"'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 whatyouare—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—yourcareer—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 cheatedher, and the world, too! For she is a rare woman—a rare, sweet woman, James. Andthatis 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 thereisa 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 leaveyou. Not yet, Elena. You owe me something for what you've done to me."
"Oh! Isthatthe excuse?" she nodded scornfully; buther 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 consideredthatpossibility?"
"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 theTattler'soffice 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 finishyou."
"Nothinghappened! 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 hearyourstory——"
"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 toyou!" 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 theTattlerfor 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 withoutthat!"
"'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.
"Doyou?" 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,Isat in that taxi.Istopped in front of this house;Isawyouleave 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,anda jug of hot water. Itwasa 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. Andwhatdo 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 wasyours, dearie. I recognised it. It was addressed to your own husband, who lived under the same roof.AndI 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—manœuvred 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.
"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 hadswept 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 doneafterthe 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 amaid.
"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 patientwas 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.
About midday Clydesdale, who had returned to his house from a morning visit to his attorney in Liberty Street, was summoned to the telephone.
"Is that you, Desboro?" he asked.
"Yes. I stopped this morning to speak to your wife a moment, but very naturally she was not at home to me at such an hour in the morning. I have just called her on the telephone, but her maid says she has gone out."
"Yes. She is not very well. I understand she has gone to see Dr. Allen. But she ought to be back pretty soon. Won't you come up to the house, Desboro?"
There was a short pause, then Desboro's voice again, in reply:
"I believe I will come up, Clydesdale. And I think I'll talk to you instead of to your wife."
"Just as it suits you. Very glad to see you anyway. I'll be in the rear extension fussing about among the porcelains."
"I'll be with you in ten minutes."
In less time than that Desboro arrived, and was piloted through the house and into the gallery by an active maid. At the end of one of the aisles lined by glass cases, the huge bulk of Cary Clydesdale loomed, his red face creased with his eternal grin.
"Hello, Desboro!" he called. "Come this way. I've one or two things here which will match any of yours at Silverwood, I think."
And, as Desboro approached, Clydesdale strode forward, offering him an enormous hand.
"Glad to see you," he grinned. "Congratulations on your marriage! Fine girl, that! I don't know any to match her." He waved a comprehensive arm. "All this stuff is her arrangement. Gad! But I had it rottenly displayed. And the collection was full of fakes, too. But she came floating in here one morning, and what she did to my junk-heap was a plenty, believeme!" And the huge fellow grinned and grinned until Desboro's sombre face altered and became less rigid.
A maid appeared with a table and a frosted cocktail shaker.
"You'll stop and lunch with us," said Clydesdale, filling two glasses. "Elena won't be very long. Don't know just what ails her, but she's nervous and run down. I guess it's the spring that's coming. Well, here's to all bad men; they need the boost and we don't. Prosit!"
He emptied his glass, set it aside, and from the open case beside him extracted an exquisite jar of the Kang-He,famille noire, done in five colours during the best period of the work.
"God knows I'm not proud," he said, "but can you beat it, Desboro?"
Desboro took the beautiful jar, and, carefully guarding the cover, turned it slowly. Birds, roses, pear blossoms, lilies, exquisite in composition and colour, passed under his troubled eyes. He caressed the paste mechanically.
"It is very fine," he said.
"Have you anything to beat it?"
"I don't think so."
"How are yours marked?" inquired the big man, taking the jar into his own enormous paws as lovingly as a Kadiak bear embraces her progeny. "This magnificent damn thing is a forgery. Look! Here's the mark of the Emperor Ching-hwa! Isn't that the limit? And the forgery is every bit as fine as the originals made before 1660—only it happened to be the fashion in China in 1660 to collect Ching-hwa jars, so the maker of this piece deliberately forged an earlier date. Can you beat it?"
Desboro smiled as though he were listening; and Clydesdale gingerly replaced the jar and as carefully produced another.
