"Mrs. Pallinder!" he announced.
CHAPTER TEN
It was a coup-de-théâtre, falling as pat as if prearranged, an unthinkable accident; the melodrama was becoming entirely too melodramatic, according to Doctor Vardaman's notion. "Good Heavens!" he said to himself, irritated; "this sort of thing doesn't happen—it has no business to happen!" He had what is perhaps the best tact in the world, the tact of a kind heart; but a plain man's experience does not prepare him for moments of such awkwardness, and the doctor's self-possession for once left him in the lurch. He advanced to meet Mrs. Pallinder, blunderingly putting on his eye-glasses, and blunderingly dropping them again to the length of their black silk ribbon, stuttering out a welcome, apprehensive of Steven's next move, out of patience with the whole grotesque and intolerable situation, and fearful that he showed it. Mrs. Pallinder could hardly have failed to overhear something of what was going forward; Steven's loud voice had been raised almost to its furthest pitch, and Gwynne's, if he was more self-contained, was still forcible and distinct enough. Neither one could at once adjust his threatening brows to a placid, scarcely even a natural expression, and, for that matter, the silence betrayed as much as their speech. She would have needed to be blind or deaf not to know that her presence came amiss—and blind and deaf Mrs. Pallinder promptly became! It was a feat; her assumption of unconsciousness was too perfect, but, if Gwynne and the doctor were undeceived, they were still profoundly grateful, and Steven was reduced to a kind of pathetic diffidence. The old man felt, in his dim way, that he had no arms against this dazzling feminine creature; her manners, her dress, even her delicate and finished beauty frightened him; he might as well plan to sue a fairy for rent as this detached and brilliant personage. "Gwynne could have let the poor old boy go in peace," thought Doctor Vardaman, observing Steven's altered bearing; "he never would have faced Mrs. Pallinder—I doubt if he could have stood up to the colonel!"
"Don't get up, gentlemen, don't stand for just me!" said Mrs. Pallinder, looking around on everybody and beginning to loosen her furs. "Oh, Mr. Gwynne, what a nice surprise to find you here! Doctor Vardaman, you didn't tell me you were expecting Mr. Gwynne. You see I'm an old story to the doctor, Mr. Gwynne, I drop in almost every day—I wonder he doesn't run at the sight of me—it must be a relief as well as a pleasure to him to have you come in once in a while. Why don't you come to see me, ever? We're so lonely out here—the colonel and I depend on the doctor. Nobody ever comes to see two rusty old creatures like us. Nobody but you, that is, Mr. Peters, you treat us with the respect due our age." She gave him a laughing glance; Gwynne knelt down, reddening and incoherent, to take off her overshoes. The doctor had space to reflect that a pretty woman, be she never so well or so long married, seldom wholly ceases to be a coquette. And all this while Steven stood, spellbound into silence, waiting for someone else to sit down. He would have liked to be gallant, cynical, daring, epigrammatic; Steven's notions of society were founded on Bulwer-Lytton's novels, with a dash of Reade, Disraeli, and Charles Lever. He had revolved more than one graceful yet stinging speech for the humbling of the Pallinders, figuring them brought down to a species of admiring submission. Lo, the hour was arrived, but where was the man? All his eloquence had stolen away; he was taken at unawares, tongue-tied in an awkwardness that at once incensed and humiliated him. He almost envied Gwynne his uncalculated ease.
"I had a letter from Mazie this morning, doctor," said Mrs. Pallinder, resolutely keeping the conversation going, and including Steven, as it were, by main force. "My daughter, you know, Mr. Gwynne. You've been at your country-place all winter, haven't you?" It was thus that Mrs. Pallinder picturesquely referred to Steven's ramshackle residence; and on her lips the phrase had a richness that pleased him ineffably. "Then you don't know that my daughter has been away nearly two months—she went a little after the holidays—and, oh, Mr. Gwynne, did you hear about the robbery?"
"She don't have to make talk about the weather—trust a woman!" said the doctor inwardly, both satirical and admiring. He had an instant of suspense, wondering what use Steven would make of his opportunity—and Steven was as mild as a lamb! He cleared his throat, and said yes, he had heard about the robbery—they didn't get anything after all, did they? He understood—that is, the paper said—he hadn't been in town to talk to anybody—that they were after Mrs. Pallinder's diamonds. There had been a picture in the paper of the necklace—he was glad they hadn't got anything.
"Why, I didn't know you approved of diamonds, Mr. Gwynne, I wouldn't have dared to wear mine before you," said Mrs. Pallinder, tempting Providence. "Everybody says you're so severe and critical—and—and like all the rest of you men—you laugh at us poor women shamefully, yes, and tyrannise over us, too, you know you do!" she went on, displaying a discernment for which nobody would have given her credit.
"Madame," said Steven, highly flattered; "you mistake me—beauty unadorned——"