Jacqueline had been half an hour late at her office and the routine
business was not yet quite finished when Captain Herrendene was
announced at the telephone.
"I thought you had sailed!" she exclaimed in surprise, as he greeted her
over the wire.
He laughed: "I'm ordered to Governor's Island. Jolly, isn't it?"
"Fine!" she said cordially. "We shall see you sometimes, I suppose."
"I'm asked to the Lindley Hammertons for the week-end. Are you to be at
Silverwood by any happy chance?"
"Indeed we are. We are going up to-night."
"Good business!" he said. "And--may I wish you happiness, Mrs. Desboro?
Your husband is a perfectly bully fellow--lots of quality in that young
man--loads of reserve and driving force! Tell him I congratulate him
with all my heart. You know what I think of _you_!"
"It's very sweet of you to speak this way about us," she said. "You may
surmise what I think of my husband. So thank you for wishing us
happiness. And you will come over with Daisy, won't you? We are going to
be at home until Monday."
"Indeed I _will_ come!" he said heartily.
She hung up the receiver, smiling but a trifle flushed; and in her blue
eyes there lingered something resembling tenderness as she turned once
more to the pile of typewritten letters awaiting her signature. She had
cared a great deal for this man's devotion; and since she had refused
him she cared for his friendship even more than before. And, being
feminine, capable, and very tender-hearted, she already was experiencing
the characteristic and ominous solicitude of her sex for the future
consolation and ultimate happiness of this young and unmarried man.
Might it not be accomplished through Daisy Hammerton? What could be more
suitable, more perfect?
Her sensitive lips were edged with a faint smile as she signed her name
to the first business letter. It began to look dark for Captain
Herrendene. No doubt, somewhere aloft, the cherubim were already
giggling. When a nice girl refuses a man, his business with her has only
just begun.
She continued to sign her letters, the ominous smile always hovering on
her upcurled lips. And, pursuing that train of thought, she came,
unwittingly, upon another, so impossible, yet so delightful and exciting
that every feminine fibre in her responded to the invitation to meddle.
She could scarcely wait to begin, so possessed was she by the alluringly
hopeless proposition evolved from her inner consciousness; and, as soon
as the last letter had been signed, and her stenographer had taken away
the correspondence, she flew to the telephone and called up Cynthia
Lessler.
"Is it you, dear?" she asked excitedly; and Cynthia, at the other end of
the wire, caught the happy ring in her voice, for she answered:
"You sound very gay this morning. _Are_ you, dear?"
"Yes, darling. Tell me, what are you doing over Sunday?"
Cynthia hesitated, then she answered calmly:
"Mr. Cairns is coming in the morning to take me to the Metropolitan
Museum."
"What a funny idea!"
"Why is it funny? He suggested that we go and look at the Chinese
porcelains so that we could listen more intelligently to you."
"As though I were accustomed to lecture my friends! How absurd, Cynthia.
You can't go. I want you at Silverwood."
"Thank you, dear, but I've promised him----"
"Then come up on the noon train!"
"In the afternoon," explained Cynthia, still more calmly, "Mr. Cairns
and I are to read together a new play which has not yet been put in
rehearsal."
"But, darling! I do want you for Sunday! Why can't you come up for this
week-end, and postpone the Museum meanderings? Please ask him to let you
off."
There was a pause, then Cynthia said in a still, small voice:
"Mr. Cairns is here. You may ask him."
Cairns came to the telephone and said that he would consult the wishes
and the convenience of Miss Lessler.
There ensued another pause, ostensibly for consultation, during which
Jacqueline experienced a wicked and almost overwhelming desire to laugh.
Presently Cynthia called her:
"_We_ think," she said with pretty emphasis, "that it would be very
jolly to visit you. We can go to the museum any other Sunday, Mr. Cairns
says."
But the spirit of mischief still possessed Jacqueline, and she refused
to respond to the hint.
"So you are coming?" she exclaimed with enthusiasm.
"If you want _us_, darling."
"That's delightful! You know Jim and I haven't had a chance yet to
entertain our bridesmaid. We want her to be our very first guest. Thank
you so much, darling, for coming. And please say to Mr. Cairns that it
is perfectly dear of him to let you off----"
"But _he_ is coming, too, isn't he?" exclaimed Cynthia anxiously. "You
are asking us both, aren't you. _What_ are you laughing at, you little
wretch!"
