A surprised and very doubtful maid admitted him to Mrs. Hammerton's tiny
reception room and took his card; and he fidgeted there impatiently
until the maid returned to conduct him.
Mrs. Hammerton sat at coffee in the combination breakfast and dining
room of her pretty little apartment. He had never seen her wear glasses,
but a pair, presumably hers, was lying across the morning paper on the
edge of the table.
Windows behind her threw her face into shadow against the sunlight, and
he could not clearly distinguish her features. A canary sang
persistently in the sunshine; a friendly cat yawned on the window sill.
"Have some coffee, James?" she asked, without greeting him.
"Thanks, I've breakfasted."
"Very well. There's a chair." She motioned dismissal to the maid. "And
close the door!" she added curtly.
The maid vanished, closing the door. Aunt Hannah poured more coffee for
herself; now she began to browse on toast and bacon.
"Have you seen the papers?" he asked bluntly.
Her eyes snapped fire: "That was a brave thing _you_ did! I never knew
any of the Desboros were cowards."
He looked at her in angry astonishment.
"Well, what do _you_ call it if it isn't cowardice--to slink off and
marry a defenseless girl like that!"
"Did you expect me to give you a chance to destroy me and poison
Jacqueline's mind? If I _had_ been guilty of the thing with which you
charge me, what I have done _would_ have been cowardly. Otherwise, it is
justified."
"You have been guilty of enough without that particular thing to rule
you out."
"If," he said, controlling his anger, "you really were appointed God's
deputy on earth, you'd have to rule out the majority of men who attempt
to marry."
"I'd do it, too," she remarked.
"Fortunately," he went on, "your authority for meddling is only self
delegated. You once threatened me. You gave me warning like a fair
adversary. But even rattlesnakes do that!"
He could see her features more plainly now, having become accustomed to
the light; and her scornful expression and the brilliant danger in her
beady eyes did not escape him. She darted at a bit of toast and
swallowed it.
"So," he ended calmly, "I merely accepted the warning and acted
accordingly--if you call that cowardly."
"I see. You were much too clever for me. In other words, you forestalled
me, didn't you?"
"Ask yourself, Aunt Hannah."
"No, I ask you. You _did_ forestall me, didn't you, Jim?"
"I think it amounts to that."
"Oh! Then why are you here at this hour of the morning, after your
wedding night?"
There was a silence. Presently she put on her glasses and glanced at
the paper. When he had his temper and his voice under absolute control
again, he said very quietly:
"Somebody is trying to make my wife unhappy. May I ask if it is you?"
"Certainly you may ask, James. Ask as many times as you like." She
continued to scan the paper.
"I do ask," he insisted.
[Illustration: "'Why don't you ask your--wife?'"]
She laid aside the paper and took off her glasses:
"Very well; failing to obtain the desired information from me, why don't
you ask your--wife?"
"I have asked her," he said, in a low voice.
"Oh, I see! Jacqueline also refuses the desired information. So you come
to inquire of me. Is that it?"
"Yes, that is it."
"You go behind your wife's back----"
"Don't talk that way, please."
"Indeed! Now, listen very attentively, James, because that is exactly
the way I am going to talk to you. And I'll begin by telling you plainly
just what you have done. _You_--and you know what _you_ are--have
married clandestinely a young, innocent, inexperienced girl. You, who
are not fit to decide the fate of a new-born yellow pup, have assumed
the irrevocable responsibility of this girl's future--arranged it
yourself in the teeth of the eternal fitness and decency of things!
_You_, James Desboro, a good-for-nothing idler, irresponsible
spendthrift, half bankrupt, without ambition, without a profession,
without distinction except that you have good looks and misleading
manners and a line of ancestors which would make an Englishman laugh.
"When you did this thing you knew you were not fit to tie her shoes.