"Ming!" he said. "Seventeenth century Manchu Tartar. I've some earlier Ming ranging between 1400 A.D. and 1600; but it can't touch this, Desboro. In fact, I think the eighteenth century Ming is even finer; and, as far as that goes, there is magnificent work being done now—although the occidental markets seldom see it. But—Ming for mine, every time! How doyoufeel about it, old top?"
Desboro looked at the vase. The soft beauty of the blue underglaze, the silvery thickets of magnolia bloom amid which a magnificent, pheasant-hued phœnix stepped daintily, meant at the moment absolutely nothing to him.
Nor did thepoudre-bleujar, triumphantly exhibited by the infatuated owner—a splendid specimen painted on the overglaze. And the weeds and shells and fiery golden fishes swimming had been dimmed a little by rubbing, so that the dusky aquatic depths loomed more convincingly.
"Clydesdale," said Desboro in a low voice, "I want to say one or two things to you. Another time it would give me pleasure to go over these porcelains with you. Do you mind my interrupting you?"
The big man grinned.
"Shoot," he said, replacing the "powder-blue" and carefully closing and locking the case. Then, dropping the keys into his pocket, he came over to where Desboro was seated beside the flimsy folding card-table, shook the cocktail shaker, offered to fill Desboro's glass, and at a gesture of refusal refilled his own.
"This won't do a thing to my appetite," he remarked genially. "Go ahead, Desboro." And he settled himself to listen, with occasional furtive, sidelong glances at his beloved porcelains.
Desboro said: "Clydesdale, you and I have known each other for a number of years. We haven't seen much of each other, except at the club, or meeting casually here and there. It merely happened so; if accident had thrown us together, the chances are that we would have liked each other—perhaps sought each other's company now and then—as much as men do in this haphazard town, anyway. Don't you think so?"
Clydesdale nodded.
"But we have been on perfectly friendly terms, always—with one exception," said Desboro.
"Yes—with one exception. But that is all over now——"
"I am afraid it isn't."
Clydesdale's grin remained unaltered when he said: "Well, what the hell——" and stopped abruptly.
"It's about that one exception of which I wish to speak," continued Desboro, after a moment's thought. "I don't want to say very much—just one or two things which I hope you already know and believe. And all I have to say is this, Clydesdale; whatever I may have been—whatever I may be now, that sort of treachery is not in me. I make no merit of it—it may be mere fastidiousness on my part which would prevent me from meditating treachery toward an acquaintance or a friend."
Clydesdale scrutinised him in silence.
"Never, since Elena was your wife, have I thought of her except as your wife."
Clydesdale only grinned.
"I want to be as clear as I can on this subject," continued the other, "because—and I must say it to you—there have been rumours concerning—me."
"And concerningher," said Clydesdale simply. "Don't blink matters, Desboro."
"No, I won't. The rumours have included her, of course. But what those rumours hint, Clydesdale, is an absolute lie. I blame myself in a measure; I should not have come here so often—should not have continued to see Elena so informally. Iwasin love with her once; I did ask her to marry me. She took you. Try to believe me, Clydesdale, when I tell you that though for me there did still linger about her that inexplicable charm which attracted me, which makes your wife so attractive to everybody, never for a moment did it occur to me not to acquiesce in the finality of her choice. Never did I meditate any wrong toward you or toward her. Ididdangle. That was where I blame myself. Because where a better man might have done it uncriticised, I was, it seems, open to suspicion."
"You're no worse than the next," said Clydesdale in a deep growl. "Hell's bells! I don't blameyou! And there would have been nothing to it anyway if Elena had not lost her head that night and bolted. I was rough with you all right; but you behaved handsomely; and I knew where the trouble was. Because, Desboro, my wife dislikes me."
"I thought——"
"No! Let's have the truth, damn it!That'sthe truth! My wife dislikes me. It may be that she is crazy about you; I don't know. But I am inclined to think—after these months of hell, Desboro—that she really is not crazy about you, or about any man; that it is only her dislike of me that possesses her to—to deal with me as she has done."
He was still grinning, but his heavy lower lip twitched, and suddenly the horror of it broke on Desboro—that this great, gross, red-faced creature was suffering in every atom of his unwieldy bulk; that the fixed grin was covering anguish; that the man's heart was breaking there, now, where he sat, therictus mortisstamped on his quivering face.