But Jacqueline's laughter died out and she said hastily:
"Bring him with you, dear," and turned to confront Mrs. Hammerton, who
arrived by appointment and exactly on the minute.
The clerk who, under orders, had brought the old lady directly to the
office, retired, closing the door behind him. Jacqueline hung up the
telephone receiver, rose from her chair and gazed silently at the woman
whose letter to her had first shattered her dream of happiness. Then,
with a little gesture:
"Won't you please be seated?" she said quietly.
Aunt Hannah's face was grim as she sat down on the chair indicated.
[Illustration: "'You have no further interest in me, have you?'"]
"You have no further interest in me, have you?" she demanded.
Jacqueline did not answer.
"I ought to have come here before," said Aunt Hannah. "I ought to have
come here immediately and explained to you that when I wrote that letter
I hadn't the vaguest notion that you were already married. Do you think
I'd have been such a fool if I'd known it, Jacqueline?"
Jacqueline lifted her troubled eyes: "I do not think you should have
interfered at all."
"Good heavens! I know that! I knew it when I did it. It's the one
hopelessly idiotic act of my life. Never, _never_ was anything gained or
anything altered by interfering where real love is. I knew it, child.
It's an axiom--a perfectly self-evident proposition--an absolutely
hopeless effort. But I chanced it. Your mother, if she were alive, would
have chanced it. Don't blame me too much; be a little sorry for me.
Because I loved you when I did it. And many, many of the most terrible
mistakes in life are made because of love, Jacqueline. The mistakes of
hate are fewer."
Aunt Hannah's folded hands tightened on the gun-metal reticule across
her knees.
"It's too late to say I'm sorry," she said. "Besides, I'd do it again."
"What!"
"Yes, I would. So would your mother. I _am_ sorry; but I _would_ do it
again! I love you enough to do it again--and--and suffer what I _am_
suffering in consequence."
Jacqueline looked at her in angry bewilderment, and the spark in the
little black eyes died out.
"Child," she said wearily, "we childless women who love are capable of
the same self-sacrifice that mothers understand. I wrote you to save
you, practically certain that I was giving you up by doing it--and that
with every word of warning I was signing my own death warrant in your
affections. But I _couldn't_ sit still and let you go to the altar
unwarned. Had I cared less for you, yes! I could have let you take your
chances undisturbed by me. But--you took them anyway--took them before
my warning could do anything except anger you. Otherwise, it would have
hurt and angered you, too. I have no illusions; what I said would have
availed nothing. Only--it was my duty to say it. I never was crazy about
doing my duty. But I did it this time."
She found a fresh handkerchief in her reticule and rolled it nervously
into a wad.
"So--that is all, Jacqueline. I've made a bad mess of it. I've made a
far worse one than I supposed possible. You are unhappy. James is
perfectly wretched. The boy came to me furious, bewildered, almost
exasperated, to find out what had been said about him and who had said
it. And--and I told him what I thought of him. I _did_! And when he had
gone, I--cried myself sick--_sick_, I tell you.
"And that's why I'm here. It has given me courage to come here. I know I
am discredited; that what I say will be condemned in advance; that you
are too hurt, too hostile to me to be influenced. But--I must say my say
before I go out of your life--and his--forever. And what I came to say
to you is this. Forgive that boy! Pardon absolutely everything he has
done; eliminate it; annihilate the memory of it if you can! Memory _can_
be stunned, if not destroyed. I know; I've had to do it often. So I say
to you, begin again with him. Give that boy his chance to grow up to
your stature. In all the world I believe you are the only woman who can
ennoble him and make of him something fine--if not your peer, at least
its masculine equivalent. I do not mean to be bitter. But I cannot help
my opinion of things masculine. Forgive him, Jacqueline. Many men are
better than he; many, many are worse. But the best among them are not so
very much better than your boy Jim. Forgive him and help him to grow up.
And--that is all--I think----"
She rose and turned sharply away. Jacqueline rose and crossed the room
to open the door for her. They met there. Aunt Hannah's ugly little face
remained averted while she waited for the open door to free her.
