Chambers Robert William
The Business of Life

CHAPTER XVIII

Desboro passed a miserable afternoon at the office. If there had been any business to take his mind off himself it might have been easier for him; but for a long time now there had been nothing stirring in Wall Street; the public kept away; business was dead.

After hours he went to the club, feeling physically wretched. Man after man came up and congratulated him on his marriage – some whom he knew scarcely more intimately than to bow to, spoke to him. He was a very great favourite.

In the beginning, it was merely a stimulant that he thought he needed; later he declined no suggestion, and even made a few, with an eye on the clock. For at five he was to meet Jacqueline.

Toward five his demeanour had altered to that gravely urbane and too courteous manner indicative of excess; and his flushed face had become white and tense.

Cairns found him in the card room at six, saw at a glance how matters stood with him, and drew him into a corner of the window with scant ceremony.

"What's the matter with you?" he said sharply. "You told me that you were to meet your wife at five!"

Desboro's manner became impressively courteous.

"Inadvertently," he said, "I have somehow or other mislaid the clock. Once it stood somewhere in this vicinity, but – "

"Damn it! There it is! Look at it!"

Desboro looked gravely in the direction where Cairns was pointing.

"That undoubtedly is a clock," he said. "But now a far more serious problem confronts us, John. Having located a clock with a certain amount of accuracy, what is the next step to take in finding out the exact time?"

"Don't you know how to tell the time?" demanded Cairns, furious.

"Pardon. I know how to tell it, provided I once know what it is – "

"Are you drunk?"

"I have never," said Desboro, courteously, "experienced intoxication. At present I am perfectly cognisant of contemporary events now passing in my immediate vicinity – "

"Where were you to meet your wife?"

"At the depository of her multitudinous and intricate affairs of business – in other words, at her office, dear friend."

"You can't go to her this way."

"It were unwise, perhaps," said Desboro, pleasantly.

Cairns gripped his arm: "You go to the baths; do you hear? Tell Louis to massage the edge off you. I'm going to speak to your wife."

So Desboro sauntered off toward the elevator and Cairns called up Jacqueline's office.

It appeared that Jacqueline had left. Should they switch him on to her private apartments above?

In a moment his call was answered.

"Is this Mrs. Desboro?" he asked. And at the same instant recognised Cynthia Lessler's voice.

She returned his greeting briefly.

"Jacqueline thought that perhaps she had misunderstood Mr. Desboro, so she has gone to the station. Did he go there?"

"N – no. He had an appointment and – "

"Where?"

"At the club – the Olympian Club – "

"Is he there?"

"Yes – "

"Then tell him to go at once to the station, or he will miss his wife and the 6:15 train, too!"

"I – he – Jim isn't feeling very well – "

"Is he ill!"

"N – no. Oh, no! He's merely tired – over-worked – "

"What!"

"Oh, he's just taking a cold plunge and a rub-down – "

"Mr. Cairns!"

"Yes."

"Take a taxi and come here before Jacqueline returns."

"Did you wish – "

"Yes. How soon can you get here?"

"Five minutes."

"I'll wait."

"A rotten piece of business," muttered Cairns, taking hat and stick from the cloak room.

The starter had a taxi ready. Except for the usual block on Fifth Avenue, they would have made it in four minutes. It took them ten.

Cynthia met him on the landing and silently ushered him into Jacqueline's pretty little parlour. She still wore her hat and coat; a fur boa lay on a sofa.

"Now," she said, leaning forward in her chair as soon as he was seated, "what is the meaning of this?"

"Of what?" he asked, pretending mild surprise.

"Of Mr. Desboro's behaviour! He was married yesterday to the dearest, sweetest, loveliest girl in the world. To-day, I stop at her office to see her – and I find that she is unhappy. She couldn't hide it from me! I love her! And all her smiles and forced gaiety and clever maneuvering were terrible to me – heart-breaking. She is dreadfully unhappy. Why?"

"I didn't know it," said Cairns honestly.

"Is that true?"

"Absolutely."

"Very well. But you know why he didn't meet Jacqueline at five, don't you?"

He looked at her miserably: "Yes, I know. I wouldn't let him."

"Is he intoxicated?"

"No. He has had more than he should have."

"What a cur!" she said between her teeth.

