CHAPTER XIX.
A WOMAN'S END.
The great cafe of the Trimountain Hotel is one of those interiors whichcan only be seen in America. Lit at night by a single electric glow,softened and unified in passing through the ground-glass ceiling, it isbrilliant with mirrors and cut-glass and china. At one end of the roomis the long bar, glittering with all that can make a bar attractive,served by a score or more of the prettiest of bar-maids; along the sidesof the room are rows of little tables in carved oak and cherry, eachunlike the other, each a work of art; in the corners and upon the wallsis a collection of paintings and statuary hardly rivalled in any of theprivate mansions of Boston. The centre of the room, save for a fountainplaying in a jungle of flowering vines, violets, and rare orchids, is apolished expanse of inlaid floor, where one may walk and smoke.
As Geoffrey walked in he passed the news-stand by the door. Here areshown the photographs of the favorites or celebrities of the day,etchings of the latest pictures, play-bills of the theatres and operas,pictures of women and horses. Everywhere about that day he was met bythe semblance of the woman he had just seen; photographs in every sizeand attitude, in every dress, colored, plain; taken in street dress, inhouse dress, in dinner dress, in _robe de chambre_, full length andhalf length, high-necked, low-necked, very low-necked; on thehandkerchief boxes and the perfumery cases were still gaudier pictures,with the Carey collar, the Carey perfume, the King's favorite cigarette,and whatever else had any use or service for a pretty woman. Geoffreynoticed all these things as he passed on, but was struck a moment laterby the appearance of a man he thought he knew.
The man wore the dress of a gentleman, but travel-stained and untidy; hewas sitting alone at one of the little tables, with head bowed down uponhis breast; before him stood glasses and a crystal decanter half filledwith brandy. Geoffrey started with surprise, and would have turned back,but the man saw him and recognized him. It was Oswald Carey.
The two men looked at each other a minute without speaking. FinallyCarey spoke, in a hoarse voice, not his own of older days:
"Have you seen my wife?"
Geoffrey started, less at the question than at the manner in which itwas asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Where is she? At the palace--at the court?"
"Yes."
"Damn her," said Carey.
Geoffrey was silent.
"Where did you see her last?" muttered the other.
"Here--in this hotel."
"In this hotel?"
"This morning."
"Is she--is she not with the King?"
"I believe--I do not know," answered Geoffrey. He turned to go. As helooked at the other, standing there, white-faced, worn, with the glitterin his reddened eyes, this man whom he had scorned, there was somethingin him like the ruin of a man after all. Geoffrey, too, was alone, andhis heart warmed to him. It was he who had married Eleanor Leigh, notGeoffrey. "Carey," said he, "you can do nothing here. I am going to theWest. Come with me."
Carey looked at Ripon, puzzled; then, with a broken sob, he grasped hishand and staggered to his seat. Ripon noticed for the first time thatthe man was crazy with drink.
"Thank you," said he. "I must stay. I have something to do here first.You know that she betrayed you? that it was her treason condemned youand Dacre?"
Geoffrey nodded.
"And you, Ripon"--Carey pulled the other close to his lips and spokealmost in a whisper--"you are the only man that woman ever loved. I knowit."
Geoffrey could make no answer. Again he rose to go.
"Where are you going?"
Geoffrey smiled and waved his hand vaguely. "To the West."
"Why?--I thought--you came over in Windsor's yacht--" The other stopped,embarrassed. Geoffrey was touched by his interest.
"Carey, will you give me a glass of your brandy?"
Geoffrey poured it out. "Miss Windsor is married."
"Who told you so?"
"Your wife."
Carey brought his fist down shivering on the table. "And you believeher?"
"Miss Windsor told me almost as much herself."
"Almost!" Carey burst into a wild laugh. "Here's to her!" he cried,holding up his glass. "Ripon, you are the last gentleman who will everdrink with me. I suspect you are the only one who would now. And here'smy last toast: Long life to your wife--and death to mine. Damn her!Can't you see she lied?"
Carey rose from the table and staggered out of the room. It was alreadythe afternoon of a garish, shadeless day, and people stopped to look atCarey's terrible pace as he strode along the sidewalk. As Ripon hadseen, he was insane with drink, or would have been but for one dominantthought in his mind.
As Carey walked along the busy street, hardly a shop window, not abookstore, not an ignoble news-stand, but had displayed his wife'spicture. It was _Mrs. Carey_, _Mrs. Oswald Carey_, _Mrs. Carey and theex-King_, everywhere. One infamous pictorial publication had abare-necked portrait of the "notorious Eleanor Carey" side by side withthat of "Jim Dingan, the Lynn pugilist." As he entered WashingtonStreet, the newsboys were crying, "Horrible crime in New York! Scandalin high life! Mrs. Carey leaves the court!" and Carey read the captionoutlined on the bulletin boards.
He felt in his coat pocket, where he carried a small revolver he hadpurchased, and hurried along more rapidly. His gait was quick and firmas an athlete's on the course. No trace of intoxication now.
He reached the St. James and asked a page to be directed to Mrs. Carey'sapartment. The boy grinned at first, but was silent at a word from Careyand led him the way. When they reached her door, at the end of a longseries of corridors and stairs, the page wished to announce him, butCarey pushed him aside roughly and opened the door. His fingers wereclinched upon the pistol in his pocket; his plan was to ask her onequestion, and then, while she was hesitating about her answer, to killher.
The drawing-room was a large apartment, vulgarly furnished in a stylegone by. A marble clock was on the mantel, and a photograph of the King.Carey pressed through into the bedroom. No one was there. Bits of laceand muslin were scattered about the floor, and one or two garments lyingon the chairs as if hastily thrown aside. Carey thoroughly examined therooms and then turned back to the page.
"Where is Mrs. Carey? Do you know?"
"I do not. I heard that she was about to leave the court."
Carey turned away, and, leaving the hotel, took a carriage and drove tothe railway station. A train had just left for New York. At thenews-stand was the usual collection of her pictures on sale. Carey spoketo the boy in charge, pointing to a photograph.
"Have you seen that woman go by here to-day?"
"Yes, sir; I see that woman go by here not twenty minutes ago. That'sthe beauty, Mrs. Carey, that is. There was another woman with her, and aman."
Her maid, probably. But who could the man be? Carey found the next trainfor New York did not leave till evening. He waited in the station forit, and arrived in that city at midnight. It was too late to get anytrace of his wife that night.
Early in the morning he began the search, but it was all of no avail.His wife had apparently stopped at none of the hotels. A certain ladylooking like her had been seen at a small hotel on the Fifth Avenue,but she had been with a gentleman, and their names were registered asMr. and Mrs. Copley Hutchinson, of Boston.
Carey wondered whether she could have left the city. Several Europeansteamers had sailed or were to sail that day, and he spent an hour ortwo at the docks searching them. All the papers, all the shops, werefull of his wife and her movements; he alone knew nothing of them.
As he walked back, up Broadway, he looked at the bulletin boards. He hada habit of doing this now. In front of the _Herald_ office they werechanging the bulletin, and he waited a moment to see. The first line onthe new broadside he read aloud:
"_Mrs. Oswald Carey sails for Brazil._"
Carey went in and bought a copy of the newspaper. In it he found thesailing-list of the City of Rio, and there the first name wa
s "Mrs.Oswald Carey and maid," and then, just below, "Jarley Jawkins."
Carey stood on the sidewalk several minutes, like a statue. Then, slowlycrumpling up the newspaper in his hand, he threw it in the gutter. Thatnight he was a passenger in the emigrant train for the North-west.
The King's Men: A Tale of To-morrow Page 19