# The Woman in Gray

Extracted from The Smart Set magazine, April 1906, pp. 48–53.
THE WOMAN IN GRAY
By Ethel Watts Mumford
IN all London one finds no gathering place of all nations to match the square salon precedent to the low-ceiling dining-room and tiled terrace of the Savoy. The waiting hall, raised several feet above the level of the lower rooms, gives exceptional opportunities for observation, of which Bradford Venner was availing himself.
One woman only, of all the butterfly throng, attracted his attention. “Queer type,” he thought. “Wonder what she is besides anemic. What color!—arsenic tablets, I suppose. What won't women do!”
His glance wandered to a vision in rose and gold, and thence to a dowager in black velvet. Both were banal. A lady, accompanied by an adoring staff of men, caught his eye. He noted her elaborate coiffure, strident laugh and high color, and his interest reverted to the lonely, pale woman. He found his gaze returned by two mysterious dark eyes, deep sunken under straight brows. Tender and thoughtful they might once have been; now they were filled with self-searching and resentful wonder. So absorbed was Bradford in his effort to analyze the strange expression, that he forgot the persistence of his stare, until, with a twitch of the gray-spangled skirts and a pressure of the gray-gloved hand upon the arm of her chair, the stranger half rose, in her face the light of struggling recognition.
Bradford started and turned away. He did not know her, of that he was certain. And he had no desire to scrape a hotel acquaintance—and yet—she was a lady; that was evident. She must have mistaken him for someone else—Clint, perhaps, his twin brother; people were always making mistakes. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets with a nervous movement. It was a bore, that extraordinary resemblance: one never knew— Why on earth should he want to look at that creature again? And why was Roberts so late? But look he must.
She had collapsed upon the seat once more, with the relaxation of infinite weariness, while she slowly folded and unfolded a feather fan-marabout, soft as a puff of smoke. She was looking in his direction, but through him, past him, with tired watchfulness, intent upon the distant entrance. Every other personality in the room faded and vanished. It was as if he looked into an empty banquet hall, wherein this woman sat solitary. He noted the heavy coils of her blue-black glossy hair—too heavy a load for her slender white throat. It seemed to pull her head backward, giving it a haughty pose that the anguished eyes belied. Her nose was fine, her mouth beautifully modeled but curled half in pain, half disgust, as if some bitter draught were proffered. Her low-cut gown of cloudy tone was spangled and embroidered lavishly, yet it did not glitter nor contrast sharply. She wore no jewels save a pearl collar, from which depended three gray pearls.
Bradford shook himself angrily, turned on his heel, walked down the wide corridor and, through the glass partition by the writing-desk, glanced in upon the busy diners in the outdoor “French” café. Roberts was not to be found. He looked at his watch—nine docks Whatever could be the matter!
He turned again restlessly, and retraced his steps. He re-crossed the waiting-room and stopped short. The woman in gray had risen and was walking toward the low stair. Her movements were hurried, her face “all stretched to speak.” With a swift, graceful sweep she raised her spangled skirts as she mounted, showing a tiny, steel-beaded slipper. Another instant, and she was close beside him. He heard a gentle, silken swish, the faint “click” of metal paillete, noticed a subtle perfume as of sandalwood and violet, and heard a troubled, low whisper, “I must explain, must explain!” Like a cloud she drifted by him, and with vague trouble of spirit he watched her slender form trailing its wake of glinting draperies. She hurried on, turned to the right as she neared the entrance, and disappeared from his view.
“Oh, Venner,” exclaimed Roberts at his elbow, “I'm awfully sorry to have kept you waiting like this. Couldn't help it, you know. I've just sold Hodges my motor car, and I wanted to settle the deal. Come on, let's feed.”
Venner hardly appeared to listen. “You know everybody in London,” he said abruptly. “Who was that woman in gray, who came from below there, just as you spoke to me?”
“Woman in gray? Didn't notice. Couldn't have been anybody. Savoy full of strangers, anyhow. Come on, let's get outside. I'll tell Gustav to give us ducks.”
They settled themselves at one of the little tables set under the glass-domed entrance to the right of the door.
“Where's Clint these days?” inquired the host, when, the order given, he lit a cigarette and settled back in his chair.
Venner laughed. “I haven't the least idea. Nice for twins who are supposed to be so inseparable, and all that, isn't it? But Clint is such an Arab, and I'm such an Indian—and there you are,”
“Haven't seen him in two years,” observed Roberts.
