Short Fiction · Eden (11/13) (2/2)

To this the man made no reply; he scratched the end of his nose reflectively. In his face was an expression that arrested Maule’s attention.

“What do you mean?” he asked, a sudden suspicion entering his mind.

But still the man made no answer. He raised his arms, the elbows crooked, and assumed the appearance of an idiot.

“It is worth five dollars,” Maule continued. “Here they are;” and with that he extended a bill of the nation, which the servant took, and then, glancing over his shoulder, whispered:

“Mrs. Usselex has gone to her father’s, sir. I distrust something’s hup.”

“That man ought to be dismissed,” Maule decided, as he hurried down the steps. “I say, cabby,” he called to the hansom; “Second Avenue and Stuyvesant Square.”

“Damn it all,” he muttered, as he seated himself in the vehicle. “I am afraid I am late for the ball.”

It took the hansom but a few minutes to reach its destination, and presently the door of Mr. Menemon’s house was opened. As Maule entered he caught the sound of Eden’s voice. “I want to see Mrs. Usselex,” he said, and without waiting for a reply, he pushed the portiere aside.

“It is false,” he heard Usselex exclaim.

For a second Maule hesitated. He would have preferred to have found Eden alone. Indeed, the possibility of encountering her husband had not occurred to him; but he felt that it was too late to recede, and visited by that prescience which comes to the alert, he divined that the blow which he intended to strike must be struck then or never. He let the portiere fall, and taking his courage in both hands, he stepped forward. As he did so, Eden, in annoyance at the intrusion, moved back, and Usselex, with a query on his tongue, turned to him. But before the latter could frame his words, Maule had spoken.

“Mr. Usselex,” he said, with the air of one ventilating a conventional platitude, “are you aware that a man who insults a woman is a coward?”

At this speech Eden’s hands fluttered like falling leaves; she made as would she speak, but Usselex motioned to her to be silent, and flicking a speck of dust from his sleeve as though the speck represented the reproof, he answered in a tone as conventional as Maule’s. “And are you aware, sir, that a man who permits himself to interfere between husband and wife is⁠—”

But whatever he may have intended to say, the sentence remained unfinished. Maule did not wait for its completion. He advanced yet nearer to where Usselex stood, he looked him in the face, and without raising his voice, he said: “This lady, Mr. Usselex, is not your wife, nor are you her husband.” Then, turning to Eden, he added with the grace of a knight-errant, “Miss Menemon, allow me to present my congratulations.”

The old legends tell of disputants ossified by one glance of Jove’s avenging stare; and when Maule made his melodramatic announcement, both Usselex and Eden stood transfixed and motionless with surprise. Of the little group Maule alone preserved any semblance of animation. The palms of his hands were moist, and he felt unable to control one of the muscles of his face. But his emotion was not apparent. Outwardly he was perfectly self-possessed, and admonished by that instinct which at times warns us that every trace of feeling should be disguised, he succeeded in heightening the illusion by means of his moustache, to which he proceeded to give a negligent twirl.

And as he twirled it Eden seemed to recover from her stupor. To her face, which had been blanched, the color returned. In her eyes came a gleam as from a reflection caught from without. Her lips moved, and she glanced from accuser to accused. And as she glanced, dumb and ineffectual of speech, Mr. Menemon crossed the room.

“What is it you say?” he asked.

It was evident at once that of the scene⁠—which if long in the telling had in reality not outlasted a moment⁠—he had stood as witness.

“What is it you say?” he repeated.

“I say that this man is a bigamist.” And as Maule spoke he tossed his head as though inviting possible contradiction. “I say,” he continued, “that Mr. John Usselex has a wife living in Paris.”

Mr. Menemon smoothed the back of his head reflectively. “Dear me!” he said; “that may all be. I daresay there are hundreds of John Usselexes. You don’t expect them to remain bachelors because one of their namesake gets married, do you?” And with that he nodded and turned with a smile to his daughter. “He can’t expect that, Eden, can he?”

But Eden’s eyes were fixed on Usselex. Her attention was wholly centered in him. Seemingly her father’s words were unheeded. And the old gentleman turned again to Maule.

“What evidence have you that this John Usselex is the John Usselex of whom you speak?” he asked; and with the hand with which he had smoothed the back of his head, he now began to caress his chin.

But before Maule could answer, Eden caught her father by the arm. “His face!” she whispered quickly. “You can see it in his face.” She pointed to him; in her eyes was conviction, and in her voice no tremor of doubt. “Look at him,” she cried; “it is he.”

Usselex turned to her in a manner which to those present was uninterpretable, then his eyes sought Mr. Menemon’s, and finally he lowered them to the ground. His attitude was tantamount to admission, and as such Eden construed it.

“Thank God!” she exclaimed. “O God! I thank you. I am free.” She still clutched her father’s arm, and Maule made a movement toward her.

“Yes,” he said, as he did so, “yes, Miss Menemon⁠—”

But before he could reach her, Usselex barred the way. “By what right, sir⁠—” he began, very firmly, but Eden interrupted him.

“I told you once that I thought Miss Bolten was interested in him. Let me tell you now he is in love with me.”

“Eden, Eden⁠—” her father murmured, reprovingly. Into Usselex’ face came an expression that a demon might have envied. For a second he fronted Maule, his hand clenched. Then the fingers loosened again. The demon was transformed into a quiet, self-possessed man, that looked like a monk, a trifle valetudinarian at that.

“Madam,” he said, “when a woman speaks in that way to the man whose name she bears, there is but one thing for him to do, and that is to withdraw.” He bowed, and without further comment left the room.

“I don’t bear your name,” Eden called after him, but he had gone. “I don’t bear your name; I throw it to the mud from which it sprang.”

“And you are right, Miss Menemon,” Maule echoed. “You are right to do so.” And again he moved to her.

“Don’t touch me,” the girl cried; she was trembling. Evidently the excitement had been too much for her. “Don’t touch me,” she repeated; and drawing from him as from a distasteful thing, she added, with a look of scorn that an insulted princess might have exhibited: “Though you have not a lackey’s livery, you have a lackey’s heart.”

“Eden, I beg of you⁠—” Mr. Menemon began. But the girl had turned her back, and divining the uselessness of any admonition, the old gentleman addressed himself to Maule. “You will permit me to say, sir,” he continued, “that whatever your motive may have been, and whatever evidence you may have, your announcement might have been conveyed a trifle less unceremoniously. I bid you good afternoon.”

“But⁠—”

“I bid you good afternoon.”

Maule twirled his moustache for a second, and then, with a glance at Eden, he too left the room.

Hardly had he gone, when Eden threw herself on a lounge. In her ears was the roar of water displaced. The flooring turned from red to black. Then all was still; she had fainted.