"Mr. Desboro and I are going to be happy," said Jacqueline in a strained
voice.
"It lies with you," snapped Aunt Hannah.
"Yes--a great deal seems to lie with me. The burden of decision seems to
lie with me very often. Somehow I can't escape it. And I am not wise,
not experienced enough----"
"You are _good_. That's wisdom enough for decision."
"But--do you know--I am _not_ very good."
"Why not?"
"Because I understand much that is evil. How can real innocence be so
unworthily wise?"
"Innocence isn't goodness by a long shot!" said Aunt Hannah bluntly.
"The good _know_--and refrain."
There was a silence; the elder woman in her black gown stood waiting,
her head still obstinately averted. Suddenly she felt the girl's soft
arms around her neck, quivered, caught her in a fierce embrace.
"I--I want you to care for Jim," faltered the girl. "I want you to know
what he really is--the dearest and most generous of men. I want you to
discover the real nobility in him. He _is_ only a boy, as yet, Aunt
Hannah. And he--he must not be--cruelly--punished."
When Aunt Hannah had marched out, still inclined to dab at her eyes, but
deeply and thankfully happy, Jacqueline called up her husband at his
office.
"Jim, dear," she said, "I have had a visit from Aunt Hannah. And she's
terribly unhappy because she thinks you and I are; so I told her that we
are not unhappy, and I scolded her for saying those outrageous things to
you. And she took it so meekly, and--and she does really care for
us--and--and I've made up with her. Was it disloyal to you to forgive
her?"
"No," he said quietly. "What she said to me was the truth."
"I don't know what she said to you, dear. She didn't tell me. But I
gathered from her that it was something intensely disagreeable. So don't
ever tell me--because I might begin to dislike her again. And--it wasn't
true, anyway. She knows that now. So--we will be friendly to her, won't
we?"
"Of course. She adores you anyway----"
"If she doesn't adore you, too, I won't care for her!" said the girl
hotly.
He laughed; she could hear him distinctly; and she realised with a
little thrill that it was the same engaging laugh which she had first
associated with the delightful, graceful, charming young fellow who was
now her husband.
"What are you doing, Jim?" she asked, smiling in sympathy.
"There's absolutely nothing doing in the office, dear."
"Then--could you come over here?"
"Oh, Jacqueline! Do _you_ tempt me?"
"No," she said hastily. "I suppose you ought to be there in the office,
whether there's anything to do or not. Listen, Jim. I've invited Cynthia
and Jack Cairns for the week-end. Was it all right?"
"Of course."
"You don't really mind, do you?"
"Not a bit, dear."
"We can be by ourselves if we wish. They're going to read a play
together," she explained naïvely, "and they won't bother us----"
She checked herself, blushing furiously. He, at his end of the wire,
could scarcely speak for the quick tumult of his heart, but he managed
to say calmly enough:
"We've got the entire estate to roam over if they bore us."
"Will you take me for a walk on Sunday?"
"Yes, if you would care to go."
"Haven't I invited you to take me?"
"Have you really, Jacqueline?"
"Yes. Good-bye. I will be waiting for you at five."
She returned to her desk, the flush slowly cooling in her cheeks; and
she was just resuming her seat when a clerk brought Clydesdale's card.
"I could see Mr. Clydesdale now," she said, glancing over the
appointment list on her desk. Her smile had died out with the colour in
her cheeks, and her beautiful eyes grew serious and stern. For the name
that this man bore was associated in her mind with terrible and
unspeakable things. Never again could she hear that name with
equanimity; never recall it unmoved. Yet, now, she made an effort to put
from her all that menaced her composure at the mere mention of that
name--strove to think only of the client and kindly amateur who had
treated her always with unvarying courtesy and consideration.
He came in grinning, as usual, and she took his extended and
highly-coloured paw, smiling her greeting.
"Is it a little social visit, Mr. Clydesdale, or have you discovered
some miracle of ancient Cathay which you covet?"
"It's--my wife."
Her smile fled and her features altered to an expressionless and
colourless mask. For a second there was a gleam of fear in her eyes,
then they grew cold and clear and blue as arctic ice.
He remained standing, the grin stamped on his sanguine features.