“No more have I. Last letter I had was from Paris about a month ago. I was thinking that when twins were so near each other, they ought to make an effort to exchange the time of day”—Venner sipped his soup—“even if we haven't a taste in common.”
“Taste in common!” exclaimed Roberts. “It's just because you're so blamed alike, that you can't get on better, and each one of you thinks the other an extremist. You're twins, mentally and morally and physically.”
Venner shrugged.
“Not morally, you mean,” interpreted Roberts tactlessly.
Bradford drew away. “No,” he said coldly. “I did not mean that; my brother's private affairs are his own and, I have no doubt, bear the limelight as well as those of other men—when he chooses to court publicity.”
Roberts laughed, his coarse-fibered nature quite unaware of the boorishness of his remarks, or the evident annoyance of his companion. “Oh, you know what I mean,” he insisted. “Nothing against him, but men generally don't class him up with you. He may take with the women, Lord bless 'em! but he's driven a bit too carelessly, and that last mess, you know——”
“No, I don't know,” Bradford retorted—“and if you don't mind, let's talk over our business, and drop Clint.”
“Oh, very well,” said the host. “Here, pour that champagne, waiter—didn't know you affected the 'brotherly love' pose. Sorry—but we all know, you know—so there's no harm done. By the way, about that company of yours—just how much stock has been taken up?”
Venner's frown vanished, and he was soon absorbed in the details of his new scheme. It was not until the “péche melba,” the inevitable London sweet, had made its appearance that his mind had time to revert to Roberts's earlier remarks, but by the time coffee was served his shrewd brain had recovered the thread of those insinuations, and was busily following where they led.
“That last mess”—what was meant by that? he wondered. He would not deign to touch the subject again with Roberts, or, indeed, with anyone. His loyalty was too deep for that. Uneasiness entered his spirit. Evidently this man, and the world at large, were in possession of facts or stories concerning his brother's recent life of which he was totally ignorant. And Clint, after all, had a way of being guilty—not of anything criminal, nor even beyond the pale, but guilty, nevertheless, of things better left undone or unsaid—things that earned a shrug or a sneer from those who looked on. Bradford was as reticent as he was sympathetic and broadminded, but the sun of his solar system was pride of race, and that had more than once been sorely wounded by his twin's recklessness, the likeness between the brothers only adding to the difficulties.
Dinner was over only a few moments before the supper throng arrived. Venner excused himself on the plea of an engagement, drew back his chair, took his hat and coat from the attendant, and prepared to slip between the floral barriers. As he did so he caught sight of the gray woman coming rapidly down the main corridor. Involuntarily he paused. Her actions were, as before, hurried and anxious. Her expression of dreary unhappiness hurt him. Her lips moved. He knew what she was saying, although no sound could have reached him where he stood—“I must explain, I must explain!”
She came close to the wide entrance. Venner could see the shine of the intense electric light on her eyes, its vivid flash on her metal spangles, its sparkle on the diamond bars of her jeweled collar. Yet her beautifully gowned, graceful figure and splendid head with its mass of elaborately dressed hair seemed somehow antique, like a Greek mask of grief. Its extreme modern note was lost in the intensity of its human passion. She turned suddenly, with a very slight gesture that, nevertheless, showed her evident despair. A moment later she was gone.
With a strange sensation of wonder and sympathy Venner roused himself, ordered a cab, and was driven rapidly through the bustle and hurry of supper hour, to the Carlton. He had no engagement, but hoped to meet a friend or two, and idle away an hour in pleasant gossip. Roberts's personality was still on his nerves, and he longed to erase it by some pleasanter contact. But fate seemed against him. The place was thronged, but the clientele was unusually uninteresting—an overdressed Russian woman, smoking defiantly in the faces of two over-décolleté dowagers, seemed the only woman present who was not an importation from Mme. Tousaud's. A hideous nightmare feeling settled upon him. They were all mechanical figures, these people, moving by cunningly devised springs—awkward, unnatural, uncanny.
He turned away, when a familiar laugh and a light touch brought him to a standstill.
“Are you going to cut me?” demanded a warm and friendly voice.
“Cut you—never!” His greeting was boyishly cordial. “Of all the women in the world, you are the one I most needed. Can you give me a moment, an hour, a year or two?—anything you will.”
