Book: Raspberry Jam

C >> Carolyn Wells >> Raspberry Jam




They walked a few blocks in silence, and then Elliott said,
abruptly: "What were you and Sanford quarreling about?"

"Aren't you a little intrusive?" but a smile accompanied the
words.

"No, Eunice; it isn't intrusion. I have the right of an old
friend--more than a friend, from my point of view--and I ask only
from the best and kindest motives."

"Could you explain some those motives?" She tried to make her
voice cold and distant, but only succeeded in making it pathetic.

"I could--but I think it better, wiser and more honorable not to.
You know, dear, why I want to know. Because I want you to be the
happiest woman in the whole world--and if Sanford Embury can't
make you so--"

"Nobody can!" she interrupted him, quickly. "Don't, Mason," she
turned a pleading look toward him; "don't say anything we may
both regret. You know how good Sanford is to me; you know how
happy we are together"

"Were," he corrected, very gravely.

"Were--and are," she insisted. "And you know, too--no one
better--what a fiendish temper I have! Though I try my best to
control it, it breaks out now and then, and I am helpless.
Sanford thinks he can tame it by giving me as good as I send
--by playing, as he calls it, Petruchio to my Katherine--but,
somehow, I don't believe that's the treatment I need."

Her dark eyes were wistful, but she did not look at him.

"Of course it isn't!" Elliott returned, in a low voice. "I know
your nature, Eunice; I've known it all our lives. You need
kindness when you are in a tantrum. The outbursts of temper you
cannot help--that I know positively--they're an integral part of
your nature. But they're soon over--often the fiercer they are,
the quicker they pass,--and if you were gently managed, not
brutally, at the time they occur, it would go far to help you to
overcome them entirely. But--and I ask you again--what were you
discussing to-day when I came?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I think I do know--and forgive me, if I offend you--I think I
can help you."

"What do you mean? "Eunice looked up with a frightened stare.

"Don't look like that--oh, Eunice, don't! I only meant--I know
you want money--ready money--let me give it to you--or lend it to
you--do, Eunice--darling!"

"Thank you, Mason," Eunice forced herself to say, "but I must
refuse your offer. I think--I think we--we'll go home now."




CHAPTER VI

A SLAMMED DOOR


"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 negligee, 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 sir 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?"




CHAPTER VII

A VISION


"I have never been so mystified in all my life!" Dr. Harper spoke
in a perplexed, worried way, and a puzzled frown drew his shaggy
eyebrows together. Though the family physician of most of the
tenants of the large, up-to-date apartment house, he was of the
old school type and had the kindly, sociable ways of a smalltown
practitioner.

"I know Sanford Embury, bone, blood and muscle," he said; "I've
not only been his physician for two years, but I've examined him,
watched him and kept him in pink of condition for his athletic
work. If I hadn't looked after him, he might have overdone his
athletics--but he didn't--he used judgment, and was more than
willing to follow my advice. Result--he was in the most perfect
possible physical shape in every particular! He could no more
have had a stroke of apoplexy or paralysis than a young oak tree
could! And there's no indication of such a thing, either. A man
can't die of a stroke of any sort without showing certain
symptoms. None of these are present--there's nothing present
to hint the cause of his death. There's no cut, scratch or mark
of any description; there's no suggestion of strangulation or
heart failure--well, it's the strangest thing I ever ran up
against in all my years of practice!"

The doctor sat at the Embury breakfast table, heartily partaking
of the dishes Ferdinand offered. He had prescribed aromatic
ammonia for Eunice, and a cup of coffee for Miss Ames, and then
he had made a careful examination of Sanford Embury's mortal
body.

Upon its conclusion he had insisted that the ladies join him at
breakfast and he saw to it that they made more than a pretense of
eating.

"You've a hard day ahead of you," he said, in his gentle,
paternal way, "and you must be fortified as far as possible. I
may seem harsh, Mrs, Embury, but I'm going to ask you to be as
brave as you can, right now--at first--as I may say--and then,
indulge in the luxury of tears later on. This sounds brutal, I
daresay, but I've a reason, dear madam. There's a mystery here.
I don't go so far as to say there's anything wrong--but there's a
very mysterious death to be looked into, and as your physician
and your friend, I want to advise--to urge you to keep up your
strength for what may be a trying ordeal. In the first place, I
apprehend an autopsy will be advisable, and I trust you will give
your consent to that."

"Oh, no!" cried Eunice, her face drawn with dismay, "not that!"

"Now, now, be reasonable, Mrs, Embury. I know you dislike the
idea--most people do--but I think I shall have to insist upon
it."

"But you can't do it, unless I agree, can you?" and Eunice looked
at him sharply.

"No--but I'm sure you will agree."

"I won't! I never will! You shan't touch Sanford! I won't
allow it."

"She's right!" declared Aunt Abby. "I can't see, doctor, why it
is necessary to have a postmortem. I don't approve of such
things. Surely you can, somehow discover what Mr. Embury died
of--and if not, what matter? He's dead, and nothing can change
that! It doesn't seem to me that we have to know--"

"Pardon me, Miss Ames, it is necessary that I should know the
cause of the death. I cannot makea report until--"

"Well you can find out, I should think."

"I never heard of a doctor who couldn't determine the cause of a
simple, natural death of one of his own patients!" Eunice's
glance was scathing and her tones full of scorn.

But the doctor realized the nervous tension she was under, and
forbore to take offense, or to answer her sharply.

"Well, well, we'll see about it," he temporized. "I shall first
call in Marsden, a colleague of mine, in consultation. I admit
I'm at the end of my own knowledge. Tell me the details of last
evening. Was Mr. Embury just as usual, so far as you noticed?"

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