Presently he said, heavily:
"I have come to you to make what reparation I can--in my wife's name--in
her behalf. Our deep humiliation, deeper contrition, are the only
reparation we can offer you. It is hard for me to speak. My wife is at
home, ill. And she can not rest until she has told you, through me,
that--that what she said to you the last time she saw you--here, in this
office--was an untruth."
Jacqueline, dazed, merely stared at him. He bent his head and seemed to
be searching in his mind for words. He found them after a while.
"Yes," he said in a low voice, "what my wife said, and what she
permitted you to infer--concerning herself and--Mr. Desboro--was utterly
untrue. God alone knows why she said it. But she did. I could plead
extenuation for her--if your patience permits. She is naturally very
nervous; she _did_ care a great deal for Mr. Desboro; she did, at that
time, really dislike me," he added with a quiet dignity which made every
word he uttered ring out clear as a shot. And Jacqueline seemed to feel
their impact on her very heart.
He said: "There are other circumstances--painful ones. She had been for
months--even years--in fear of blackmail--terrorised by it until she
became morbid. I did not know this. I was not aware that an indiscreet
but wholly innocent escapade of her youth had furnished this blackmailer
with a weapon. I understand now, why, caring as she did for Mr. Desboro,
and excited, harassed, terrified, exasperated, she was willing to make
an end of it with him rather than face possible disgrace with me for
whom she did not care. It is no excuse. She offers none. I offer none
for her. Nothing--no mental, no physical state could excuse what she has
done. Only--I wish--and she wishes you to know that she has been guilty
of permitting you to believe a monstrous untruth which would have
consigned her to infamy had it been true, and absolutely damned the man
you have married."
She strove to comprehend this thing that he was saying--tried to realise
that he was absolutely clearing her husband of the terrible and nameless
shadow which, she knew now, never could have entirely fled away, except
for the mercy of God and the words of humiliation now sounding in her
ears.
She stared at him. And the terrible thing was that he was grinning
still--grinning through all the agony of his shame and dreadful
abasement. And she longed to turn away--to shut out his face from her
sight. But dared not.
"That is all," he said heavily. "Perhaps there is a little more to
say--but it will leave you indifferent, very naturally. Yet, may I say
that this--this heart-breaking crisis in her life, and--in
mine--has--brought us together? And--a little more. My wife is to become
a mother. Which is why I venture to hope that you will be merciful to us
both in your thoughts. I do not ask for your pardon, which you could
never give----"
"Mr. Clydesdale!" She had risen, trembling, both little hands flat on
the desk top to steady her, and was looking straight at him.
[Illustration: "'I--I have never thought mercilessly'"]
"I--my thoughts----" she stammered "are not cruel. Say so to your wife.
I--I have never thought mercilessly. Every instinct within me is
otherwise. And I know what suffering is. And I do not wish it for
anybody. Say so to your wife, and that I wish her--happiness--with her
baby."
She was trembling so that he could scarcely control between his two huge
fists the little hand that he saluted in wordless gratitude and grief.
Then, without looking at her again, or speaking, he went his way. And
she dropped back into her chair, the tears of sheer happiness and
excitement flowing unchecked.
But she was permitted no time to collect her thoughts, no solitude for
happy tears, and, at the clerk's sharp knocking, she dried her eyes
hastily and bade him enter.
The card he laid on her desk seemed to amaze her.
"_That_ man!" she said slowly. "Is he _here_, Mr. Mirk?"
"Yes, madam. He asks for one minute only, saying that it is a matter of
most desperate importance to you----"
"To _me_?"
"Yes, madam."
Again she looked at Mr. Waudle's card.
"Bring him," she said crisply. And the blue lightning flashed in her
eyes.
When Mr. Waudle came in and the clerk had gone and closed the door,
Jacqueline said quietly:
"I'll give you one minute, Mr. Waudle. Proceed."
"I think," he said, looking at her out of his inflamed eyes, "that
you'll feel inclined to give me more than that when you understand what
I've got in this packet." And he drew from his overcoat pocket a roll of
galley proofs.
"What is it?" she asked, looking calmly into his dangerous red eyes.
