Desboro came for her in his car at five and found her standing alone in
her office, dressed in a blue travelling dress, hatted and closely
veiled. He partly lifted the veil, kissed the cold, unresponsive lips,
the pallid cheek, the white-gloved fingers.
"Is Her Royal Shyness ready?" he whispered.
"Yes, Jim."
"All her affairs of state accomplished?" he asked laughingly.
"Yes--the day's work is done."
"Was it a hard day for you, sweetheart?"
"Yes--hard."
"I am so sorry," he murmured.
She rearranged her veil in silence.
* * * * *
Again, as the big car rolled away northward, and they were alone once
more in the comfortable limousine, he took possession of her unresisting
hand, whispering:
"I am so sorry you have had a hard day, dear. You really look very pale
and tired."
"It was a--tiresome day."
He lifted her hand to his lips: "Do you love me, Jacqueline?"
"Yes."
"Above everything?"
"Yes."
"And you know that I love you above everything in the world?"
She was silent.
"Jacqueline!" he urged. "Don't you _know_ it?"
"I--think you--care for me."
He laughed: "Will Your Royal Shyness never unbend! Is _that_ all the
credit you give me for my worship and adoration?"
She said, after a silence: "If it lies with me, you really will love me
some day."
"Dearest!" he protested, laughing but perplexed. "Don't you know that I
love you _now_--that I am absolutely mad about you?"
She did not answer, and he waited, striving to see her expression
through the veil. But when he offered to lift it, she gently avoided
him.
"Did you go to business?" she asked quietly.
"I? Oh, yes, I went back to the office. But Lord! Jacqueline, I couldn't
keep my attention on the tape or on the silly orders people fired at me
over the wire. So I left young Seely in charge and went to lunch with
Jack Cairns; and then he and I returned to the office, where I've been
fidgeting about ever since. I think it's been the longest day I ever
lived."
"It has been a long day," she assented gravely. "Did Mr. Cairns speak to
you of Cynthia?"
"He mentioned her, I believe."
"Do you remember what he said about her?"
"Well, yes. I think he spoke about her very nicely--about her being
interesting and ambitious and talented--something of that sort--but how
could I keep my mind on what he was saying about another girl?"
Jacqueline looked out of the window across a waste of swamp and trestle
and squalid buildings toward University Heights. She said presently,
without turning:
"Some day, may I ask Cynthia to visit me?"
"Dearest girl! Of course! Isn't it your house----"
"Silverwood?"
"Certainly----"
"No, Jim."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"What I say. Silverwood is not yet even partly mine. It must remain
entirely yours--until I know you--better."
"Why on earth do you say such silly----"
"What is yours must remain yours," she repeated, in a low voice, "just
as my shop, and office, and my apartment must remain mine--for a time."
"For how long?"
"I can not tell."
"Do you mean for always?"
"I don't know."
"And I don't understand you, dear," he said impatiently.
"You will, Jim."
He smiled uneasily: "For how long must we twain, who are now one,
maintain solitary sovereignty over our separate domains?"
"Until I know you better."
"And how long is that going to take?" he asked, smilingly apprehensive
and deeply perplexed by her quiet and serious attitude toward him.
"I don't know how long, I wish I did."
"Jacqueline, dear, has anything unpleasant happened to disturb you since
I last saw you?"
She made no reply.
"Won't you tell me, dear," he insisted uneasily.
"I will tell you this, Jim. Whatever may have occurred to disturb me is
already a matter of the past. Life and its business lie before us; that
is all I know. This is our beginning, Jim; and happiness depends on what
we make of our lives from now on--from now on."
The stray lock of golden hair had fallen across her cheek, accenting the
skin's pallor through the veil. She rested her elbow on the window
ledge, her tired head on her hand, and gazed at the sunset behind the
Palisades. Far below, over the grey and wrinkled river, smoke from a
steamboat drifted, a streak of bronze and purple, in the sunset light.
"_What_ has happened?" he muttered under his breath. And, turning toward
her: "You must tell me, Jacqueline. It is now my right to know."