You knew, too, that those who really love her and who might have
shielded her except for this--this treachery, had warned you to keep
your distance. You knew more than that; you knew that our little
Jacqueline had all her life before her; that for the first time in her
brief career the world was opening its arms to her; that she was certain
to be popular, sure to be welcomed, respected, liked, loved. You knew
that now she was going to have her chance; that men of distinction, of
attainment, of lofty ideals and irreproachable private lives--men well
to do materially, too--men of wealth, ambitious men, forceful men who
count, certainly would seek her, surround her, prefer her, give her what
she had a right to have--the society of her intellectual peers--the
exercise of a free, untrammeled judgment, and, ultimately, the
opportunity to select from among real men the man most worthy of such a
woman as she is."
Mrs. Hammerton laid one shapely hand on the table, fingers clenched,
and, half rising, fairly glared at Desboro.
"You have cheated her out of what was her due! You have stolen her
future! You have robbed her of a happy and worthy career to link her
life with your career--_your_ career--or whatever you call the futile
parody on life which men of your sort enact, disgracing God that He knew
no more than to create you! And my righteous anger against you is not
wholly personal--not because you have swindled me alone--taken from me
the only person I have really ever cared for--killed her confidence in
me, her tenderness--but because you have cheated _her_, and the world,
too! For she is a rare woman--a rare, sweet woman, James. And _that_ is
what you have done to the civilisation that has tolerated you!"
He had risen, astounded; but as her denunciation of him became fiercer,
and the concentrated fury in her eyes more deadly, a slightly dazed
feeling began to dull his own rage, and he found himself listening as
though a mere spectator at the terrible arraignment of another man.
He remained standing. But she had finished; and she was shaking a little
when she resumed her chair; and still he stood there, pallid, staring at
space. For several minutes neither of them stirred. Finally she said, in
a harsh but modified voice:
"I will tell you this much. Since I have known that she is married I
have not interfered. On the contrary, I have written her offering her my
love, my sympathy, and my devotion as long as I live. But it is a
terrible and wicked thing that you have done. And I can see little
chance for her, little hope, and less of happiness--when she fully
realises what she has done, and what you have done to her--when she
really understands how low she has stooped and to what level she has
descended to find the man she has married."
He merely gazed at her without expression. She shook her head.
"Hers will become a solitary life, intellectually and spiritually. There
is nothing in you to mate with it. Only materially are you of the
slightest use--and I think I am not mistaken when I say your usefulness
even there is pitiably limited, and that what you have to offer her will
not particularly attract her. For she is a rare woman, James--a species
of being absolutely different from you. And it had been well for you,
also, if you had been wise enough to let her alone. High altitudes
don't agree with you; and not even the merry company on Mount
Olympus--let alone the graver gathering higher up--are suitable for such
as you and your mundane kind."
He nodded, scarcely conscious of his mechanical acquiescence in what she
said. Hat and stick in hand, he moved slowly toward the door. She,
watching his departure, said in a lower voice:
"You and I are of the same species. I am no better than you, James.
But--she is different. And you and I are capable of recognising that
there _is_ a difference. It seems odd, almost ridiculous to find out at
this late date that it is not an alliance with fashion, wealth, family,
social connections, that can do honour to Jacqueline Nevers, bourgeoise
daughter of a French shop-keeper; it is Jacqueline who honours the caste
to which, alas, she has not risen, but into which she has descended. God
knows how far such a sour and soggy loaf can be leavened by such as
she--or what she can do for you! Perhaps----"
She checked herself and shook her head. He walked back to her, made his
adieux mechanically, then went out slowly, like a man in a trance.
Down in the sunny street the car was waiting; he entered and sat there,
giving no orders, until the chauffeur, leaning wide from his seat and
still holding open the door, ventured to remind him.
"Oh, yes! Then--you may drive me to Mrs. Clydesdale's."
* * * * *
But the woman whose big and handsome house was now his destination, had
forbidden her servants to disturb her that morning; so when Desboro
presented himself, only his card was received at the door.
Elena, in the drawing-room, hearing the bell, had sprung to her feet and
stepped into the upper hall to listen.
She heard Desboro's voice and shivered, heard her butler say that she
was not at home, heard the bronze doors clash behind him.