"It's a story, set up and in type--as you see. And it's about your
husband and Mrs. Clydesdale--if you want to know."
A shaft of fear struck straight through her. Then, in an instant the
blanched cheeks flushed and the blue eyes cleared and sparkled.
"What is it you wish?" she asked in a curiously still voice.
"I'll tell you; don't worry. I want you to stop this man Clydesdale, and
stop him short. I don't care how you do it; _do_ it, that's all. He's
bought and paid for certain goods delivered to him by me. Now he's
squealing. He wants his money back. And--if he gets it back this story
goes in. Want me to read it to you?"
"No. What is it you wish me to do--deceive Mr. Clydesdale? Make him
believe that the remainder of the jades and rose-quartz carvings are
genuine?"
"It looks good to me," said Mr. Waudle more cheerfully. "It sounds all
right. You threw us down; it's up to you to pick us up."
"I see," she said pleasantly. "And unless I do you are intending to
publish that--story?"
"Sure as hell!" he nodded.
She remained silent and thoughtful so long that he began to hitch about
in his chair and cast furtive, sidelong glances at her and at the
curtained walls around the room. Suddenly his face grew ghastly.
"Look here!" he whispered hoarsely. "Is this a plant?"
"What?"
"Is there anybody else in this room?" He lurched to his feet and waddled
hastily around the four walls, flinging aside the green velvet curtains.
Only the concealed pictures were revealed; and he went back to his
chair, removing the cold sweat from his forehead and face with his
sleeve.
"By God!" he said. "For a moment I thought you had done me good and
plenty. But it wouldn't have helped _you_! They've got this story in the
office, and the minute I'm pinched, in it goes! Understand?"
"No," she said serenely, "but it doesn't really matter. You may go now,
Mr. Waudle."
"Hey?"
"Must I ring for a clerk to put you out?"
"Oh! So that's the game, is it? Well, I tell you that you can't bluff
me, little lady! Let's settle it now."
"No," she said. "I must have time to consider."
"How long?"
"An hour or two."
"You'll make up your mind in two hours?"
"Yes."
"All right," he said, almost jovially. "That suits me. Call me up on the
'phone and tell me what you decide. My number is on my card."
She looked at the card. It bore his telephone number and his house
address.
He seemed inclined to linger, evidently with the idea of tightening his
grip on her by either persuasion or bullying, as her attitude might
warrant. But she touched the bell and Mr. Mirk appeared; and the author
of "Black Roses" took himself off perforce, with many a knowing leer,
both threatening and blandishing.
As soon as he had gone, she called up her husband. Very quietly, but
guardedly, she conversed with him for a few moments.
When she hung up the receiver she was laughing. But it was otherwise
with Desboro.
"Cairns," he said, turning from the telephone to his associate, "there's
a silly fellow bothering my wife. If you don't mind my leaving the
office for a few minutes I'll step around and speak to him." His usually
agreeable features had grown colourless and ugly, but his voice sounded
casual enough.
"What are you going to do, Jim? Murder?"
Desboro laughed.
"I'll be gone only a few minutes," he said.
"It _could_ be done in a few minutes," mused Cairns. "Do you want me to
go with you?"
"No, thanks." He picked up his hat, nodded curtly, and went out.
Mr. Waudle and Mr. Munger maintained a "den," literary and otherwise, in
one of the new studio buildings just east of Lexington Avenue. This was
the address Mr. Waudle had left for Jacqueline; to this destination
Desboro now addressed himself. Thither an itinerant taxicab bore him on
shaky springs. He paid the predatory chauffeur, turned to enter the
building, and met Clydesdale face to face, entering the same doorway.
"Hello!" said the latter with a cheerful grin. "Where are you bound?"
"Oh, there's a man hereabouts with whom I have a few moments' business."
"Same here," observed Clydesdale.
They entered the building together, and both walked straight through to
the elevator.
"Mr. Waudle," said Clydesdale briefly to the youth in charge. "You need
not announce me."
Desboro looked at him curiously, and caught Clydesdale's eyes furtively
measuring him.
"Odd," he said pleasantly, "but my business is with the same man."
"I was wondering."
They exchanged perfectly inexpressive glances.
"Couldn't your business wait?" inquired Desboro politely.