Cairns bit his lip and nervously twirled his walking stick.

"See here, Cynthia, Jim isn't a cur, you know."

"What do you call a man who has done what he's done?"

"I – I tell you it has me guessing. Because it isn't like Jim Desboro. He's never that way – not once in years. Only when he's up against it does he ever do that. And he's perfectly mad about his wife. Don't make any mistake there; he's dead in love with her – crazy about her. But – he came into the office about one to-day, looking like the deuce – so changed, so white, so 'all in,' that I thought he had the grippe or something."

Cynthia said: "They've had a quarrel. Oh, what is it – what could it be, Jack? You know it will break her heart. It's breaking mine now. I can't bear it – I simply can't – "

"Haven't the least idea what's wrong," said Cairns, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and beating the hearth with his walking stick.

"Can't Mr. Desboro come here pretty soon?"

"Oh, yes, I think so. I'll go back and look him over – "

Cynthia's eyes suddenly glistened with tears, and she bowed her head.

"My dear child," expostulated Cairns, "it's nothing to weep over. It's a – one of those things likely to happen to any man – "

"But I can't bear to have it happen to Jacqueline's husband. Oh, I wish she had never seen him, never heard of him! He is a thousand, thousand miles beneath her. He isn't worth – "

"For heaven's sake, Cynthia, don't think that!"

"Think it! I know it! Of what value is that sort of man compared to a girl like Jacqueline! Of what use is that sort of man anyway! I know them," she said bitterly, "I've had my lesson in that school. One and all, young and old, rich or poor —comparatively poor – they are the same. The same ideas haunt their idle and selfish minds, the same motives move them, the same impulses rule them, and they reason with their emotions, not with their brains. Arrogant, insolent, condescending, self-centred, self-indulgent, and utterly predatory! That is the type! And they belong where people prey upon one another, not among the clean and sweet and innocent. They belong where there is no question of marriage or of home or of duty; they belong where lights are many and brilliant, where there is money, and plenty of it! Where there is noise, and too much of it! That is where that sort of man belongs. And nobody knows it as well as such a girl as I! Nobody, nobody!" Her lip quivered and she choked back the tears.

"And – and now – such a man has taken my little friend – my little girl – Jacqueline – "

"Do you think he's as rotten as what you say?"

"Yes. Yes!"

"Then – what must you think of me?"

She glanced up, blotting her wet lashes with her handkerchief.

"What do you mean, Jack?"

"I suppose I'm included among the sort of men you have been so graphically describing?"

She did not answer.

"Am I not included?"

She shook her head slightly.

"Why not? If your description fits Jim Desboro and Reggie Ledyard, and that set, it must naturally fit me, also."

But she shook her head almost imperceptibly.

"Why do you exclude me, Cynthia?"

But she had nothing to say about him. Long ago – long, long since, she had made excuses for all that he should have been and was not. It was not a matter for discussion; she and her heart had settled it between them without calling in Logic as umpire, and without recourse to Reason for an opinion.

"The worst of it is," he said, rising and picking up his hat, "some of your general description does fit me."

"I – did not mean it that way – "

"But it does fit, Cynthia; doesn't it?"

"No."

"What!" incredulously.

She said in a low voice: "You were very kind to me, Jack; and – not like other men. Do you think I can ever forget that?"

He forced a laugh: "Great actresses are expected to forget things. Besides, there isn't anything to remember – except that – we were friends."

"Real friends. I know it now. Because the world is full of the other kind. But a real friend does not – destroy. Good-bye."

"Shall I see you again?" he asked, troubled.

"If you wish. I gave you my address yesterday."

"Will you really be at home to me, Cynthia?"

"Try," she said, unsmiling.

She went to the landing with him.

"Will you see that Mr. Desboro comes here as soon as he is – fit?"

"Yes."

"Very well. I'll tell Jacqueline he was not feeling well and fell asleep at the club. It's one of those lies that may be forgiven – " she shrugged " – but anyway I'll risk it."

So he went away, and she watched his departure, standing by the old-time stair-well until she heard the lower door clang. Then, grieved and angry, she seated herself and nervously awaited Jacqueline's reappearance.

The girl returned ten minutes later, pale and plainly worried, but carrying it off lightly enough.