Then, with death in her heart, she went back noiselessly into the
drawing-room where Mr. Waudle, who was squatting on a delicate French
chair, retaining his seat, coolly awaited a resumption of the
interrupted conference. As a matter of fact, he resumed it himself
before she was seated on the sofa at his elbow.
"As I was telling you," he continued, "I've got to make a living. Why
shouldn't you help me? We were friends once. You found me amusing enough
in the old days----"
"Until you became impudent!"
"Who provoked me? Women need never fear familiarity unless they
encourage it!"
"It was absolutely innocent on my part----"
"Oh, hell!" he said, disgustedly. "It's always the man's fault! When you
pull a cat's tail and the animal scratches, it's the cat's fault. All
right, then; granted! But the fact remains that if you hadn't looked
sideways at me it never would have entered my head to make any advances
to you." Which was a lie. All men made advances to Elena.
"Leave it so," she said, with the angry flush deepening in her cheeks.
"Sure, I'll leave it; but I'm not going to leave _you_. Not yet, Elena.
You owe me something for what you've done to me."
"Oh! Is _that_ the excuse?" she nodded scornfully; but her heart was
palpitating with fear, and her lips had become dry again.
He surveyed her insolently under his heavy eyelids.
"Come," he said, "what are you going to do about it? You are the
fortunate one; you have everything--I nothing. And, plainly, I'm sick of
it. What are you going to do?"
"Suppose," she said, steadily, "that I tell my husband what you are
doing? Had you considered _that_ possibility?"
"Tell him if you like."
She shrugged.
"What you are doing is blackmail, isn't it?" she asked disdainfully.
"Call it what you please," he said. "Suit yourself, Elena. But there is
a bunch of manuscript in the _Tattler's_ office which goes into print
the moment you play any of your catty games on me. Understand?"
She said, very pale: "Will you not tell me--give me some hint about what
you have written?"
He laughed: "Better question your own memory, little lady. Maybe it
isn't about you and Desboro at all; maybe it's something else."
"There was nothing else."
"There was--_me_!"
"You?"
"Sure," he said cheerfully. "What happened in Philadelphia, if put
skillfully before any jury, would finish _you_."
"_Nothing_ happened! And you know it!" she exclaimed, revolted.
"But juries--and the public--don't know. All they can do is to hear the
story and then make up their minds. If you choose to let them hear
_your_ story----"
"There was nothing! I did nothing! _Nothing_----" she faltered.
"But God knows the facts look ugly," he retorted, with smirking
composure. "You're a clever girl; ask yourself what you'd think if the
facts about you and young Desboro--you and me--were skillfully brought
out?"
She sat dumb, frightened, twisting her fingers; then, in the sudden
anger born of torture:
"If I am disgraced, what will happen to _you_!" she flashed out--and
knew in the same breath that the woman invariably perishes where the man
usually survives; and sat silent and pallid again, her wide eyes
restlessly roaming about her as though seeking refuge.
"Also," he said, "if you sue the _Tattler_ for slander, there's Munger,
you know. He saw us in Philadelphia that night----"
"What!"
"Certainly. And if a jury learned that you and I were in the same----"
"I did not dream you were to be in the same hotel--in those rooms--you
miserable----"
"Easy, little lady! Easy, now! Never mind what you did or didn't dream.
You're up against reality, now. So never mind about me at all. Let that
Philadelphia business go; it isn't essential. I've enough to work on
without _that_!"
[Illustration: "'I do not believe you,' she said between her teeth"]
"I do not believe you," she said, between her teeth.
"Oh! Are you really going to defy me?"
"Perhaps."
"I see," he said, thoughtfully, rising and looking instinctively around.
He had the quick, alert side-glance which often characterises lesser
adepts in his profession.
Then, half way to the door, he turned on her again:
"Look here, Elena, I'm tired of this! You fix it so that your husband
keeps those porcelains, or I'll go down town now and turn in that
manuscript! Come on! Which is it?"
"Go, if you like!"
