Cable saw Bansemer leave the house as he drove up to the curb infront. The lawyer did not look back, but turned the nearest corneras if eager to disappear from sight as quickly as possible.
Closing the door of his smoking-room behind him, David Cable droppedwearily into a chair without removing his hat or coat. His bloodwas running cold through his veins, his jaw was set and his eyeshad the appearance of one who has been dazed by a blow. For manyminutes he sat and stared at the andirons in the ember-lit grate.From time to time he swallowed painfully and his jaw twitched.Things began growing black and green before his eyes; he startedup with an oath.
He was consumed by the fires of jealousy and suspicion. The doubtthat had found lodging in his mind so recently now became a cruelcertainty. Into his grim heart sprang the rage of the man whofinds himself deceived, despised, dishonoured. He was seeing withhis own eyes, no doubt, just what others had seen for months--hadseen and had pitied or scorned him as the unfortunate dupe. Withthe thought of it he actually ground his teeth; tears of rage andmortification sprang to his eyes. He recalled his own feelings ininstances where shame had fallen upon other men; he recalled hisown easy indifference and the temptation to laugh at the plightof the poor devils. It had never entered his mind that some day hemight be the object of like consideration in others more or lessfortunate, according to THEIR friends.
By the time dinner was announced he had succeeded in restoringhimself to a state of comparative calmness. He did not dress fordinner, as was his custom, nor did he stop to ask Frances Cable ifshe were ready to go down. He heard Jane playing the piano as hedescended. She nodded to him, but did not stop and he paused nearthe fireplace to look at her strangely. Somewhere back in his brainthere was struggling, unknown to him, the old-time thought thatthis child bore him no likeness whatsoever. He only knew he wascrushing down the fear that evil or slander or pain might come toher, if he were rash yet just. He was wondering if he could facehis wife without betraying himself.
Jane played softly, lifelessly. She, on the other hand, was wonderingwhat Graydon would think or say, if she spoke to him of what shehad seen. She wondered if he would blame her mother as she wasbeginning to blame his father.
"Mother won't be down to dinner," she finally said.
"Is she ill?" he asked after a moment.
"She is lying down. Margaret will take some tea up to her."
Father and daughter had but little to say to each other during themeal. Their efforts at conversation were perfunctory, commonplace,an unusual state of affairs of which neither took notice.
"You look tired, father. Has it been a hard day?"
"A rather trying one, Jane. We're having some trouble with theblizzards out West. Tying up everything that we are rushing to thePhilippines."
"Is it settled that you are to be made president?"
"It looks like it." There followed a long silence. "By the way,I have good news for you. Mr. Clegg told me to-day that they aregoing to take Graydon into the firm. Isn't it great? Really, it isquite remarkable. You are not the only person, it seems, who thinksa lot of that boy."
"A partner? Really? Oh, isn't it glorious? I knew he could--I toldhim he'd be a partner before long." She waited a moment and thenadded: "His father was here to-day for a cup of tea." Cable caughtthe slightly altered tone and looked up. She was trifling with herfork, palpably preoccupied.
"I'm--I'm sorry I missed him," said he, watching her closely.
"You like him very much, don't you, father?"
"Certainly--and I'm sure your mother does." The fork shook in herfingers and then dropped upon the plate. She looked up in confusion.Cable's eyes were bent upon her intently and she had never seen soqueer a light in them. Scarcely more than the fraction of a secondpassed before he lowered his gaze, but the mysterious telegraphyof the mind had shot the message of comprehension from one to theother. He saw with horror that the girl at least suspected the truesituation. A moment later he arose abruptly and announced that hewould run up to see her mother before settling down to some importantwork in his den.
"Graydon is coming over to-night," she said. "We'll be very quietand try not to disturb you. Don't work too hard, daddy dear."
Upstairs Frances Cable was battling with herself in supreme despair.Confession was on her lips a dozen times, but courage failed her.When she heard his footsteps in the hallway she was ready to cryout the truth to him and end the suspense. As he opened the doorto enter, the spirit of fairness turned frail and fled before theappeal of procrastination. Wait! Wait! Wait! cried the powerfulweakness in her heart, and it conquered. She could not tell himthen. To-morrow--the next day, yes, but not then. It was too muchto demand of herself, after all.