"Cynthia!" she exclaimed, smilingly. "Where do you suppose that husband of mine can be! He isn't at the station. I boarded the train, but he was not on it! Isn't it odd? I – I don't suppose anything could have happened to him – any accident – because the motor drivers are so reckless – "

"You darling thing!" laughed Cynthia. "Your young man is perfectly safe – "

"Oh, of course I – I believe so – "

"He is! He's at his club."

"What!"

"It's perfectly simple," said Cynthia coolly, "he went there from his office, feeling a bit under the weather – "

"Is he ill?"

"No, no! He was merely tired, I believe. And he stretched out and fell asleep and failed to wake up. That's all."

Jacqueline looked at her in relieved astonishment for a moment.

"Did he telephone?"

"Yes – or rather, Mr. Cairns did – "

"Mr. Cairns! Why did Mr. Cairns telephone? Why didn't my husband telephone? Cynthia – look at me!"

Cynthia met her eye undaunted.

"Why," repeated Jacqueline, "didn't my husband telephone to me? Is he too ill? Is that it? Are you concealing it? Are you, Cynthia?"

Cynthia smiled: "He's a casual young man, darling. I believe he's taking a cold plunge or something. He'll probably be here in a few minutes. So I'll say good-night." She picked up her fur neckpiece, glanced at the mirror, fluffed a curl or two, and turned to Jacqueline. "Don't spoil him, ducky," she whispered, putting her hands on the young wife's shoulders and looking her deep in the eyes.

Jacqueline flushed painfully.

"How do you mean, Cynthia?"

The latter said: "There are a million ways of spoiling a man beside giving up to him."

"I don't give up to him," said Jacqueline in a colourless voice.

Cynthia looked at her gravely:

"It's hard to know what to do, dear. When a girl gives up to a man she spoils him sometimes; when she doesn't she sometimes spoils him. It's hard to know what to do – very hard."

Jacqueline's gaze grew troubled and remote.

"How to love a man wisely – that's a very hard thing for a girl to learn," murmured Cynthia. "But – the main thing – the important thing, is to love him, I think. And I suppose we have to take our chances of spoiling him."

"The main thing," said Jacqueline slowly, "is that he should know you do love him; isn't it?"

"Yes. But the problem is, how best to show it. And that requires wisdom, dear. And where is a girl to acquire that kind of wisdom? What experience has she? What does she know? Ah, we don't know. There lies the trouble. By instinct, disposition, natural reticence, and training, we are disposed to offer too little, perhaps; But often, in fear that our reticence may not be understood, we offer too much."

"I – am afraid of that."

"Of offering too much?"

"Yes."

They stood, thoughtful a moment, not looking at each other.

Cynthia said in a low voice: "Be careful of him, ducky. His is not the stronger character. Perhaps he needs more than you give."

"What!"

"I – I think that perhaps he is not the kind of man to be spoiled by giving. And – it is possible to starve some men by the well-meant kindness of reserve."

"All women – modest women – are reserved."

"Is a mother's reserve praiseworthy when her child comes to her for intimate companionship – for tenderness perhaps – and puts its little arms around her neck?"

Jacqueline stared, then blushed furiously.

"Why do you suppose that I am likely to be lacking in sympathy, Cynthia?"

"You are not. I know you too well, ducky. But you might easily be exquisitely undemonstrative."

"All women – are – undemonstrative."

"Not always."

"An honest, chaste – "

"No."

Jacqueline, deeply flushed, began in a low voice:

"To discourage the lesser emotions – "

"No! To separate them, class them as lesser, makes them so. They are merely atoms in the molecule – a tiny fragment of perfection. To be too conscious of them makes them too important; to accept them with the rest as part of the ensemble is the only way."

"Cynthia!"

"Yes, dear."

"Who has been educating you to talk this way?"

"Necessity. There is no real room for ignorance in my profession. So I don't go to parties any more; I try to educate myself. There are cultivated people in the company. They have been very kind to me. And my carelessness in English – my lack of polish – these were not inherited. My father was an educated man, if he was nothing else. You know that. Your father knew it. All I needed was to be awakened. And I am awake."

She looked honestly into the honest eyes that met hers, and shook her head.

