“And you’ll get the accommodations?”
She nodded a little wearily.
Her packing was very complete. Her furniture was put into storage, and the agent of her apartment agreed, after a struggle, to sublet it. When it came to business the languorous eyes of Mrs. Hubbell could become immensely practical and definite and she could out-Herod most of her tradespeople. She got what she wanted out of men whether she had to try wits or emotions on them.
On Sunday, unattended, after a few curiously casual telephone calls of farewell, she left on the Chicago train. Through the early evening, which darkened so early now, the train sped along and in her compartment Rose sat close to the window, still as a sphinx. The shadows crept over her lovely face and softened it. And her thoughts softened it too, making her so alluring that men on their way to the dining-car turned back to repass her open door. But she did not seem to notice them. Who could tell of what she was thinking? Of a misspent selfish life which had ridden cruelly roughshod over the lives of the people around her? Of Jack Hubbell, the gentle, loving, passionate man, who had given her everything a man could give and whom she had cheated in return? Of how she might have been still a revered and loved wife if it had not been for the strange devil in her which hungered after looseness and hated control? No—more likely it was of the man she was to meet day after tomorrow “by accident,” of the way to manage him and bring him to the point of arranging for her future; of his possibilities and financial solidity. There were so many things of which she might have been thinking if she looked into her past and future as the train sped along faster and faster, carrying her away from the lives which she had scarred. But the scars were healing and she would never harm those lives again.
Her passing was only casually noted. At the restaurants and hotels they asked after her once or twice. That was all—they soon forgot to ask.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE hills were in their most magnificent autumn color. When the sun shone the masses of trees were almost unbearably brilliant. Scarlet and yellow shaded into orange and crimson and in all the riot there was not one discordant note. On the shadowy, misty days Horatia loved it best. Then the colors seemed a saddened glory, hinting at their own passing. And to see the leaves reflected in the lakes—wonderful colored mirrors—was the most wonderful sight of all. She loved to take Anthony’s canoe and drift over the reflections, moving so silently and graciously that the movement seemed unreal. The time was coming when she must leave all this and she was clinging to her peace. It had been peace. Only lately had the old restlessness come to disturb her. Only lately had she begun to wonder what was happening in the city. Her weariness had passed and she was eager for life again. But as she made ready for action she realized that she must reconstruct in the light of what she had learned and that one of her first problems would be Anthony.
Anthony, slender and strong in his khaki clothes, bareheaded, energetic, full of life, Anthony kind and tender, Anthony brave and generous, Anthony controlled and yet full of fire, Anthony burning for life himself, intolerant of shabbiness or weakness, Anthony the aristocrat. There was no possible great criticism of Anthony. Little things, perhaps, Horatia would admit to herself, but as a man he showed few weaknesses. He had a great deal to offer and he was offering it in all but words. Marjorie could have told her that Anthony was not himself at all—that the Anthony his sister saw sometimes was a frightened boy with all his self-assurance gone, saying to her:
“She’ll never have me. I know she won’t. I haven’t a thing to offer her—none of this highbrow stuff she’s so keen for.”
And again Anthony was a dominant man who watched for the woman he wanted and as he watched and planned could say exultantly: