The Ordeal | Page 4

of pride and self-respect, was able to maintain
an aspect of grave composure as, fully warned, he turned to meet them.
Nevertheless, the element of surprise to the new-comers rendered it an
awkward moment to all the group. Mrs. Briscoe, considerably in
advance of her guest, paled at the sight of him, and, silent and visibly
shocked, paused as abruptly as if she beheld a ghost. It was a most
uncharacteristic reception, for she was of a gracious and engaging
personality and a stately type of beauty. She was tall and graceful,
about thirty years of age, in full bloom, so to speak, extremely fair, the
delicacy of her complexion enhanced by the contrast with her dark hair
worn en pompadour. Her gown of dark red cloth, elaborately braided
and with narrow borders of otter fur, had a rich depth of color which
accorded with her sumptuous endowments.
The rôle of cordial hostess she was wont to play with especial
acceptability, but now she had lost its every line, its most trivial patter.
She said not one word as Bayne clasped her hand with the conventional
greeting, but only looked at him with her hazel eyes at once
remonstrant, pleading, compassionate.
The moment of vantage, short as it was, afforded by the precedence of
her hostess in the matter of salutation, gave Mrs. Royston the
opportunity to catch her breath and find her voice. She had not seen this
man since, five years ago, he had left her home her expectant
bridegroom. But beyond a fluctuating flush in her fair cheek, a dilation
of her blue eyes, a flutter of those eyelids which he had always
esteemed a special point of her beauty, being so smooth, so full, so
darkly lashed, she conserved an ostensible calm, although she felt the
glance of his eye as sensitively as red hot steel. But he--as he dropped
the hand of his hostess and advanced toward her guest--in one moment
his fictitious composure deserted him. For this was not the widow in

weeds whom he had expected to see, not the woman of whom he had
trained himself to think, when he must needs think of her at all, as
another man's wife. This was his own fair Past, the unfulfilled promise
of his future, the girl he had adored, the ideal wife whom he had
worshipped in his cherished dreams! Just as always heretofore, she
stood now, so fresh, so fair, so candid-seeming, wearing her white
serge gown with her usual distinction, a spray of golden-rod fastened in
her mass of yellow hair that glowed with a sheen of differing gold.
How had time spared her! How had griefs left her scathless! It was an
effort to reflect that two years and more had elapsed since he had read
the obituary of Archibald Royston, with scornful amusement to mark
the grotesque lie to the living in the fulsome tribute to the dead.
In some sort, Bayne was prepared for change, for the new identity that
the strange falling out of events betokened. He had never realized her,
he had never divined her character, he would have said. She was now,
as she had always been, an absolute stranger. But this little hand--ah, he
knew it well! How often it had lain in his clasp, and once more every
fibre thrilled at its touch. With all his resolution, he could not restrain
the flush that mounted to his brow, the responsive quiver in his voice as
he murmured her name, the name of Archibald Royston's wife, so
repugnant to his lips. He was in a state of revolt against himself, his
self-betrayal, to realize that she and the two Briscoes could not fail to
mark his confusion, attributing his emotion to whatsoever cause they
would. Indeed, in the genial altruism of host, Briscoe had succeeded in
breaking from the thrall of embarrassment to shield and save the
situation.
"Why, here is Archie!" he exclaimed resonantly. "How are you, old
man?" His clear tones were vibrant with disproportionate elation at the
prospect of a diversion of the painful interest of the scene.
For at the moment a fine blond boy of three years burst in at the rear
door of the apartment and came running to meet Mrs. Royston, just
apprised, doubtless, of her return from her afternoon stroll. He looked
very fresh in his white linen dress, his red leather belt, and twinkling
red shoes. With the independent nonchalance of childhood, he took no

note of the outstretched arms and blandishing smile of Mr. Briscoe,
who sought to intercept him, but made directly toward his mother. His
gleaming reflection sped along in the polished, mirroring floor, but all
at once both semblance and substance paused. With a sudden thought
the child put his dimpled hands over