"No self-deception can aid us to lie down to pleasant dreams, Jacqueline. And the most terrible of all deceptions is self-righteousness. Let me know myself, and I can help myself. And I know now how it would be with me if the happiness of marriage ever came to me. I would give – give everything good in me, everything needed – strip myself of my best! Because, dear, we always have more to give than they; and they need it all – all we can give them – every one."

After a silence they kissed each other; and, when Cynthia had departed, Jacqueline closed the door and returned to her chair. Seated there in deep and unhappy thought, while the slow minutes passed without him, little by little her uneasiness returned.

Eight o'clock rang from her little mantel clock. She started up and went to the window. The street lamps were shining over pavements and sidewalks deserted. Very far in the west she could catch the low roar of Broadway, endless, accentless, monotonous, interrupted only by the whiz of motors on Fifth Avenue. Now and then a wayfarer passed through the silent street below; rarely a taxicab; but neither wayfarer nor vehicle stopped at her door.

She did not realise how long she had been standing there, when from behind the mantel clock startled her again, ringing out nine. She came back into the centre of the room, and, hands clasped, stared at the dial.

She had not eaten since morning; there had been no opportunity in the press of accumulated business. She felt a trifle faint, mostly from a vague anxiety. She did not wish to call up the club; instinct forbade it; but at a quarter to ten she went to the telephone, and learned that Desboro had gone out between eight and nine. Then she asked for Cairns, and found that he also had gone away.

Sick at heart she hung up the receiver, turned aimlessly into the room again, and stood there, staring at the clock.

What had happened to her husband? What did it mean? Had she anything to do with his strange conduct? In her deep trouble and perplexity – still bewildered by the terrible hurt she had received – had her aloofness, her sadness, impossible to disguise, wounded him so deeply that he had already turned away from her?

She had meant only kindness to him – was seeking only her own convalescence, desperately determined to love and to hold this man. Hadn't he understood it? Could he not give her time to recover? How could he expect more of her – a bride, confronted in the very first hours of her wedded life by her husband's self-avowed mistress!

She stood, hesitating, clenching and unclenching her white and slender hands, striving to think, succeeding only in enduring, until endurance itself was rapidly becoming impossible.

Why was he hurting her so? Why? Why? Yet, never once was her anger aroused against this man. Somehow, he was not responsible. He was a man as God made him – one in the endless universe of men – the only one in that limitless host existing for her. He was hers – the best of him and the worst. And the worst was to be forgiven and protected, and the best was to thank God for.

She knew fear – the anxious solicitude that mothers know, awaiting the return of an errant child. She knew pain – the hurt dismay of a soul, deep wounded by its fellow, feeling a fresher and newer wound with every dragging second.

Her servant came, asking in an awed whisper whether her mistress would not eat something.

Jacqueline's proud little head went up.

"Mr. Desboro has been detained unexpectedly. I will ring for you when he comes."

But at midnight she rang, saying that she required nothing further, and that the maid could retire after unhooking her gown.

Now, in her loosened chamber-robe, she sat before the dresser combing out the thick, lustrous hair clustering in masses of gold around her white face and shoulders.

She scarcely knew what she was about – knew not at all what she was going to do with the rest of the night.

Her hair done, she lay back limply in her chintz armchair, haunted eyes fixed on the clock; and, after staring became unendurable, she picked up a book and opened it mechanically. It was Grenville, on Spanish Armour. Suddenly she remembered sitting here before with this same volume on her knees, the rain beating against the windows, a bright fire in the grate – and Fate at her elbow, bending in the firelight beside her as one by one she turned the illuminated pages, only to encounter under every jeweled helmet Desboro's smiling eyes. And, as her fingers crisped on the pages at the memory, it seemed to her at one moment that it had all taken place many, many years ago; and, in the next moment, that it had happened only yesterday.

How young she had been then – never having known sorrow except when her father died. And that sorrow was different; there was nothing in it hopeless or terrifying, believing, as she believed, in the soul's survival; nothing to pain, wound, menace her, or to awake in depths unsounded a hell of dreadful apprehension.

How young she had been when last she sat here with this well-worn volume on her knees!

Nothing of love had she ever known, only the affection of a child for her father. But – now she knew. The torture of every throbbing minute was enlightening her.

Her hands, tightly clasped together, rested on the pages of the open book; and she was staring at nothing when, without warning, the doorbell rang.