There ensued a breathless silence; his fat hand was on the door, pushing
it already, when a stifled exclamation from her halted him. After a
moment he turned warily.
"I'm desperate," he said. "Pay, or I show you up. Which is it to be?"
"I--how do I know? What proof have I that you can damage me----"
He came all the way back, moistening his thick lips, for he had played
his last card at the door; and, for a second, he supposed that he was
beaten.
"Now, see here," he said, "I don't want to do this. I don't want to
smash anybody, let alone a woman. But, by God! I'll do it if you don't
come across. So make up your mind, Elena."
She strove to sustain his gaze and he leered at her. Finally he sat down
beside her:
"I said I wouldn't give you any proofs. But I guess I will. I'll prove
to you that I've got you good and plenty, little lady. Will that satisfy
you?"
"Prove it!" she strove to say; but her lips scarcely obeyed her.
"All right. Do you remember one evening, just before Christmas, when you
and your husband had been on the outs?"
She bit her lip in silence.
"_Do_ you?" he insisted.
"Perhaps."
"All right, so far," he sneered. "Did he perhaps tell you that he had an
appointment at the Kiln Club with a man who was interested in porcelains
and jades?"
"No."
"Well, he did. He had an appointment for that night. I was the man."
She understood nothing.
"So," he said, "I waited three hours at the Kiln Club and your husband
didn't show up. Then I telephoned his house. You and he were probably
having your family row just then, for the maid said he was there, but
was too busy to come to the telephone. So I said that I'd come up to the
house in half an hour."
Still she did not comprehend.
"Wait a bit, little lady," he continued, with sly enjoyment of his own
literary methods. "The climax comes where it belongs, not where you
expect it. So now we'll read you a chapter in which a bitter wind blows
heavily, and a solitary taxicab might have been seen outward bound
across the wintry wastes of Gotham Town. Get me?"
She merely looked at him.
"In that low, black, rakish taxi," he went on, "sat an enterprising man
bent upon selling to your husband the very porcelains which he
subsequently bought. In other words, _I_ sat in that taxi. _I_ stopped
in front of this house; _I_ saw _you_ leave the house and go scurrying
away like a scared rabbit. And then I went up the steps, rang, was
admitted, told to wait in the library. I waited."
"Where?" The word burst from her involuntarily.
"In the library," he repeated. "It's a nice, cosy, comfortable place,
isn't it? Fine fat sofas, soft cushions, fire in the grate--oh, a very
comfortable place, indeed! I thought so, anyway, while I was waiting for
your husband to come down stairs."
"It appeared that he had finally received my telephone
message--presumably after you and he had finished your row--and had left
word that I was to be admitted. That's why they let me in. So I waited
very, v--ery comfortably in the library; and somebody had thoughtfully
set out cigars, and whisky, and lemon, and sugar, _and_ a jug of hot
water. It _was_ a cold night, if you remember."
He paused long enough to leer at her.
"Odd," he remarked, "how pleasantly things happen sometimes. And, as I
sat there in that big leather chair--you must know which one I mean,
Elena--it is the fattest and most comforting--I smoked my cigar and
sipped my hot grog, and gazed innocently around. And _what_ do you
suppose my innocent eyes encountered--just like that?"
"W--what?" she breathed.
"Why, a letter!" he said, jovially slapping his fat thigh, "a real
letter lying right in the middle of the table--badly sealed, Elena--very
carelessly sealed--just the gummed point of the envelope clinging to the
body of it. Now, wasn't that a peculiar thing for an enterprising young
man to discover, I ask you?"
He leered and leered into her white face; then, satisfied, he went on:
"The writing was _yours_, dearie. I recognised it. It was addressed to
your own husband, who lived under the same roof. _And_ I had seen you
creep out, close the front door softly, and scurry away into the night."
He made a wide gesture with his fat hands.
"Naturally," he said, "I thought I ought to summon a servant to call
your husband, so I could tell him what I had seen you do. But--there was
a quicker way to learn what your departure meant--whether you were at
that moment making for the river or for Maxim's--anyway, I knew there
was no time to be lost. So----"
She shrank away and half rose, strangling a cry of protest.
