# Mrs. Marsden's divorce-party

When Harold Marsden is shown an invitation to the divorce party of his late wife, he is determined to attend it.
MRS. MARSDEN'S DIVORCE-PARTY
By Edward S. Van Zile
DESPITE the fact that I am somewhat phlegmatic and unimpressionable by temperament, I could not help feeling hurt at an unwarrantable liberty that my divorced wife had taken with my name. One of our mutual friends had been kind enough to bestow on me at my club that afternoon a startling souvenir of my marital infelicity in the shape of an engraved invitation that he had found in his letter-box. Notwithstanding the originality of its conception, it was thoroughly en règle in form, and ran as follows:
Mrs. Harold Marsden requests the pleasure of your presence at the celebration of her divorce from Mr. Harold Marsden, "Wednesday evening, October tenth, at nine o'clock.
The card seemed to glare up at me mockingly from my library-table as I sat there, puffing my after-dinner cigar and striving to grasp the full significance of Elinor's daring innovation. I knew her too well, of course, to wander far in search of her dominant motive. How often had I heard her say that no woman could maintain a prominent position in society without a touch of genius! From her point of view, the highest effort of the creative mind concerned itself with novel forms of social entertainment. Her luncheon to pet cats at Newport and her famous phonograph dinner at our Madison avenue home had won for her a national reputation as an ingenious hostess.
I could realize clearly enough that Elinor had jeopardized her dearly-bought fame as a daringly clever woman by her commonplace and conventional method of obtaining a divorce from me. The proceedings in the case had not been worthy of the exalted soul that had begotten the epoch-making idea of a luncheon for pet cats. In fact, they had borne a tiresome likeness to a hundred other legal episodes of a kindred nature, and as a divorcée Elinor had lost much of the prestige that she had gained as my ingeniously hospitable wife.
But real genius is bound to reassert itself, and Elinor, with a brilliancy of inspiration that I could not refrain from admiring, had actually seized victory from the very elements of defeat, had reëstablished her reputation for originality from the real fountainhead of its decline.
"October tenth! To-day's the tenth," I soliloquized. "The decree is just a year old. It's quite like having a birthday that, somehow, belongs to somebody else. If Elinor had had a spark of human feeling in her proud heart she would have sent me a bid. I really feel that I'm part of the show—and, surely, I'm featured on the program. I wonder who'll be there—and what they'll say about me! Elinor'll look stunning, of course. By Jove, I have a good mind to put in an appearance!"
A hideous, uncanny project clutched my mind with the tentacles of a relentless devil-fish. I sipped a pony of brandy and lighted a fresh cigar in the effort to restore myself to a normal mental condition. But presently what had come to me as a wild flight of disordered fancy began to assume the shape of a practical and intensely fascinating scheme.
Presently I left the library and betook myself hurriedly to my dressing-room, ringing for my man as I passed an electric button.
"James," I said, as my valet approached me, a suggestion of wine in his flushed cheeks, "James, I am sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I want you to shave off my beard and mustache at once. Hold out your hand."
My amazed valet extended his palm perfunctorily, and I saw that his nerves were steady enough for the task before him.
"No one of her guests—not even Elinor herself—has ever seen me clean-shaven," I reflected, joyously, as James silently proceeded to remove my heavy black beard and mustache, glancing at me curiously now and again, as if he had begun to harbor suspicions of my sanity.
The ecstasy of contemplated mischief was in my soul, that exaltation of spirit which boys so often know and grown men sometimes love to recall. With my prankish felicity had come a distinct loss of dignity, and I was actually pleased to hear James ask me:
"You are going out, sir?"
"Yes, James," I answered, gaily, gazing at my smooth, beaming face in the mirror and wondering if nature had not designed me for an actor. "Yes, James, I'm going out to celebrate an anniversary. This is my—or rather our—Fourth of July, you know."
The valet paused in his manipulations and gazed at me inquiringly. He was convinced, I felt sure, that I had been drinking more wine than he had.
"Your Fourth of July?" he managed to repeat, respectfully.
"Yes, our Independence Day, you know. Come, now, hurry, James. I haven't any time to lose. It's very bad form for an unbidden guest to be late to the feast, you see."
Released from my valet's deft hands, I stood for a moment at the door of my dressing-room, carefully weighing a new thought that had come to me
"James," I said, presently, "go into my bedroom and get me my revolver. I may be out very late."