"Sorry, Desboro, but I was a little ahead of you in the entry, I think."
The car stopped.
"Studio twenty," said the boy; slammed the gates, and shot down into
dimly lighted depths again, leaving the two men together.
"I am wondering," mused Clydesdale gently, "whether by any chance your
business with this--ah--Mr. Waudle resembles my business with him."
They looked at each other.
Desboro nodded: "Very probably," he said in a low voice.
"Oh! Then perhaps you might care to be present at the business meeting,"
said Clydesdale, "as a spectator, merely, of course."
"Thanks, awfully. But might I not persuade _you_ to remain as a
spectator----"
"Very good of you, Desboro, but I need the--ah--exercise. Really, I've
gone quite stale this winter. Don't even keep up my squash."
"Mistake," said Desboro gravely. "'Fraid you'll overdo it, old chap."
"Oh, I'll have a shy at it," said Clydesdale cheerfully. "Very glad to
have you score, if you like."
"If you insist," replied the younger man courteously.
There was a bell outside Studio No. 20. Desboro punched it with the
ferrule of his walking stick; and when the door opened, somewhat
cautiously, Clydesdale inserted his huge foot between the door and the
sill.
There was a brief and frantic scuffle; then the poet fled, his bunch of
frizzled hair on end, and the two men entered the apartment.
To the left a big studio loomed, set with artistic furniture and
bric-a-brac and Mr. Waudle--the latter in motion. In fact, he was at
that moment in the process of rushing at Mr. Clydesdale, and under full
head-way.
Whenever Mr. Waudle finally obtained sufficient momentum to rush, he
appeared to be a rather serious proposition; for he was as tall as
Clydesdale and very much fatter, and his initial velocity, combined with
his impact force per square inch might have rivalled the dynamic
problems of the proving ground.
Clydesdale took one step forward to welcome him, and Waudle went down,
like thunder.
Then he got up, went down immediately; got up, went down, stayed down
for an appreciable moment; arose, smote the air, was smitten with a
smack so terrific that the poet, who was running round and round the
four walls, squeaked in sympathy.
Waudle sat up on the floor, his features now an unrecognisable mess. He
was crying.
"I say, Desboro, catch that poet for me--there's a good chap," said
Clydesdale, breathing rather hard.
The Cubist, who had been running round and round like a frantic rabbit,
screamed and ran the faster.
"Oh, just shy some bric-a-brac at him and come home," said Desboro in
disgust.
But Clydesdale caught him, seated himself, jerked the devotee of the
moon across his ponderous knees, and, grinning, hoisted on high the
heavy hand of justice. And the post-impressionistic literature of the
future shrieked.
"Very precious, isn't it?" panted Clydesdale. "You dirty little mop of
hair, I think I'll spank _you_ into the future. Want a try at this
moon-pup, Desboro? No? Quite right; you don't need the exercise. Whew!"
And he rolled the writhing poet off his knees and onto the floor, sat up
breathing hard and grinning around him.
"Now for the club and a cold plunge--eh, Desboro? I tell you it puts
life into a man, doesn't it? Perhaps, while I'm about it, I might as
well beat up the other one a little more----"
"My God!" blubbered Waudle.
"Oh, very well--if you feel that way about it," grinned Clydesdale. "But
you understand that you won't have any sensation to feel with at all if
you ever again even think of the name of Mrs. Clydesdale."
He got up, still panting jovially, pleased as a great Dane puppy who has
shaken an old shoe to fragments.
At the door he paused and glanced back.
"Take it from me," he said genially, "if we ever come back, we'll kill."
* * * * *
In the street once more, they lingered on the sidewalk for a moment or
two before separating. Clydesdale drew off his split and ruined gloves,
rolled them together and tossed them into the passing handcart of a
street sweeper.
"Unpleasant job," he commented.
"I don't think you'll have it to do over again," smiled Desboro.
"No, I think not. And thank you for yielding so gracefully to me. It was
my job. But you didn't miss anything; it was like hitting a feather bed.
No sport in it--but had to be done. Well, glad to have seen you again,
Desboro."
They exchanged grips; both flushed a trifle, hesitated, nodded
pleasantly to each other, and separated.
