The Avalanche

I

“And you won’t take me to the party?” Hélène pouted charmingly as her husband laid her pink taffeta wrap over her shoulders.  “I thought you said you might make it, and it would be too delightful to dance with you once more.”

“I’m afraid not.  The Australian mail came in just as business closed and it’s on my mind.  I want to go over it carefully before I dictate the answers in the morning, and that means two or three hours of hard work that will leave me pretty well fagged out.  Mrs. Thornton has offered to take you home.”

“I hate her.”

“Oh, please don’t!” Ruyler smiled into her somber eyes.  “She wants the drive, and it would be taking the Gwynnes so far out of the way.  Mrs. Thornton very kindly suggested it.”

“I hate her,” said Hélène conclusively.  “I wish now I’d kept my own car.  Then I could always go home alone.”

“You shall have a car next winter.  And this time I shall not permit you to pay for it out of your allowance—­which in any case I hope to increase by that time.”

Her eyes flamed, but not with anger.  “Then I’ll sell my electric to Aileen Lawton right away.  We have the touring car in the country, and she has been trying to make her father buy her an electric—­”

“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed in your bargain.  Second-hand cars, no matter what their condition, always go at a sacrifice, and old Lawton is a notorious screw.  Better not let it go for two or three hundreds; you look very sweet driving about in it….  Oh, by the way—­I had forgotten.”  He slipped his hand under her coat, unfastened the chain and slipped the jewel into his pocket.  “I am sorry,” he said, with real contrition, “and almost wish I had forgotten the thing; but I am a little superstitious about keeping that old promise.”

She laughed.  “And yet you will not permit poor maman a little superstition of her own!  But I am rather glad.  Everybody at the ball will hear of the ruby, and I shall be able to keep them in suspense until the Thornton fête.  Good night.  Don’t work too hard.  Couldn’t you get there for supper?”

“’Fraid not.”

II

He did go down to the office and glance through the Australian mail, but at a few moments before twelve he took a California Street car up to the Fairmont Hotel and went directly to the ballroom.  Mrs. Thornton was standing just within the doorway, but came toward him with lifted eyebrows.

“This is like old times,” she said playfully.

“I found less mail than I expected and thought I would come and have a dance with my wife.”  His eyes wandered over the large room, gayly decorated, and filled with dancing couples.

Mrs. Thornton laughed.  “A belle like your wife?  She is always engaged for every dance on her program before she is halfway down this corridor.”

“Oh, well, husbands have some rights.  I’ll take it by force.  I don’t see her—­she must be sitting out.”

Mrs. Thornton slipped her arm through his.  “This dance has just begun.  Walk me up and down.  I am tired of standing on one foot.”

They strolled down the corridor and through the large central hall.  Older folks sat or stood in groups; a few young couples were sitting out.  Ruyler did not see his wife, and concluded she had been resting at the moment in the dowager ranks against the wall of the ballroom.  The music ceased sooner than he expected and Mrs. Thornton, who had been talking with animation on the subject of several fine pictures she had bought while abroad for the Museum in Golden Gate Park, including one by Masefield Price, broke off with an impatient exclamation:  “Bother!  I must run up to my room at once and telephone.  Wait for me here.”

She steered him toward a group of men.  “Mr. Gwynne, keep Mr. Ruyler from causing a riot in the ballroom.  He insists upon dancing with his wife.  Hold him by force.”

They were standing near the staircase and some distance from the lift.  Mrs. Thornton ran up the stairs, pausing for an irresistible moment and looking down at the company.  As she stood there, poised, she looked a royal figure with her cloth of gold train covering the steps below her and her high and flashing head.  “Wait for me,” she said, imperiously to Price.  “I cannot meander down that corridor, deserted and alone.”

