau,—which she had had no occasion to put on since she moved to the country. It promised to be a delightful affair and Martin shared her excitement.
It turned out to be all she expected. The spacious dining-room, the dancing floor, even the awninged porches were crowded with tables, gay with flowers and patriotic decorations. There was a beguiling atmosphere of soft lights, color and music, smart and lovely women, elaborate costumes, attractive men. Jeannette felt that she herself bloomed with beauty, that she appeared tall, statuesque, superb. People at other tables threw appraising glances and occasionally she saw a lorgnette levelled in her direction. Doc French was admiring and attentive; she liked his sister-in-law and particularly Mrs. Prentiss; the vaudeville show on an improvised stage at one end of the long room was one of the best she had ever witnessed. Some of the actors were head-liners in their profession; with songs and stories, they kept the audience rocking with laughter and stirred it to roars of applause. One of the entertainers particularly drew Jeannette’s interest,—a young actor, named Michael Carr. An unusually attractive youth, renowned for his good looks, a matinée idol, he had held the boards on Broadway all winter as the leading attraction in a Viennese opera. Jeannette thought he sang delightfully, and had a most charming personality.
Towards midnight the chairs and tables were cleared away and the dancing began. Doc French did not dance, himself, but he had no difficulty in securing partners for his guests, and Jeannette floated around the gaily decorated ball-room through the soft colors of calcium lights thrown upon the dancers, in an intoxication of pleasure. Men, young and old, seemed anxious to know her and ask her to dance; she was in demand every moment, and in one of these dizzying whirls she was interrupted by Doc French to introduce Michael Carr. The actor had asked to be presented; could he have a dance? The next was promised, but he could have it just the same, she said with shining eyes. She drifted away in his arms presently, a sweet giddiness enveloping her senses, rocking her in sensuous delight. They glided from the dance and wandered out upon the long pier over the water. The lisping waves lapped the piles and rhythmically beat upon the pebbled shore, the music of the dance reached them plaintively, yachts white and ghostly stood sentinels at their moorings, their cabins pin-pricked with lights, their starboard lanterns glowing green. The night air was caressing, gay voices floated toward them, there was smothered laughter from hidden corners, the heavens were a myriad of golden stars. Quite simply Michael Carr took the slim silver figure in his arms, she melted into his embrace and their lips clung to one another’s long and lovingly. It was a night of love, a night for lovers.
The brilliantly lit ball-room, the music drew them back. Jeannette had no sense of guilt; the mood of the hour still wrapped her; for the moment she loved this man whole-heartedly; he was divine, a super-man, a god. No thought of Martin came to distress her. She was supremely content, supremely happy; it was rapture, bliss, enchantment. In her ear he kept whispering:
“You are wonderful, you are beautiful, you are adorable.”
Doc French was beckoning to her, but she only smiled amiably at him as she passed and floated on in Michael’s arms, bending and undulating with him in perfect symmetry of motion. There was no such thing as time or space; she shut her eyes, and seemed to be floating—floating—floating—— Doc French stopped them with a hand on the actor’s arm.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I fear I must. Your husband, Mrs. Devlin.... May I speak to you a moment?”