At the office Cairns inspected him curiously as he entered, but, as
Desboro said nothing, he asked no questions. A client or two sauntered
in and out. At one o'clock they lunched together.
"I understand you're coming up for the week-end," said Desboro.
"Your wife was good enough to ask me."
"Glad you're coming. Old Herrendene has been ordered to Governor's
Island. He expects to stop with the Lindley Hammertons over Sunday."
"That Daisy girl's a corker," remarked Cairns, "--only I've always been
rather afraid of her."
"She's a fine girl."
"Rather in Herrendene's class--lots of character," nodded Cairns
thoughtfully. "Having none myself, she always had me backed up against
the rail."
After a silence, Desboro said: "That was a ghastly break of mine last
night."
"Rotten," said Cairns bluntly.
The painful colour rose to Desboro's temples.
"It will be the last, Jack. I lived a thousand years last night."
"I lived a few hundred myself," said Cairns reproachfully. "And _what_ a
thoroughbred your wife is!"
Desboro nodded and drew a deep, unsteady breath.
"Well," he said, after a few moments, "it is a terrible thing for a man
to learn what he really is. But if he doesn't learn it he's lost."
Cairns assented with a jerk of his head.
"But who's to hold up the mirror to a man?" he asked. "When his father
and mother shove it under his nose he won't look; when clergy or laymen
offer him a looking-glass he shuts his eyes and tries to kick them.
That's the modern youngster--the product of this modern town with its
modern modes of thought."
"The old order of things was the best," said Desboro. "Has anybody given
us anything better than what they reasoned us into discarding--the old
gentleness of manners, the quaint, stiff formalisms now out of date, the
shyness and reticence of former days, the serenity, the faith which is
now unfashionable, the old-time reverence?"
"I don't know," said Cairns, "what we've gained in the discard. I look
now at the cards they offer us to take up, and there is nothing on them.
And the game has forced us to throw away what we had." He caressed his
chin thoughtfully. "The only way to do is to return to first principles,
cut a fresh pack, never mind new rules and innovations, but play the
game according to the decalogue. And nobody can call you down." He
reddened, and added honestly: "That's not entirely my own, Jim. There
are some similar lines in a new play which Miss Lessler and I were
reading this morning."
"Reading? Where?"
"Oh, we walked through the Park together rather early--took it easy, you
know. She read aloud as we walked."
"She is coming for the week-end," said Desboro.
"I believe so."
Desboro, lighting a cigarette, permitted his very expressionless glance
to rest on his friend for the briefest fraction of a second.
"The papers," he said, "speak of her work with respect."
"Miss Lessler," said Cairns, "is a most unusual girl."
Neither men referred to the early days of their acquaintance with
Cynthia Lessler. As though by tacit agreement those days seemed to have
been entirely forgotten.
"A rarely intelligent and lovely comedienne," mused Cairns, poking the
cigar ashes on the tray and finally laying aside his cigar. "Well, Jim,
I suppose the office yawns for us. But it won't have anything on my yawn
when I get there!"
They went back across Fifth Avenue in the brilliant afternoon sunshine,
to dawdle about the office and fuss away the afternoon in pretense that
the awakening of the Street from its long lethargy was imminent.
At half past three Cairns took himself off, leaving Desboro studying the
sunshine on the ceiling. At five the latter awoke from his day dream,
stood up, shook himself, drew a deep breath, and straightened his
shoulders. Before him, now delicately blurred and charmingly indistinct,
still floated the vision of his day-dream; and, with a slight effort, he
could still visualise, as he moved out into the city and through its
noise and glitter, south, into that quieter street where his day-dream's
vision lived and moved and had her earthly being.
Mr. Mirk came smiling and bowing from the dim interior. There was no
particular reason for the demonstration, but Desboro shook his hand
cordially.
"Mrs. Desboro is in her office," said Mr. Mirk. "You know the way,
sir--if you please----"
He knew the way. It was not likely that he would ever forget the path
that he had followed that winter day.
At his knock she opened the door herself.
"I don't know how I knew it was your knock," she said, giving ground as
he entered. There was an expression in his face that made her own
brighten, as though perhaps she had not been entirely certain in what
humour he might arrive.
