It was twenty minutes past seven when I paid my gondolier his fare at
the railway station. I bought a first-class ticket to Milan and hurried
down the long platform. Already the guards were calling to the
passengers to take their places, and were closing the doors of the
carriages.
Jacqueline herself I did not see, but her maid sat at the open window of
a compartment reserved for women. Fortunately, it was a corridor train.
Before taking the casket to Jacqueline I cast one long look back at
Venice. Never had her fairy architecture looked more entrancing, more
ethereal. She was more mystical in this golden light than Arthur’s City
of Avalon. But this enchantress of the seas had proved but a siren after
all. For me her beauty had crumbled to ashes. Like my dreams, she had
proved bitterly disappointing; for these dreams had been as intangible
and difficult to realize as her charm.
I was turning my face away from the city of dead hopes and vanished
dreams confidently to a workaday world; and if I could melt Jacqueline’s
pride, and win her forgiveness, I might yet look forward to love and
happiness.
I walked slowly down the corridor to her compartment. I stood quietly at
the door a moment. She turned from the open window where she had been
standing. There were tears in her eyes.
“Do you not think that you have caused me enough pain and embarrassment
without troubling me further just now?”
“Jacqueline, you asked me to bring you the casket. You promised that you
would listen to me when I brought it. There it is. It has cost me
something, that casket–your love and your respect. In doing precisely
what you asked me, I have lost all that is dearest to me in the world.
But there it is. It is really the casket of da Sestos.”
I placed it on the seat beside her.
“All this is painfully theatrical, Mr. Hume,” she said disdainfully. “I
can have no possible use for it. Will you please take it again? I wish
to heaven that I had never heard of it.”
“Can you really be in earnest, Jacqueline?” I asked sadly. “Are you
determined to be unjust? Are you quite resolved not to listen to me?”
“I am quite resolved,” she answered scornfully, “to be just to myself.
And now will you please go?”
“I must go if you insist,” I said gravely, and I stooped to pick up the
casket.
Then I saw that I was indeed the fool St. Hilary had so often called me.
For her dear eyes belied her cruel words. They were full of doubt and
despair. They beseeched me to be strong, to be ruthless, to break down
her outraged pride. She longed to understand, to forgive me, but I must
make her understand.
I sat beside her; I held both her hands firmly in mine.
“Jacqueline, it is impossible for me to go like this. My happiness, yes,
and your happiness as well, is at stake. You must listen to me. It is my
right. I refuse to go until I have told you the story of this casket.
But I want you to listen to that story without prejudice. When I have
told you everything, I hope you will see that I have tried to do just
what you wished me to do. I am trying to be, now, just what you wished
me to be. Though I hurt you by staying, yet I shall stay; for you told
me that the man you loved must have something of the relentless about
him. I shall remain relentless until I have gained my happiness and
yours.”
“If it were possible for me to dispute the evidence of my own eyes, how
gladly I would listen and exonerate you!”
“Then listen, Jacqueline.”
I told her of my search for the casket. I let the story plead for
itself. When I had finished, she sat very still, her face shaded from
the dim lamp in the center of the carriage by the partition of the seat.
“It was a foolish thing to ask,” she said, her eyes shining. “But oh,
Dick, I am glad I did ask it. I know now that you are really strong and
patient. You would dare much for the woman you love. Forgive me that I
did not trust you. I wanted to, but last night it seemed––”
She leaned toward me, and I caught her in my arms.
Without, the moonlight fell on the mulberry trees, rows and rows of
them, their branches festooned fantastically from tree to tree. They
looked like figures stiffly dancing to an old-time minuet.
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
The hyphenation of compound words which occur on a line break are
removed or retained based on other instances.
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.
21.19 I said impatiently[.] Added.
37.25 Sudd[d]enly this wall gave way Removed.
38.3 and Lu[i]gi appeared, Inserted.
114.8 Jacqueline had added her urgen[t] telegram Added.
140.8 we can amuse ourselves with our clock.[”] Added.
223.5 he would undertake even the impossible.[”] Added.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Clock and the Key, by Arthur Henry Vesey