Ruyler smiled at her, but said to Gwynne:  “I’ll just go and engage my wife for a dance and be back in a jiffy—­”

Gwynne clasped his hand about Ruyler’s arm.  “Just a moment, old chap.  I want your opinion—­”

“But there is the music again.  I’ll be knocking people over—­”

“You will if you go now, and there’ll be dancing for hours yet.  Your wife has been dividing up—­now, tell me if you back me in this proposition or not.  I’m going to Washington to represent you fellows—­”

But Ruyler had broken politely away and was walking down the long corridor.  When he arrived at the ballroom he saw at a glance that his wife was not there, for the floor was only half filled.  But there were other rooms where dancers sat in couples or groups when tired.  He went hastily through all of them, but saw nothing of his wife.  Nor of Doremus.

Mrs. Thornton had gone in search of her.

And Gwynne knew.

This time the hot blood was pounding in his head.  He felt as he imagined madmen did when about to run amok.  Or quite as primitive as any Californian of the surging “Fifties.”

He was in one of the smaller rooms and he sat down in a corner with his back to the few people in it and endeavored to take hold of himself; the conventional training of several lifetimes and his own intense pride forbade a scene in public.  But his curved fingers longed for Doremus’ throat and he made up his mind that if his awful suspicions were vindicated he would beat his wife black and blue.  That was far more sensible and manly than running whining to a divorce court.

The effort at self-control left him gasping, but when he rose from his shelter he was outwardly composed, and determined to seek Gwynne and force the truth from him.  He would not discuss his wife with another woman.  And whatever this hideous tragedy brooding over his life he would go out and come to grips with it at once.

III

And in the corridor he saw his wife chatting gayly with a group of young friends.  Her color was paler than usual, perhaps, but that was not uncommon at a party, and otherwise she was as unruffled, as normal in appearance and manner, as when they had parted at the Gwynnes’.

Nevertheless, he went directly up to her, and as she gave a little cry of pleased surprise, he drew her hand through his arm.  “Come!” he said imperiously.  “You are to dance this with me.  I broke away on purpose—­”

“But, darling, I am full up—­”

“You have skipped at least two.  I have been looking everywhere for you—­”

“Polly Roberts dragged me upstairs to see the new gowns M. Dupont brought her from Paris.  They came this afternoon—­so did Mrs. Thornton’s—­but of course I’ll dance this with you.  You don’t look well,” she added anxiously.  “Aren’t you?”

“Quite, but rather tired—­mentally.  I need a dance….”

He wondered if she had gently propelled him down the corridor.  They were some distance from the group.  It was impossible for him to go back and ask if his wife’s story were true.  Mrs. Thornton was nowhere to be seen, neither in the corridor nor in the ballroom.  Nor was Doremus.  He set his teeth grimly and managed to smile down upon his wife.

“I shall insist upon having more than one,” he said gallantly.  “At least three hesitations.”

She drew in her breath with a mock sigh and swept from under her long lashes a glance that still had the power to thrill him.  “Outrageous, but I shall try to bear up,” and the next moment they were giving a graceful exhibition of the tango.

“I don’t see your friend Doremus,” he said casually, as he stood fanning her at the end of the dance.

She lifted her eyebrows haughtily.  “My friend?  That parasite?”

“You seemed very friendly at dinner.”

“I usually am with my dinner companion.  One’s hostess is to be considered.  Oh—­I remember—­he was telling me some very amusing gossip, although he teased me into fearing he wouldn’t.  Now, if you are going to dance this hesitation with me you had better whirl me off.  It is Mr. Thornton’s, and I see him coming.”

Ruyler did not see Doremus until supper was half over and then the young man entered the dining-room hurriedly, his usually serene brow lowering and his lips set.  He walked directly up to Hélène.

“Beastly luck!” he exclaimed.  “Hello, Ruyler.  Didn’t know you honored parties any more.  I had to break away to meet the Overland train—­beastly thing was late, of course.  Then I had to take them to five hotels before I could settle them.  They had two beastly little dogs and the hotels wouldn’t take them in and they wouldn’t give up the dogs.  Some one ought to set up a high-class dog hotel.  Sure it would pay.  But you’ll give me the first after supper, won’t you?”

Hélène gave him a casual smile that was a poor reward for his elaborate apology.  “So sorry,” she said with the sweet distant manner in which she disposed of bores and climbers, “but Mr. Ruyler and I are both tired.  We are going home directly after supper.”