"Sure I did!" he said coolly. "I read your note very carefully, then
licked the envelope and resealed it, and put it into my pocket. After
all, Mr. Desboro is a man. It was none of my business to interfere. So I
let him have what was coming to him--and you, too." He shrugged and
waved his hand. "Your husband came down later; we talked jades and
porcelains and prices until I nearly yawned my head off. And when it was
time to go, I slipped the letter back on the table. After all, you and
Desboro had had your fling; why shouldn't hubby have an inning?"
He lay back in his chair and laughed at the cowering woman, who had
dropped her arms on the back of her chair and buried her face in them.
Something about the situation struck him as being very funny. He
regarded her for a few moments, then rose and walked to the door. There
he turned.
"Fix it for me! Understand?" he said sharply; and went out.
As the bronze doors closed behind Mr. Waudle, Elena started and lifted
her frightened face from her arms. For a second or two she sat there,
listening, then rose and walked swiftly and noiselessly to the bay
window. Mr. Waudle was waddling down the street. Across the way, keeping
a parallel course, walked the Cubist poet, his ankle-high trousers
flapping. They did not even glance at each other until they reached the
corner of Madison Avenue. Here they both boarded the same car going
south. Mr. Waudle was laughing.
She came back into the drawing-room and stood, clasped hands twisting in
sheer agony.
To whom could she turn now? What was there to do? Since January she had
given this man so much money that almost nothing remained of her
allowance.
How could she go to her husband again? Never had she betrayed the
slightest sympathy for him or any interest in his hobby until his anger
was awakened by the swindle of which he had been a victim.
Then, for the first time, under the menacing pressure from Waudle, she
had attempted finesse--manoeuvred as skillfully as possible in the
short space of time allotted her, cleverly betrayed an awakening
interest in her husband's collection, pretended to a sudden caprice for
the forgeries recently acquired, and carried off very well her
astonishment when informed that the jades and porcelains were swindling
imitations made in Japan.
It had been useless for her to declare that, whatever they were, she
liked them. Her husband would have none of them in spite of his evident
delight in her sudden interest. He promised to undertake her
schooling in the proper appreciation of all things Chinese--promised to
be her devoted mentor and companion in the eternal hunt for specimens.
Which was scarcely what she wanted.
But he flatly refused to encourage her in her admiration for these
forgeries or to tolerate such junk under his roof.
[Illustration: "What was she to do? She had gone half mad with fear"]
What was she to do? She had gone, half mad with fear, to throw herself
upon the sympathy and mercy of Jacqueline Nevers. Terrified, tortured,
desperate, she had even thought to bribe the girl to pronounce the
forgeries genuine. Then, suddenly, at the mere mention of Desboro, she
had gone all to pieces. And when it became clear to her that there was
already an understanding between this girl and the man she had counted
on as her last resort, fear and anger completed her demoralisation.
She remembered the terrible scene now, remembered what she had said--her
shameless attitude--the shameful lie which her words and her attitude
had forced Jacqueline to understand.
Why she had acted such a monstrous falsehood she scarcely knew; whether
it had been done to cut the suspected bond between Desboro and
Jacqueline before it grew too strong to sever--whether it had been sheer
hysteria under the new shock--whether it was reckless despair that had
hardened her to a point where she meant to take the final plunge and
trust to Desboro's chivalry, she did not know then; she did not know
now.
But the avalanche she had loosened that night in December, when she
wrote her note and went to Silverwood, was still thundering along behind
her, gathering new force every day, until the menacing roar of it never
ceased in her ears.
And now it had swept her last possible resource away--Desboro. All her
humiliation, all her shame, the lie she had acted, had not availed. This
girl had married him after all. Like a lightning stroke the news of
their wedding had fallen on her. And on the very heels of it slunk the
blackmailer with his terrifying bag of secrets.