As my man handed me the weapon he questioned my face with keen, troubled eyes.
"There's nothing wrong, Mr. Marsden?" he asked, gingerly. "Nobody's been threatenin' you?"
"No, James," I returned, lightly. "But this is the day we celebrate, you know, and I haven't any fire-crackers."
Poor fellow! As I hurried toward the hall I realized that I had left behind me a faithful servant who was sorely worried about his master's mental poise.
How could I tell James that the revolver was merely an essential part of my disguise; that I had set out for my late wife's social function in the rôle of a detective, and might be called on to show my weapon as proof of my connection with the secret service?
I was not obliged to draw my revolver, however, to gain admission to Elinor's house. In fact, the attendants in the hall and the dressing-room merely glanced at me casually and seemed to take it for granted that I was one of the invited guests.
As I removed my top-coat and hat and handed them to a servant, my high spirits suddenly deserted me. I had caught sight of many familiar faces as I mounted the stairway, and a realization of my awkward and undignified position suddenly swept over me. Here I stood an uninvited guest at a social gathering that had its origin in the pleasure a woman felt in the sundering of all the ties that once bound us together. Our Independence Day, indeed! It was hers, and hers only. I was as much out of place here as a king of England would be at a Fourth of July banquet in Boston.
Was it strange that I lingered in the upper hallway until I had awakened the distrust of a liveried footman, who had been attentively watching my exhibition of indecision? He approached me, politely enough, and said:
"Are you not going down, sir?" He was eying me closely as he spoke.
"A word in your ear, man," I remarked, desperately. "I'm a detective—here to guard the jewels, et cetera. Pass the word to the other servants, will you? I mustn't be questioned, you know, even if my actions seem to be a bit eccentric now and then. Do you understand me? There's a back stairway, of course? I'll go down that way, with your permission; and, by the way, get me a little brandy, will you? I'm not up to much tonight."
The man, evidently both puzzled and impressed by my authoritative manner, hurried into the dressing-room and returned to me at once with a liqueur-glass full of cognac. I swallowed it neat, and presently felt a return o£ the devil-may-care spirit that had deserted me so treacherously at a crisis.
A few moments later I stood, unregarded by the throng, in a corner of the drawing-room, watching Elinor receive her guests. What a magnificent creature she was! Tall, dark, vivacious but dignified, she impressed me as an ideal hostess, winning at that moment a social victory against heavy odds. Her black, simply made gown intensified the pure whiteness of her symmetrical neck and perfectly rounded arms. A double band of rare pearls about her throat were the only jewels she wore. The luxuriant splendor of her raven hair had been manipulated with great skill by a clever coiffeur. I wondered if Elinor had recalled at her toilette the fact that 1 had often urged her to adopt permanently this mode of dressing her hair, and that I had frequently asserted she looked more stunning in black silk and pearls than in any other costume. Bah! what silly freaks the overwrought mind is apt to indulge in at times! I was recalled to a more sensible mental attitude by scraps of conversation that forced themselves on my errant consciousness.
"She's a very stunning woman," remarked Ned Pendleton, at my elbow; "a symphony to-night in black-and-white."
"Half-mourning, I suppose," commented a voice that I recognized as little Ted Miller's.
"Isn't it awfully jolly!" giggled a woman whose name I can't recall. "It's a sort of cross between a funeral and a coming-out party."
"Yes," put in Reggy Barnes; "I believe the orchestra is to play the 'Wedding March,' arranged as a dirge."
"Did you send her a present?" I heard a débutante asking of a young matron just behind me. "I was in an awful quandary about it."
"So was I," admitted the elder of the two. "I compromised by writing Elinor a congratulatory note and putting it into a box of flowers—forget-me-nots, you know."
"How charmingly appropriate," commented the débutante, rather satirically, I imagined.
I moved away from these chattering butterflies, conflicting emotions warring within my soul. My brain was in a whirl, and I found myself making a futile effort to identify a quotation that referred to somebody who had been butchered to make a Roman holiday. Thus engaged, I blindly jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire. I found myself wedged against a doorway by a laughing, talkative group whose faces were all well known to me.
"What has become of Harold Marsden?" asked a woman, in a stage whisper. "Do you suppose she invited him here to-night?"