She nodded. “Yes, boy, it just happens you may have the hour. I was on my way to my rooms when I caught a glimpse of you, and started in pursuit. Let us sit here; we can watch the Zoo, without feeling as if we made a part of it. What has come over our old London, I wonder. Did you ever see such queer people?” Mrs. Carghate smoothed a straying lock at her temple, and settled deep into a chair; a strong personality enshrined in a vigorous, middle-aged body, that neither defied nor sought to disguise the finger of Time, but fused his work into harmony with her own dauntless spirit. She smiled divinely upon Venner. “Tell me all about yourself—and there must be quite an accumulation; I haven't seen you—in—let me see—ten months, at least.”
“Whose fault?” he asked ruefully.
“Mine and yours. I'm such an old gad-about—and so are you. It's been Cairo and Nice and Paris, then Paris and Aix and Chamounix and Paris—and some more Paris. But that is neither here nor there; or, rather, it is here and there and everywhere. Tell me about yourself.”
“Well, I've been floating a lot of schemes, and incidentally, it's been tigers and an elephant or so, and a few lions and some more tigers, some zebras and leopards, and back to tiger; a rhino, a hippo, then up to tiger again. You have re-occurring Paris, and I have reoccurring tigers and schemes.”
She nodded approval. “That shows how alike we are in our tastes. Paris is the schemer and the tiger among cities—the most beautiful and dangerous, the gaudiest and most velvety. Well, and the heart, boy?”
“Did Paris get yours? No more did the tigers get mine—and I'm afraid I'm not a ladies' man. I leave all that to my brother.” His companion's brows contracted suddenly; a swift compression of the lips spoke volumes. Venner laid his hand an instant over hers.
“Please, will you tell me what the trouble is? What has my brother done? I meet insinuations and shrugs—it's—it's difficult for me to ask, you understand; but I must know, and better than anyone else you can tell me—won't you?”
She looked at him incredulously. “Haven't you seen him in this last year?”
“No; I've been away—East Africa.”
“And you've not been told?”
“No.”
She was silent a moment. “It's not a pleasant task you give me, boy.”
“I know,” he answered.
“I wonder what makes it,” she mused. “Here you are, twins—like as two beads on a string, yet you are my dear, good Brad, and he is Clint—whom nobody quite forgives for living—” She paused again, and twined her slender fingers in the diamond flexibility of her lorgnette chain. “You will have to hear it, I suppose, sooner or later,” she began. “You remember your brother was devoted to Countess Kesorleff for some years. There—was—a great deal of talk——”
Bradford flushed. “Yes, I heard something of it. I even thought Clint would marry her after her husband died.”
“We all thought that.” There was a moment's pause ere she took up the thread of her narrative. “Poor woman!” she murmured, “poor woman!”
“She was terribly in love with Clint, and had never been at pains to conceal it. It was her whole life, her whole being. She was one of those women in whom love kills every other passion, every other thought.
“It may be that very intensity wearied your brother. Anyhow, after devoting himself to her for years, till she was merely tolerated in the circles where she used to queen it over all, after compromising her in every way in the world——”
“I don't believe there was a thing in it,” Venner interrupted. “It was his vanity—I know him.”
“There was this in it: She adored the ground he walked on; she lived only in what she thought was his devotion, and then, when her husband died and she was free—he left her. He wanted the questionable notoriety of being the beautiful countess's adorer, but he didn't want to be saddled with a wife.”
“I see,” said Bradford.
“She couldn't comprehend what you 'see' so easily. It simply wouldn't take root in her consciousness. She didn't understand. Where pride would have protected another woman, it offered her no refuge. If one loves enough, one has no pride—do you know that, boy?—Not yet, I think; but I know, and it's a terrible lesson to learn. Well, the world looked on and wondered how it would end. And Clint did what many a man has done before—forced a misunderstanding, trumped up a quarrel, and then—wouldn't forgive her—wouldn't hear a word she had to say; accused her of disloyalty and treachery, washed his hands of her and her love—and still she could not understand. She strove in every way to bridge the gap. He wouldn't see her, her letters were returned unopened. Knowing herself innocent she fought desperately, always believing in his sincerity, always believing that in truth he was misinformed, or mistaken about her. And it was such a transparent game he played. They found his letters—it was such a miserable, tragic farce, any child could have read between the lines. But she was in love—that was all. At last, heart-broken and hopeless, she wrote 'Finis' to the story—wrote it in blood!—poor, troubled soul, shot herself in her rooms at the Savoy!”