Where was she to go? To her husband? It was useless. To Desboro? It was
too late. Even now, perhaps, he was listening scornfully to his young
wife's account of that last interview. She could see the contempt in his
face--contempt for her--for the woman who had lied to avow her own
dishonour.
Why had he come to see her then? To threaten her? To warn her? To spurn
her? Yet, that was not like Desboro. Why had he come? What she had said
and intimated to Jacqueline was done _after_ the girl was a wife. Could
it be possible that Jacqueline was visiting her anger on Desboro, having
learned too late that which would have prevented her from marrying him
at all?
Elena crept to the sofa and sank down in a heap, cowering there in one
corner, striving to think.
What would come of it? Would this proud and chaste young girl, accepting
the acted lie as truth, resent it? By leaving Desboro? By beginning a
suit for divorce--and naming----
Elena cringed, stifling a cry of terror. What had she done? Every force
she had evoked was concentrating into one black cloud over her head,
threatening her utter destruction. Everything she had done since that
December night was helping the forces gathering to annihilate her. Even
Desboro, once a refuge, was now part of this tempest about to be
unloosened.
Truly she had sowed the wind, and the work of her small white hands was
already established upon her.
Never in her life had she really ever cared for any man. Her caprice for
Desboro, founded on the lesser motives, had been the nearest approach.
It had cost her all her self-control, all her courage, to play the
diplomat with her husband for the sake of obtaining his consent to keep
the forged porcelains. And after all it had been in vain.
In spite of her white misery and wretchedness, now, as she sat there in
the drawing-room alone, her cheeks crimsoned hotly at the memory of her
arts and wiles and calineries; of her new shyness with the man she had
never before spared; of her clever attitude toward him, the apparent
dawn of tenderness, the faint provocation in her lifted eyes--God! It
should have been her profession, for she had taken to it like a woman of
the streets--had submitted like one, earning her pay. And, like many,
had been cheated in the end.
She rose unsteadily, cooling her cheeks in her hands and gazing vacantly
in front of her.
She had not been well for a few days; had meant to see her physician.
But in the rush of events enveloping her there had been no moment to
think of mere bodily ills.
Now, dizzy, trembling, and faintly nauseated, she stood supporting her
weight on a gilded chair, closing her eyes for a moment to let the
swimming wretchedness pass.
It passed after a while, leaving her so utterly miserable that she
leaned over and rang for a maid.
"Order the car--the Sphex limousine," she said. "And bring me my hat and
furs."
"Yes, madame."
"And--my jewel box. Here is the key----" detaching a tiny gold one from
its chain in her bosom. "And if Mr. Clydesdale comes in, say to him that
I have gone to the doctor's."
"Yes, madame."
"And--I shall take some jewels to--the safe deposit--one or two pieces
which I don't wear."
The maid was silent.
"Do you understand about the--jewels?"
"Yes, madame."
She went away. Presently she returned with Elena's hat and furs and
jewel box. The private garage adjoined the house; the car rolled out
before she was ready.
On the way down town she was afraid she would faint--almost wished she
would. The chauffeur's instructions landed her at a jeweler's where she
was not known.
A few moments later, in a private office, a grey old gentleman very
gently refused to consider the purchase of any jewelry from her unless
he knew her name, residence, and other essentials which she flatly
declined to give.
So a polite clerk put her into her car and she directed the chauffeur to
Dr. Allen's office, because she felt really too ill for the moment to
continue her search. Later she would manage to find somebody who would
buy sufficient of her jewelry to give her--and Mr. Waudle--the seven
thousand dollars necessary to avoid exposure.
Dr. Allen was in--just returned. Only one patient was ahead of her.
Presently she was summoned, rose with an effort, and went in.
The physician was a very old man; and after he had questioned her for a
few moments he smiled. And at the same instant she began to understand;
got to her feet blindly, stood swaying for a moment, then dropped as he
caught her.
Neither the physician nor the trained nurse who came in at his summons
seemed to be very greatly worried. As they eased the young wife and
quietly set about reviving her, they chatted carelessly. Later Elena
opened her eyes. Later still the nurse went home with her in her
limousine.