"How perfectly absurd! Of course she didn't. Elinor's awfully eccentric, but she knows where to draw the line."
"I saw Harold at the club this afternoon," remarked Dick Bloomfield, who has a pretty talent for gossip. " He looked well and happy."
"I don't see how he could," snapped Mrs. Beverly Jones. "But I suppose even the worst man in the world would look happy enough at a club."
"Marsden's not so diabolical—merely human, don't you know," drawled Ned Pendleton, who had joined the group at the doorway. My hand jumped toward him, but I withdrew it before anyone had noticed my impulsive gesture.
"I'm sorry to hear you say that, Ned," remarked Mrs. Beverly Jones, severely. "If Harold Marsden's no worse than the general run of men, then we might as well give up the fight."
"What fight?" asked Dick Bloomfield, eagerly, but Mrs. Beverly Jones merely stared at him haughtily.
"Here comes Elinor. Hush!" cried somebody on the outskirts of the throng.
With my heart in my throat and a realization that my hands were like ice, I slipped through the doorway and hurried up-stairs, bent on a hasty exit from the house. In the upper hallway my flight—for such it was in fact—was checked by the man in livery to whom I had confided the secret of my profession. He appealed to me, greatly to my consternation, as a detective.
"Somethin' queer's goin' on, sir," he whispered to me, his hand on my arm. "Come this way, if you please."
My first impulse was to break away from his grasp and to resume my disordered flight, but the fear of exposure restrained me. To be identified down-stairs was to become the laughing-stock of the beau monde and a target for yellow journalism. I accompanied the flunkey, reluctantly but without open protest.
He guided me silently to the door of a suite at the end of the hallway.
"Those are Mrs. Marsden's apartments," he whispered to me. "A man—dressed just as you are—sneaked in there a moment ago and closed the door behind him. You've got your gun with you, of course. You'll find him at the jewel-case, I think. You'd better cover him as you go in."
For a moment I stood hesitant. To come uninvited to Elinor's divorce-party was bad enough, but to break forcibly into her private rooms was infinitely worse. But there stood Nemesis in livery at my very elbow, and I was forced to act. There was no other alternative.
The flunkey possessed clairvoyant powers. As I softly opened the door to Elinor's boudoir I was confronted by a dramatic tableau. A tall man, whose evening dress was in perfect taste in every detail, stood gazing down at a casket resting on a small round table near the door to an inner room. He had turned on an electric light, close at hand and had pried open the jewel-case with celerity and skill.
I closed the door behind me with great care, but he heard the click of the latch and turned toward me instantly, to look into the eye of my revolver.
"Brownlow," I said, quietly, for I recognized him at once as a man who had somewhat mysteriously forced his way into the inner circle of metropolitan society; "Brownlow, your game is up. How long have you been doing this kind of thing?"
Before the white-faced, trembling wretch could answer me, the door behind me opened and closed, and I knew that Elinor was in the room. There was no necessity for offering her an explanation of this invasion of her apartments. My outstretched revolver, Brownlow's appearance and the open jewel-casket told their story without words.
"You will let him go, sir, will you not?" said Elinor, and I knew that her gaze, like mine, was fixed on my captive's face. "The publicity that would follow this man's arrest would be very annoying to me."
"Worse than a luncheon to pet cats?" I had it on my tongue to ask, but was cool enough to refrain.
"You may go, Brownlow," I said, endeavoring to disguise my voice. "But let me warn you that you are known to the police. You'll be expelled from your clubs to-morrow. Now get out. If you're in the house five minutes from now I'll arrest you."
The tall scoundrel seemed actually to shrink out of the room. Why he closed the door behind him I don't know. Perhaps he feared a bullet in the back, for I had turned as he began his exit and had continued to point my revolver at his retreating figure.
Elinor had sunk into a chair, pale and distraught. The light of the electric jet fell full on her upturned face. She was gazing at me fixedly.
"You are very clever," she remarked, presently. "I am much obliged to you."
"What for?" I asked, impulsively. "For being clever?"
"No, Harold." I started at the name. She had recognized my voice. But why hadn't she called me "Mr. Marsden?"
"Why are you much obliged to me—Elinor?" I faltered, taking a step toward her.
"F o r guarding my jewels, of course," she said, laughingly, but her merriment struck me as forced.
"I owe you an apology," I began, rather lamely.