"Don't ask me."
His face hardened; for a moment the lean muscles of the jaw worked
visibly.
"Has anybody said anything about me to you?"
No reply.
"Has--has Mrs. Hammerton been to see you?"
"No."
He was silent for a moment, then:
"I'll tell you now, Jacqueline; she did not wish me to marry you. Did
you know it?"
"I know it."
"I believe," he said, "that she has been capable of warning you against
me. Did she?"
No reply.
"And yet you married me?" he said, after a silence.
She said nothing.
"So you could not have believed her, whatever she may have said," he
concluded calmly.
"Jim?"
"Yes, dear."
"I married you because I loved you. I love you still. Remember it when
you are impatient with me--when you are hurt--perhaps angry----"
"Angry with _you_, my darling!"
"You are going to be--very often--I am afraid."
"Angry?"
"I--don't know. I don't know how it will be with us. If only you will
remember that I love you--no matter how I seem----"
"Dear, if you tell me that you do love me, I will know that it must be
so!"
"I tell you that I do. I could never love anybody else. You are all that
I have in the world; all I care for. You are absolutely everything to
me. I loved you and married you; I took you for mine just as you were
and are. And if I didn't quite understand all that--that you are--I took
you, nevertheless--for better or for worse--and I mean to hold you. And
I know now that, knowing more about you, I would do the same thing if it
were to be done again. I would marry you to-morrow--knowing what I
know."
"What more do you know about me than you did this morning, Jacqueline?"
he asked, terribly troubled.
But she refused to answer.
He said, reddening: "If you have heard any gossip concerning Mrs.
Clydesdale, it is false. Was _that_ what you heard? Because it is an
absolute lie."
But she had learned from Mrs. Clydesdale's reckless lips the contrary,
and she rested her aching head on her hand and stared out at the endless
lines of houses along Broadway, as the car swung into Yonkers, veered to
the west past the ancient manor house, then rolled northward again
toward Hastings.
"Don't you believe me?" he asked at length. "That gossip is a lie--if
that is what you heard."
She thought: "This is how gentlemen are supposed to behave under such
circumstances." And she shivered.
"Are you cold?" he asked, with an effort.
"A little."
He drew the fur robe closer around her, and leaned back in his corner,
deeply worried, impatient, but helpless in the face of her evident
weariness and reticence, which he could not seem to penetrate or
comprehend. Only that something ominous had happened--that something was
dreadfully wrong--he now thoroughly understood.
In the purposeless career of a man of his sort, there is much that it is
well to forget. And in Desboro's brief career there were many things
that he would not care to have such a girl as Jacqueline hear about--so
much, alas! of folly and stupidity, so much of idleness, so much
unworthy, that now in his increasing chagrin and mortification, in the
painful reaction from happy pride to alarm and self-contempt, he could
not even guess what had occurred, or for which particular folly he was
beginning to pay.
Long since, both in his rooms in town, and at Silverwood, he had
destroyed the silly souvenirs of idleness and folly. He thought now of
the burning sacrifice he had so carelessly made that day in the
library--and how the flames had shrivelled up letter and fan,
photograph and slipper. And he could not remember that he had left a
rag of lace or a perfumed envelope unburned.
Had the ghosts of their owners risen to confront him on his own
hearthstone, standing already between him and this young girl he had
married?
What whisper had reached her guiltless ears? What rumour, what breath of
innuendo? Must a man still be harassed who has done with folly for all
time--who aspires to better things--who strives to change his whole mode
of life merely for the sake of the woman he loves--merely to be more
worthy of her?
As he sat there so silently in the car beside her, his dark thoughts
travelled back again along the weary, endless road to yesterday. Since
he had known and loved her, his thoughts had often and unwillingly
sought that shadowy road where the only company were ghosts--phantoms of
dead years that sometimes smiled, sometimes reproached, sometimes
menaced him with suddenly remembered eyes and voiceless but familiar
words forever printed on his memory.
