Part 97 (1/2)

”Where does he give the dinner? At what hour?”

She named the place--a fas.h.i.+onable restaurant up-town. The time was still several hours away.

”You must go to Norman.”

She sat in deep reflection.

”It is your only chance--your only hope. Give me authority to act for you, and go to him. He needs you.”

”If I thought he would forgive me?” she said in a low tone.

”He will. I have just come from him. Write me the authority and go at once.”

A light appeared to dawn in her face.

She rose suddenly.

”What shall I write?”

”Write simply that I have full authority to act for you--and that you have gone to Norman.”

She walked into the next room, and seating herself at an escritoire, she wrote for a short time. When she handed the paper to Keith it contained just what he had requested: a simple statement to F.C. Wickersham that Mr. Keith had full authority to represent her and act for her as he deemed best.

”Will that do?” she asked.

”I think so,” said Keith. ”Now go. Norman is waiting.”

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

RECONCILIATION

For some time after Keith left her Mrs. Wentworth sat absolutely motionless, her eyes half closed, her lips drawn tight, in deep reflection. Presently she changed her seat and ensconced herself in the corner of a divan, leaning her head on her hand; but her expression did not change. Her mind was evidently working in the same channel. A tumult raged within her breast, but her face was set sphinx-like, inscrutable.

Just then there was a scurry up-stairs; a boy's voice was heard shouting:

”See here, what papa sent us.”

There was an answering shout, and then an uproar of childish delight. A sudden change swept over her. Light appeared to break upon her.

Something like courage came into her face, not unmingled with tenderness, softening it and dispelling the gloom which had clouded it.

She rose suddenly and walked with a swift, decisive step out of the room and up the richly carpeted stairs. To a maid on the upper floor she said hurriedly: ”Tell Fenderson to order the brougham--at once,” and pa.s.sed into her chamber.

Closing the door, she locked it. She opened a safe built in the wall; a package of letters fell out into the room. A spasm almost of loathing crossed her face. She picked up the letters and began to tear them up with almost violence, throwing the fragments into the grate as though they soiled her hands. Going back to the safe, she took out box after box of jewelry, opening them to glance in and see that the jewels were there. Yes, they were there: a pearl necklace; bracelets which had been the wonder of her set, and which her pretended friend and admirer had once said were worth as much as her home. She put them all into a bag, together with several large envelopes containing papers.

Then she went to a dress-closet, and began to search through it, choosing, finally, a simple, dark street dress, by no means one of the newest. A gorgeous robe, which had been laid out for her to wear, she picked up and flung on the floor with sudden loathing. It was the gown she had intended to wear that night.

A tap at the door, and the maid's mild voice announced the carriage; and a few minutes later Mrs. Wentworth descended the stairs.

”Tell Mademoiselle Clarisse that Mr. Wentworth will be here this evening to see the children.”