"The car will be here in a few minutes," he said. "That's a tremendously
pretty hat of yours."
"Do you like it? I saw it the other day. And somehow I felt extravagant
this afternoon and telephoned for it. Do you really like it, Jim?"
"It's a beauty."
"I'm so glad--so relieved. Sometimes I catch you looking at me, Jim, and
I wonder how critical you really are. I _want_ you to like what I wear.
You'll always tell me when you don't, won't you?"
"No fear of my not agreeing with your taste," he said cheerfully. "By
the way--and apropos of nothing--Waudle won't bother you any more."
"Oh!"
"I believe Clydesdale interviewed him--and the other one--the poet." He
laughed. "Afterward there was not enough remaining for me to interview."
Jacqueline's serious eyes, intensely blue, were lifted to his.
"We won't speak of them again, ever," she said in a low voice.
"Right, as always," he rejoined gaily.
She still stood looking at him out of grave and beautiful eyes, which
seemed strangely shy and tender to him. Then, slowly shaking her head
she said, half to herself:
"I have much to answer for--more than you must ever know. But I shall
answer for it; never fear."
"What are you murmuring there all by yourself, Jacqueline?" he said
smilingly; and ventured to take her gloved hand into his. She, too,
smiled, faintly, and stood silent, pretty head bent, absorbed in her own
thoughts.
A moment later a clerk tapped and announced their car. She looked up at
her husband, and the confused colour in her face responded to the quick
pressure of his hands.
"Are you quite ready to go?" he asked.
"Yes--ready always--to go where--you lead."
Her flushed face reflected the emotion in his as they went out together
into the last rays of the setting sun.
"Have we time to motor to Silverwood?" she asked.
"Would you care to?"
"I'd love to."
So he spoke to the chauffeur and entered the car after her.
It was a strange journey for them both, with the memory of their last
journey together still so fresh, so pitilessly clear, in their minds. In
this car, over this road, beside this man, she had travelled with a
breaking heart and a mind haunted by horror unspeakable.
To him the memory of that journey was no less terrible. They spoke to
each other tranquilly but seriously, and in voices unconsciously
lowered. And there were many lapses into stillness--many long intervals
of silence. But during the longest of these, when the Westchester hills
loomed duskily ahead, she slipped her hand into his and left it there
until the lights of Silverwood glimmered low on the hill and the gate
lanterns flashed in their eyes as the car swung into the fir-bordered
drive and rolled up to the house.
"Home," she said, partly to herself; and he turned toward her in quick
gratitude.
Once more the threatened emotion confused her, but she evaded it,
forcing a gaiety not in accord with her mood, as he aided her to
descend.
"Certainly it's my home, monsieur, as well as yours," she repeated, "and
you'll feel the steel under the velvet hand of femininity as soon as I
assume the reins of government. For example, you can _not_ entertain
your cats and dogs in the red drawing-room any more. Now do you feel the
steel?"
They went to their sitting-room laughing.
About midnight she rose from the sofa. They had been discussing plans
for the future, repairs, alterations, improvements for Silverwood
House--and how to do many, many wonderful things at vast expense; and
how to practice rigid economy and do nothing at all.
[Illustration: "And, as she rose, he was still figuring"]
It had been agreed that he was to give up his rooms in town and use hers
whenever they remained in New York over night. And, as she rose, he was
still figuring out, with pencil and pad, how much they would save by
this arrangement. Now he looked up, saw her standing, and rose too.
She looked at him with sweet, sleepy, humourous eyes.
"Isn't it disgraceful and absurd?" she said. "But if I don't have my
sleep I simply become stupid and dreary and useless beyond words."
"Why did you let me keep you up?" he said gently.
"Because I wanted to stay up with you," she said. She had moved to the
centre table where the white carnations, as usual, filled the bowl. Her
slender hand touched them caressingly, lingered, and presently detached
a blossom.
She lifted it dreamily, inhaling the fragrance and looking over its
scented chalice at him.
"Good-night, Jim," she said.
"Good-night, dearest." He came over to her, hesitated, reddening; then
bent and kissed her hand and the white flower it held.
At her own door she lingered, turning to look after him as he crossed
his threshold; then slowly entered her room, her lips resting on the
blossom which he had kissed.