Mrs. Carghate ceased speaking, and Venner remained silent.
“It was just what we might have known from the first,” mused Mrs. Carghate. “If we hadn't been trussed and skewered with our own conventions. It was written all over her—for all her Parisian gowns and modern manner—she was a true, primitive woman. Hers was a sort of desperate, tragic beauty, even in her most radiant moments, and it was the intensity and simpleness of her emotions that made them electrical. You could always feel her presence in a room. She seemed to wipe out the personality of every other woman, though she dressed very unobtrusively; indeed, always affected a sort of very light half-mourning—even after her husband died. She wasn't at all sorry,and didn't intend to lie about it even in gowns. She was elemental—even her name told it—Eve. But, there, boy, don't take it to heart. It's no fault of yours, and we know so little of causes, perhaps we may be unjust to Clinton. Anyway, the play is over, the curtain rung down, the audience dispersed, the actors gone——”
She broke off, her expressive face suddenly transfixed in astonishment. Venner followed the direction of her gaze, and his own face underwent a marked change. Incredulous anger glowed at his heart.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “It's Clint! He dares show himself in London—now!”
Mrs. Carghate rose. “Don't provoke a scene, Brad,” she interposed hastily in a cool, poised voice, that instantly steadied him. “There's no use attracting public attention, you know.”
Venner smiled composedly. “You are quite right. But I must see him. Either he or I will leave London at once. The situation is intolerable. You will excuse me—I must speak with him—now.”
“Good night,” she said, extending her hand, “good night; telephone me in the morning, will you? It's all quite too bad; but don't be hasty—never mind me,” she added, as he rose to conduct her to the elevators. “He is leaving. If you want to see him—hurry.”
She turned from him quickly, releasing him from the duties of courtesy.
When Bradford reached the entrance he was only in time to hear the order, “To the Savoy!” The words staggered him. Would Clinton show himself there after all that had happened? What depths of callousness must cover his brother's soul! “To the Savoy!” hastily securing his coat and hat, he called a hansom, to follow his brother's lead as rapidly as possible. All the way his anger rose. How dare a man face all London on the very scene of the pitiful tragedy he had impelled! Could he bring himself face to face with such memories? It was beyond belief.
As he turned at the Savoy, the other hansom preceded him only by a few yards. He did not wait for his own vehicle to stop. Thrusting the fare to the cabby, he leaped to the pavement and ran forward. His brother should not, must not, have time to alight—they would drive on together and have it out between them.
The first carriage drew up before the door, the starter moved forward to assist, when through the wide doors came the woman in gray—so swiftly, so silently, she scarcely seemed to touch the ground. Her eyes shone joyously, her lips were apart, as if her haste of soul, too great for the utmost speed of her body, must instantly voice itself.
Brad gasped. Again her presence forced itself upon him with marvelous distinctness. He caught the light of her eyes, the glitter of her spangles, the sparkle of her collar, as so many vivid high lights in the picture.
Another instant and she had passed the flunky. One gray-gloved hand caught the hansom rail, a slim, steel-beaded slipper flashed upon the step, and she had entered the hansom with his brother. What could it mean?
Breathless, Venner ran forward. The servant was bending toward the interior of the cab. “Savoy, sir,” Bradford heard the man repeat twice.
“Here!” he cried impatiently. “That's my brother—I wish to speak with him.”
The man stepped back. “Yes, sir—I'm afraid, sir—gentleman's drunk, sir——”
“Drunk!” Bradford thrust the starter aside. Collapsed in the corner of the hansom, sprawled Clinton. He was alone. Bradford sprang beside his brother, endeavoring to lift him to a sitting posture. The body rolled and slipped from him—it was limp and warm, but the light striking full on his face, revealed death.
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Good God! Here—help!” He turned to the startled attendant. “Where is the woman in gray—where did she go? This may be murder!”
“'Eavens!” exclaimed the man, “murder!—there waren't no woman in gray—'e was alone in the 'ansom.”
“Why she jumped in here beside him—you must have seen—cabby, you must have seen her come!”
“No, sir; it's the shock, sir. Now, don't take on—there's been no woman in gray 'ereabouts, and my fare I picks up alone at the Carlton. There's been no woman hat hall, sir, hanyw'ares.”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1940, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 84 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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