He came in, but left a few minutes later. She was strangelyunresponsive to his tender inquiries. Her thoughts were of another,was his quick conclusion as he fled from her presence before theharsh accusations could break from his eyes.
In his den once more, with the door closed, he gave himself upcompletely to black thoughts. He recalled his words to her, utteredyears ago, half in jest and half in earnest; he had horrified herbeyond expression by telling her how he would punish a wife if hewere the husband she deceived. With a grim, lurid smile he rememberedthe penalty. He had said he would not kill; he would disfigure thewoman frightfully and permit her to live as a moral example toother wives. Slitting her mouth from ear to ear or cutting off hernose--these were two of the penalties he would inflict. He now feltless brutal. He might kill, but he would not disfigure. For an hourhe sat and wondered what had been the feelings of his old friendGeorge Driscoll just before he deliberately slew his faithless wife.He remembered saying to other friends at the time that Driscollhad "done right."
This night of black shadows--he did not sleep at all--was reallythe beginning of the end. He forgot the presidency that was to behanded out to him; he forgot everything but the horrid canker thatgnawed into his heart and brain.
Day and night he writhed in silent agony, a prey to the savagejealousy that grew and grew until it absorbed all other emotions.Scandal, divorce, dishonour, murder swept before the mind of thisman who had been of the people and who could not condone. The peoplekill.
For a week he waited and watched and suffered. What he knew of mentold him that they do not devote themselves to the wives of otherswith honourable motives behind them. He convinced himself that heknew the world; he had seen so much of it. The man aged years inthat single week of jealousy and suspense. His face went haggard,his eyes took on a strange gleam, his manner was that of a man ingrave trouble.
Day after day this piteous, frenzied man who swayed thousands withhis hand stooped to deal with the smallest movements of one man andone woman. Despite his most intense desire to drive himself intoother and higher channels, he found himself skulking and spyingand conniving with but one low end in view.
He employed every acute sense in the effort to justify hissuspicions. Time and again he went home at unusual hours, fearingall the while that he might incur the pain of finding Bansemerthere. He even visited the man in his office, always rejoicing inthe fact that he found him there at the time. He watched the mailin the morning; he planned to go out of nights and then hurriedhome deliberately but unexpectedly. Through it all he said no wordto Frances Cable or Jane. He asked no questions, but he was beingbeaten down by apprehensions all the while.
His wife's manner convinced him that all was not well with her. Sheavoided being alone with him, keeping close to her room; he detecteda hundred pretexts by which she managed to escape his simplestadvances.
At last, overwrought by the strain, he began to resort tocunning--this man who was big enough to have gone from the enginecab to the president's office. It required hours of struggle withhis fairer, nobler nature to bring himself low enough to do trickery,but the natal influence mastered. He despised himself for the trick,but he WOULD KNOW THE TRUTH.
The late afternoon mail one day brought to Mrs. Cable a briefletter, typewritten both inside and out. D
avid Cable saw her openand read the missive and he saw her trembling hand go to her throatand then to her temple. Her back was towards him. He could not seeher face until she turned, a full minute later. Then it was calmand undisturbed, but her eyes were brilliant. He ground his teethand tore upstairs without a word. David Cable had stooped low enoughto write this letter and he was paying for it.
He knew the contents far better than she knew them. The letterpurported to be an urgent appeal from James Bansemer, asking herto meet him at eight o'clock that night. It said: "I must see youto-night. Leave your home at 8:00 o'clock for a short call on Mrs.W--, just around the corner. I will meet you across the Drive, nearthe sea wall. It is quite dark there. J."
David Cable did not know that earlier in the afternoon James Bansemerhad called her up by 'phone to say that he intended to speak tohis son the following day, unless word came to him from her; nor,could he have possibly known that she was now determined to tellthe whole story to her husband and to trust to his mercy. He onlyknew that he had written the letter and that he had told her ofhis intention to go downtown immediately after dinner.
CHAPTER XV
THE TRAGEDY AT THE SEA WALL
Jane Cable Page 14