Out of that grey vista, out of that immaterial waste where only
impalpable shapes peopled the void, vanished, grew out of nothing only
to reappear, _something_ had come to trouble the peace of mind of the
woman he loved--some spectre of folly had arisen and had whispered in
her ear, so that, at the mockery, the light had died out in her fearless
eyes and her pure mind was clouded and her tender heart was weighted
with this thing--whatever it might be--this echo of folly which had
returned to mock them both.
"Dearest," he said, drawing her to him so that her cold cheek rested
against his, "whatever I was, I am no longer. You said you could
forgive."
"I do--forgive."
"Can you not forget, too?"
"I will try--with your help."
"How can I help you? Tell me."
"By letting me love you--as wisely as I can--in my own fashion. By
letting me learn more of you--more about men. I don't understand men. I
thought I did--but I don't. By letting me find out what is the wisest
and the best and the most unselfish way to love you. For I don't know
yet. I don't know. All I know is that I am married to the man I
loved--the man I still love. But how I am going to love him I--I don't
yet know."
He was silent; the hot flush on his face did not seem to warm her cheek
where it rested so coldly against his.
"I want to hold you because it is best for us both," she said, as though
speaking to herself.
"But--you need make no effort to hold me, Jacqueline!" e protested,
amazed.
"I want to hold you, Jim," she repeated. "You are my husband. I--I must
hold you. And I don't know how I am to do it. I don't know how."
"My darling! Who has been talking to you? What have they said?"
"It has _got_ to be done, somehow," she interrupted, wearily. "I must
learn how to hold you; and you must give me time, Jim----"
"Give you time!" he repeated, exasperated.
"Yes--to learn how to love you best--so I can serve you best. That is
why I married you--not selfishly, Jim--and I thought I knew--I thought I
knew----"
Her cheek slipped from his and rested on his shoulder. He put his arm
around her and she covered her face with her gloved hands.
"I love you dearly, dearly," he whispered brokenly. "If the whisper of
any past stupidity of mine has hurt you, God knows best what punishment
He visits on me at this moment! If there were any torture I could endure
to spare you, Jacqueline, I would beg for it--welcome it! It is a bitter
and a hopeless and a ridiculous thing to say; but if I had only known
there was such a woman as you in the world I would have understood
better how to live. I suppose many a man understands it when it is too
late. I realise now, for the first time, how changeless, how irrevocably
fixed, are the truths youth learns to smile at--the immutable laws youth
scoffs at----"
He choked, controlled his voice, and went on:
"If youth could only understand it, the truths of childhood are the only
truths. The first laws we learn are the eternal ones. And their only
meaning is self-discipline. But youth is restive and mistakes curiosity
for intelligence, insubordination for the courage of independence. The
stupidity of orthodoxy incites revolt. To disregard becomes less
difficult; to forget becomes a habit. To think for one's self seems
admirable; but when youth attempts that, it thinks only what it pleases
or does not think at all. I am not trying to find excuses or to evade my
responsibility, dear. I had every chance, no excuse for what I
have--sometimes--been. And now--on this day--this most blessed and most
solemn day of my life--I can only say to you I am sorry, and that I mean
so to live--always--that no man or woman can reproach me."
She lay very silent against his shoulder. Blindly striving to understand
him, and men--blindly searching for some clue to the path of duty--the
path she must find somehow and follow for his sake--through the
obscurity and mental confusion she seemed to hear at moments Elena
Clydesdale's shameless and merciless words, and the deadly repetition
seemed to stun her.
Vainly she strove against the recurring horror; once or twice,
unconsciously, her hands crept upward and closed her ears, as though she
could shut out what was dinning in her brain.
With every reserve atom of mental strength and self-control she battled
against this thing which was stupefying her, fought it off, held it,
drove it back--not very far, but far enough to give her breathing room.
But no sooner did she attempt to fix her mind on the man beside her, and
begin once more to grope for the clue to duty--how most unselfishly she
might serve him for his salvation and her own--than the horror she had
driven back stirred stealthily and crawled nearer. And the battle was on
once more.