"Is that all?" she asked, tartly. "I'll forgive you the debt. But I'm a woman—and therefore curious. Why have you come armed to my house? Won't you kindly explain the revolver? Did you suspect Brownlow?"
"No, Elinor," I answered, astonished at a feeling of light-heartedness that had come to me. "It's the Glorious Fourth, you know. Having no fire-crackers, I brought my little pistol."
"The Glorious Fourth?" she repeated, densely.
"Independence Day, I mean. That's what we're celebrating, are we not? I wasn't asked to the blowout, but my name's down on the card, you know."
Oh, the inconsequence of a woman's mental methods! Elinor glanced up at me quizzically, a queer gleam in her splendid dark eyes.
"Why didn't you shave off your beard years ago, Harold?" she asked, irrelevantly.
"What difference would that have made?" I asked, brusquely, moving toward the outer door. Her nonsensical question was so wholly out of keeping with the essentially tragic character of our rencounter that I felt it was high time to bring this absurd dialogue to an end. I still preserved a shred of dignity somewhere in my make-up.
"Are you going, Harold?" asked Elinor, quietly, but I imagined that I detected a note of suppressed excitement in her voice.
"Most assuredly," I answered, bitterly. "Mr. Harold Marsden is only an interloper in Mrs. Harold Marsden's house. The best apology that he can make for his presence is to make his exit at once, is it not?"
"But your presence here, Harold, was so opportune," remarked Elinor, musingly, flashing a glance at me that I could not interpret. "And, you know, I have always enjoyed a reputation for hospitality. It would hurt me to realize that a guest—even an uninvited guest—had run away from us before supper. And that reminds me, I must get down to my friends at once."
"Yes," I commented, satirically; "under the circumstances, one of us, at least, should display some interest in this—what shall I call it?—unique but most delightful function."
Elinor laughed aloud, this time with unaffected gaiety. She made no motion to rise, as she cried:
"Harold, I'm going to give you a compliment. Do you know, you're a revelation to me. You are very handsome—now. And forgive my surprise, you're really clever. What have you been doing for a year?"
Without premeditation I had moved toward her, and now stood gazing down into her upturned face, intoxicated by the marvelous beauty of her eloquent eyes.
"What have I been doing for a year, Elinor? I've been suffering the torments of the damned. I have been an outcast from paradise, a brokenhearted, hopeless man; regretful of the past, fearful of the future. Oh, Elinor, do you—can you pity me?"
Could I believe my sight? Were those real tears that had dimmed the brilliancy of her eyes and moistened the satin of her upturned cheeks?
"Let me take your handkerchief, Harold," she said, extending a hand toward me. "I've lost mine."
My heart was beating like a trip-hammer in my throat. I wiped the tears from her face, and bent down and kissed her lips.
"That's actionable—isn't it?" she asked, breathlessly.
"I'll submit the question to my lawyer, Elinor, if you wish," I answered, grimly. I bent down and kissed her again. She sprang to her feet and faced me, a flush on her cheeks and a laugh in her eyes.
"You have no right to kiss me, Mr. Harold Marsden."
"Of that fact I am well aware, Mrs. Harold Marsden."
"Are you hungry, my dear?" she asked, taking my hand in hers.
"Yes—for a new life with you, Elinor."
She thrust her arm through mine and we moved toward the hall. "Things had begun to drag a bit down-stairs, Harold," she remarked, with the fervor of an enthusiastic hostess. "I had felt a fear that the novelty of my divorce-party would wear off too soon. But we'll change all that, won't we? After all, Harold, I believe that I'll come to think you my chef d'œuvre as a hostess."
"I'll take the place, Elinor," I said, as we reached the door. "But—can't you bear to regard me as an applicant for my old position?"
She put her face close to mine and kissed me, deliberately.
"I love you, Harold," she murmured. "I've always loved you—but I don't think that I ever knew it, until to-night. And I'm going down-stairs to tell them so."
"You'd better let me tell them, Elinor," I suggested, cautiously, my hand on the door-knob.
Elinor laughed aloud, resting her head against my shoulder for a moment.
"Remember that this is my blowout, Harold. And furthermore, sir, although I've discovered to-night that you are clever, don't believe for a moment that you are as clever as I am. There! That will do. No more nonsense at present, my dear boy. Come on!"
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1931, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 92 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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