She rose straight up and pressed her left hand to her side, pale lips parted, listening; then she sprang to the door, opened it, pulled the handle controlling the wire which lifted the street-door latch. Far below in the darkness she heard the click, click, click of the latch, the opening and closing of the door, steps across the hall on the stairs, mounting nearer and nearer. And when she knew that it was he she left the door open and returned to her armchair and lay back almost stifled by the beating of her heart. But when the shaft of light across the corridor fell on him and he stood on her threshold, her heart almost stopped beating. His face was drawn and pinched and colourless; his eyes were strange, his very presence seemed curiously unfamiliar – more so still when he forced a smile and bent over her, lifting her limp fingers to his lips.

"What has been the matter, Jim?" she tried to say, but her voice almost broke.

He closed the door and stood looking around him for a moment. Then, with a glance at her, and with just that shade of deference toward her which he never lost, he seated himself.

"The matter is," he said quietly, "that I drank to excess at the club and was not fit to keep my appointment with you."

"What!" she said faintly.

"That was it, Jacqueline. Cairns did his best for us both. But – I knew it would be for the last time; I knew you would never again have to endure such things from me."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I have said, Jacqueline. You won't have it to endure again. But I had to have time to recover my senses and think it out. That is why I didn't come before. So I let Cairns believe I was coming here."

"Where did you go?"

"To my rooms. I had to face it; I had to think it all over before I came here. I would have telephoned you, but you could not have understood. What time is it?"

"Two o'clock."

"I'm sorry. I won't keep you long – "

"What do you mean? Where are you going?"

"To my rooms, I suppose. I merely came here to tell you what is the only thing for us to do. You know it already. I have just realised it."

"I don't understand what – "

"Oh, yes, you do, Jacqueline. You now have no illusions left concerning me. Nor have I any left concerning what I am and what I have done. Curious," he added very quietly, "that people had to tell me what I am and what I have done to you before I could understand it."

"What have you – done – to me?"

"Married you. And within that very hour, almost, brought sorrow and shame on you. Oh, the magic mirror has been held up to me to-day, Jacqueline; and in it everything I have done to you since the moment I first saw you has been reflected there in its real colours.

"I stepped across the straight, clean pathway of your life, telling myself the lie that I had no intentions of any sort concerning you. And, as time passed, however indefinite my motives, they became at least vaguely sinister. You were aware of this; I pretended not to be. And at last you – you saved me the infamy of self-revelation by speaking as you did. You engaged yourself to marry me. And I let you. And, not daring to let you stand the test which an announcement of our engagement would surely mean, and fearing to lose you, dreading to see you turn against me, I was cowardly enough to marry you as I did, and trust that love and devotion would hold you."

He leaned forward in his chair and shook his head.

"No use," he said quietly. "Love and devotion never become a coward. Both mean nothing unless based on honesty. And I was dishonest with you. I should have told you I was afraid that what might be said to you about me would alter you toward me. I should have told you that I dared not stand the test. But all I said to you was that it was better for us to marry as we did. And you trusted me."

Her pale, fascinated face never moved, nor did her eyes leave his for a second. He sustained her gaze gravely, and with a drawn composure that seemed akin to dignity.

"I came here to tell you this," he said, "to admit that I cheated you, cheated the world out of you, robbed you of your independence under false pretenses, married you as I did because I was afraid I'd lose you otherwise. My justification was that I loved you – as though that could excuse anything. Only could I be excused for marrying you if our engagement had been openly announced and you had found it in you to withstand and forgive whatever ill you heard of me. But I did not give you that chance. I married you. And within that very hour you learned something – whatever it was – that changed you utterly toward me, and is threatening to ruin your happiness – to annihilate within you the very joy of living."

He shook his head again, slowly.

"That won't do, Jacqueline. Happiness is as much your right as is life itself. The world has a right to you, too; because you have lived nobly, and your work has been for the betterment of things. Whoever knows you honours you and loves you. It is such a woman as you who is of importance in the world. Men and women are better for you. You are needed. While I – "

He made a quick gesture; his lip trembled, but he smiled.