Twilight had fallen over the Westchester hills; a familiar country lay
along the road they travelled. In the early darkness, glancing from the
windows he divined unseen landmarks, counted the miles unconsciously as
the car sped across invisible bridges that clattered or resounded under
the heavy wheels.
The stars came out; against them woodlands and hills took shadowy shape,
marking for him remembered haunts. And at last, far across the hills the
lighted windows of Silverwood glimmered all a-row; the wet gravel
crunched under the slowing wheels, tall Norway spruces towered
phantomlike on every side; the car stopped.
"Home," he whispered to her; and she rested her arm on his shoulder and
drew herself erect.
Every servant and employee on the Desboro estate was there to receive
them; she offered her slim hand and spoke to every one. Then, on her
husband's arm, and her proud little head held high, she entered the
House of Desboro for the first time bearing the family name--entered
smiling, with death in her heart.
* * * * *
At last the dinner was at an end. Farris served the coffee and set the
silver lamp and cigarettes on the library table, and retired.
Luminous red shadows from the fireplace played over wall and
ceiling--the same fireplace where Desboro had made his offering--as
though flame could purify and ashes end the things that men have done!
In her frail dinner gown of lace, she lay in a great chair before the
blaze, gazing at nothing. He, seated on the rug beside her chair, held
her limp hand and rested his face against it, staring at the ashes on
the hearth.
And this was marriage! Thus he was beginning his wedded life--here in
the house of his fathers, here at the same hearthstone where the dead
brides of dead forebears had sat as his bride was sitting now.
But had any bride ever before faced that hearth so silent, so
motionless, so pale as was this young girl whose fingers rested so
limply in his and whose cold palm grew no warmer against his cheek?
What had he done to her? What had he done to himself--that the joy of
things had died out in her eyes--that speech had died on her lips--that
nothing in her seemed alive, nothing responded, nothing stirred.
Now, all the bitterness that life and its unwisdom had stored up for him
through the swift and reckless years, he tasted. For that cup may not
pass. Somewhere, sooner or later, the same lips that have so lightly
emptied sweeter draughts must drain this one. None may refuse it, none
wave it away until the cup be empty.
"Jacqueline?"
She moved slightly in her chair.
"Tell me," he said, "what is it that can make amends?"
"They--are made."
"But the hurt is still there. What can heal it, dear?"
"I--don't know."
"Time?"
"Perhaps."
"Love?"
"Yes--in time."
"How long?"
"I do not know, Jim."
"Then--what is there for me to do?"
She was silent.
"Could you tell me, Jacqueline?"
"Yes. Have patience--with me."
"With _you_?"
"It will be necessary."
"How do you mean, dear?"
"I mean you must have patience with me--in many ways. And still be in
love with me. And still be loyal to me--and--faithful. I don't know
whether a man can do these things. I don't know men. But I know
myself--and what I require of men--and of you."
"What you require of me I can be if you love me."
"Then never doubt it. And when I know that you have become what I
require you to be, you could not doubt my loving you even if you wished
to. _Then_ you will know; _until_ then--you must _believe_."
He sat thinking before the hearth, the slow flush rising to his temples
and remaining.
"What is it you mean to do, Jacqueline?" he asked, in a low voice.
"Nothing, except what I have always done. The business of life remains
unchanged; it is always there to be done."
"I mean--are you going to--change--toward me?"
"I have not changed."
"Your confidence in me has gone."
"I have recovered it."
"You believe in me still?"
"Oh, yes--yes!" Her little hand inside his clenched convulsively and her
voice broke.
Kneeling beside her, he drew her into his arms and felt her breath
suddenly hot and feverish against his shoulder. But if there had been
tears in her eyes they dried unshed, for he saw no traces of them when
he kissed her.
"In God's name," he whispered, "let the past bury its accursed dead and
give me a chance. I love you, worship you, adore you. Give me my chance
in life again, Jacqueline!"
"I--I give it to you--as far as in me lies. But it rests with you, Jim,
what you will be."
His own philosophy returned to mock him out of the stainless mouth of
this young girl! But he said passionately:
"How can I be arbiter of my own fate unless I have all you can give me
of love and faith and unswerving loyalty?"
