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