"So," he said, "I have thought it all out – there alone in my rooms to-night. There will be no more trouble, no anxiety for you. I'll step out of your life very quietly, Jacqueline, without any stir or fuss or any inconvenience to you, more than waiting for my continued absence to become flagrant and permanent enough to satisfy the legal requirements. And in a little while you will have your liberty again; the liberty and, very soon, the tranquillity of mind and the happiness out of which I have managed to swindle you."

She had been seated motionless, leaning forward in her chair to listen. After a few moments of silence which followed, the constraint of her attitude suddenly weakened her, and she slowly sank back into the depths of her big chair.

"And that," she said aloud to herself, "is what he has come here to tell me."

"Yes, Jacqueline."

She turned her head toward him, her cheek resting flat against the upholstered chintz back.

"One thing you have not told me, Jim."

"What is that?" he asked in a strained voice.

"How I am to live without you."

There was a silence. When his self-control seemed assured once more, he said:

"Do you mean that the damage I have done is irreparable?"

"What you have done cannot be undone. You have made me – love you." Her lip trembled in a pitiful attempt to smile. "Are you, after all, about to send me forth 'between tall avenues of spears, to die?'"

"Do you still think you care for such a man as I am?" he said hoarsely.

She nodded:

"And if you leave me it will be the same, Jim. Wherever you are – living alone or married to another woman – or whether you are living at all, or dead, it will always be the same with me. Love is love. Nothing you say now can alter it. Words – yours or the words of others – merely wound me, and do not cripple my love for you. Nor can deeds do so. I know that, now. They can slay only me, not my love, Jim – for I think, with me, it is really and truly immortal."

His head dropped between his hands. She saw his body trembling at moments. After a little while she rose, and, stepping to his side, bent over him, letting her hand rest lightly on his hair.

"All I ask of you is to be patient," she whispered. "And you don't understand – you don't seem to understand me, dear. I am learning very fast – much faster and more thoroughly than I believed possible. Cynthia was here this evening. She helped me so much. She taught me a great deal – a very great deal. And your goodness – your unselfishness in coming to me this way – with your boyish amends, your unconsidered and impulsive offers of restitution – restitution of single blessedness – " She smiled; and, deep within her breast, a faint thrill stirred her like a far premonition.

Timidly, scarcely daring, she ventured by degrees to encircle his head with her arm, letting her cool fingers rest over the tense, and feverish hands that covered his face.

"What a boy is this grown man!" she whispered. "What a foolish, emotional, impulsive boy! And such an unhappy one; and such a tired one!"

And, once more hesitating, and with infinite precaution, lest he become suddenly too conscious of this new and shy demonstration, she ventured to seat herself on the arm of his chair and bend closer to him.

"You must go back to your rooms, dear," she murmured. "It is morning, and we both are in need of sleep, I think. So you must say good-night to me and go back to – to pleasant dreams. And to-morrow we will go to Silverwood for over Sunday. Two whole days together, dear – "

Her soft cheek rested against his; her voice died out. Slowly, guided by the most delicate pressure, his head moved toward her shoulder, resisted, fell forward on her breast. For one instant's ecstasy she drew his face against her, tightly, almost fearfully, then sprang to her feet, breathless, blushing from throat to brow, and stepped back.

He was on his feet, too, flushed, dazed, moving toward her.

She stretched out both hands swiftly.

"Good-night, dearest – dearest of men. You have made me happy again. You are making me happier every moment. Only – be patient with me. And it will all come true – what we have dreamed."

Her fragrant hands were crushed against his lips, and her heart was beating faster and faster, and she was saying she scarcely knew what.

"All will be well with us. I no longer doubt it. You must not. I – I am the girl you desire. I will be, always – always. Only be gentle and patient with me – only that – only that."

"How can I take you this way – and keep you – after what I have done?" he stammered. "How can I let your generosity and mercy rob you of what is your due – "

"Love is my due, I think. But only you can give it. And if you withhold it, Jim, I am robbed indeed."

"Your pity – your sweetness – "

"My pity is for myself if you prove unkind."

"I? Unkind! Good God – "

"Oh! He is good, Jim! And He will be. Never doubt it again. And lie down to pleasant dreams. Will you come for me to-morrow at five?"

"Yes."

"And never again distrust yourself or me?"

He drew a deep, unsteady breath.

"Good-night," she whispered.