"Clydesdale," he said, unsteadily, "I came here meaning to say only what I have said—that you never had anything to doubt in me—but that rumours still coupled my name with Elena's. That was all I meant to say. But I'll say more. I'm sorry that things are not going well with you and Elena. I would do anything in the world that lay within my power to help make yours a happy marriage. But—marriages all seem to go wrong. For years—witnessing what I have—what everybody among our sort of people cannot choose but witness—I made up my mind that marriage was no good."
He passed his hand slowly over his eyes; waited a moment, then:
"But I was wrong. That's what the matter is—that is how the matter lies between the sort of people we are and marriage. It iswewho are wrong; there's nothing wrong about marriage, absolutely nothing. Only many of us are not fit for it. And some of us take it as a preventive, as a moral medicine—as though anybody could endure an eternal dosing! And some of us seek it as a refuge—a refuge from every ill, every discomfort, every annoyance and apprehension that assails the human race—as though the institution of marriage were a vast and fortified storehouse in which everything we have ever lacked and desired were lying about loose for us to pick up and pocket."
He bent forward across the table and began to play absently with his empty glass.
"Marriage is all right," he said. "But only those fit to enter possess the keys to the magic institution. And they find there what they expected. The rest of us jimmy our way in, and find ourselves in an empty mansion, Clydesdale."
For a long while they sat there in silence; Desboro fiddling with his empty glass, the other, motionless, his ponderous hands clasped on his knees. At length, Desboro spoke again: "I do not know how it is with you, but I am not escaping anything that I have ever done."
"I'm getting mine," said Clydesdale heavily.
After a few moments, what Desboro had said filtered into his brain; and he turned and looked at the younger man.
"Have these rumours——" he began. And Desboro nodded:
"These rumours—or others.Thesehappen not to have been true."
"That's tough onher," said Clydesdale gravely.
"That's where it is toughest on us. I think we could stand anything except thattheyshould suffer through us. And the horrible part of it is that we never meant to—never dreamed that we should ever be held responsible for the days we lived so lightly—gay, careless, irresponsible days—God! Is there any punishment to compare with it, Clydesdale?"
"None."
Desboro rose and stood with his hand across his forehead, as though it ached.
"'Jacqueline—my wife—is the result of a different training'"
"You and Elena and I are products of the same kind of civilisation. Jacqueline—my wife—is the result of a different training in a very different civilisation."
"And the rottenness of ours is making her ill."
Desboro nodded. After a moment he stirred restlessly.
"Well," he said, "I must go to the office. I haven't been there yet."
Clydesdale got onto his feet.
"Won't you stay?"
"No."
"As you wish. And—I'm sorry, Desboro. However, you have a better chance than I—to make good. My wife—dislikes me."
He went as far as the door with his guest, and when Desboro had departed he wandered aimlessly back into the house and ultimately found himself among his porcelains once more—his only refuge from a grief and care that never ceased, never even for a moment eased those massive shoulders of their dreadful weight.
From where he stood, he heard the doorbell sounding distantly. Doubtless his wife had returned. Doubtless, too, as long as there was no guest, Elena would prefer to lunch alone in her own quarters, unless she had an engagement to lunch at the Ritz or elsewhere.
He had no illusion that she desired to see him, or that she cared whether or not he inquired what her physicianhad said; but he closed and locked his glass cases once more and walked heavily into the main body of the house and descended to the door.
To the man on duty there he said: "Did Mrs. Clydesdale come in?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you."
He hesitated, turned irresolutely, and remounted the stairs. To a maid passing he said:
"Is Mrs. Clydesdale lunching at home?"
"Yes, sir. Mrs. Clydesdale is not well, sir."
"Has she gone to her room?"
"Yes, sir."
"Please go to her and say that I am sorry and—and inquire if there is anything I can do."
The maid departed and the master of the house wandered into the music-room—perhaps because Elena's tall, gilded harp was there—the only thing in the place that ever reminded him of her, or held for him anything of her personality.