"I give you these."
"Then--as a sign--return the kiss I give you--now."
There was no response.
"Can you not, Jacqueline?"
"Not--yet."
"You--you can not respond!"
"Not--that way--yet."
"Is--have I--has what you know of me killed all feeling, all tenderness
in you?"
"No."
"Then--why can you not respond----"
"I can not, Jim--I can not."
He flushed hotly: "Do you--do I inspire you with--do I repel
you--physically?"
She caught his hand, cheeks afire, dismayed, striving to check him:
"Please--don't say such--it is--not--true----"
"It seems to be----"
"No! I--I ask you--not to say it--think it----"
"How can I help thinking it--thinking that you only care for me--that
the only attraction on your part is--is intellectual----"
She disengaged her hand from his and shrank away into the velvet depths
of her chair.
"I can't help it," he said. "I've got to say what I think. Never since I
have told you I loved you have you ever hinted at any response, even to
the lightest caress. We are married. Whatever--however foolish I may
have been--God knows you have made me pay for it this day. How long am I
to continue paying? I tell you a man can't remain repentant too long
under the stern and chilling eyes of retribution. If you are going to
treat me as though I were physically unfit to touch, I can make no
further protest. But, Jacqueline, no man was ever aided by a punishment
that wounds his self-respect."
"I must consider mine, too," she said, in a ghost of a voice.
"Very well," he said, "if you think you must maintain it at the expense
of mine----"
"Jim!"
The low cry left her lips trembling.
"What?" he said, angrily.
"Have--have you already forgotten what I said?"
"What did you say?"
"I asked--I asked you to be patient with me--because--I love you----"
But the words halted; she bowed her head in her hands, quivering,
scarcely conscious that he was on his knees again at her feet, scarcely
hearing his broken words of repentance and shame for the sorry and
contemptible rôle he had been playing.
No tears came to help her even then, only a dry, still agony possessed
her. But the crisis passed and wore away; sight and hearing and the
sense of touch returned to her. She saw his head bowed in contrition on
her knees, heard his voice, bitter in self-accusation, felt his hands
crisping over hers, crushing them till her new rings cut her.
For a while she looked down at him as though dazed; then the real pain
from her wedding ring aroused her and she gently withdrew that hand
and rested it on his thick, short, curly hair.
For a long while they remained so. He had ceased to speak; her brooding
gaze rested on him, unchanged save for the subtle tenderness of the
lips, which still quivered at moments.
Clocks somewhere in the house were striking midnight. A little later a
log fell from the dying fire, breaking in ashes.
He felt her stir, change her position slightly; and he lifted his head.
After a moment she laid her hand on his arm, and he aided her to rise.
As they moved slowly, side by side, through the house, they saw that it
was filled with flowers everywhere, twisted ropes of them on the
banisters, too, where they ascended.
Her own maid, who had arrived by train, rose from a seat in the upper
corridor to meet her. The two rooms, which were connected by a sitting
room, disclosed themselves, almost smothered in flowers.
Jacqueline stood in the sitting room for a moment, gazing vaguely around
her at the flowers and steadying herself by one hand on the
centre-table, which a great bowlful of white carnations almost covered.
Then, as her maid reappeared at the door of her room, she turned and
looked at Desboro.
There was a silence; his face was very white, hers was deathly.
He said: "Shall we say good-night?"
"It is--for you--to say."
"Then--good-night, Jacqueline."
"Good-night."
[Illustration: "She turned ... looked back, hesitated"]
She turned, took a step or two--looked back, hesitated, then slowly
retraced her steps to where he was standing by the flower-covered table.
From the mass of blossoms she drew a white carnation, touched it to her
lips, and, eyes still lowered, offered it to him. In her palm, beside
it, lay a key. But he took only the blossom, touching it to his lips as
she had done.
She looked at the key, lying in her trembling hand, then lifted her
confused eyes to his once more, whispering:
"Good-night--and thank you."
"Good-night," he said, "until to-morrow."
And they went their separate ways.