The Breaking Point

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  XL

  Leslie Ward had found the autumn extremely tedious. His old passion forNina now and then flamed up in him, but her occasional coquetries nolonger deceived him. They had their source only in her vanity. Sheexacted his embraces only as tribute to her own charm, her youth, herfresh young body.

  And Nina out of her setting of gaiety, of a thumping piano, ofchattering, giggling crowds, of dancing and bridge and theater boxes,was a queen dethroned. She did not read or think. She spent the leisureof her mourning period in long hours before her mirror fussing with herhair, in trimming and retrimming hats, or in the fastidious care of herhands and body.

  He was ashamed sometimes of his pitilessly clear analysis of her. Shewas not discontented, save at the enforced somberness of their lives.She had found in marriage what she wanted; a good house, daintilyserved; a man to respond to her attractions as a woman, and to providefor her needs as a wife; dignity and an established place in the world;liberty and privilege.

  But she was restless. She chafed at the quiet evenings they spent athome, and resented the reading in which he took refuge from her uneasyfidgeting.

  "For Heaven's sake, Nina, sit down and read or sew, or do something.You've been at that window a dozen times."

  "I'm not bothering you. Go on and read."

  When nobody dropped in she would go upstairs and spend the hour or sobefore bedtime in the rites of cold cream, massage, and in placing thelittle combs of what Leslie had learned was called a water-wave.

  But her judgment was as clear as his, and even more pitiless; thedifference between them lay in the fact that while he rebelled, sheaccepted the situation. She was cleverer than he was; her mind workedmore quickly, and she had the adaptability he lacked. If there weretimes when she wearied him, there were others when he sickened her.Across from her at the table he ate slowly and enormously. He splashedher dainty bathroom with his loud, gasping cold baths. He flung hissoiled clothing anywhere. He drank whisky at night and crawled into thelavender-scented sheets redolent of it, to drop into a heavy sleep andsnore until she wanted to scream. But she played the game to the limitof her ability.

  Then, seeing that they might go on the rocks, he made a valiant effort,and since she recognized it as an effort, she tried to meet him halfway. They played two-handed card games. He read aloud to her, poetrywhich she loathed, and she to him, short stories he hated. He suggestedcountry walks and she agreed, to limp back after a half mile or so inher high-heeled pumps.

  He concealed his boredom from her, but there were nights when he layawake long after she was asleep and looked ahead into a future ofunnumbered blank evenings. He had formerly taken an occasional eveningat his club, but on his suggesting it now Nina's eyes would fillwith suspicion, and he knew that although she never mentioned BeverlyCarlysle, she would neither forget nor entirely trust him again. And inhis inner secret soul he knew that she was right.

  He had thought that he had buried that brief madness, but therewere times when he knew he lied to himself. One fiction, however, hepersisted in; he had not been infatuated with Beverly. It was only thatshe gave him during those few days something he had not found at home,companionship and quiet intelligent talk. She had been restful. Nina wasnever restful.

  He bought a New York paper daily, and read it in the train. "The Valley"had opened to success in New York, and had settled for a long run. Thereviews of her work had been extraordinary, and when now and then shegave an interview he studied the photographs accompanying it. But henever carried the paper home.

  He began, however, to play with the thought of going to New York. Hewould not go to see her at her house, but he would like to see herbefore a metropolitan audience, to add his mite to her triumph. Therewere times when he fully determined to go, when he sat at his deskwith his hand on the telephone, prepared to lay the foundations ofthe excursion by some manipulation of business interests. For months,however, he never went further than the preliminary movement.

  But by October he began to delude himself with a real excuse for going,and this was the knowledge that by a strange chain of circumstancethis woman who so dominated his secret thoughts was connected withElizabeth's life through Judson Clark. The discovery, communicated tohim by Walter Wheeler, that Dick was Clark had roused in him a totallydifferent feeling from Nina's. He saw no glamour of great wealth. On thecontrary, he saw in Clark the author of a great unhappiness to a womanwho had not deserved it. And Nina, judging him with deadly accuracy,surmised even that.

  That he was jealous of Judson Clark, and of his part in the past,he denied to himself absolutely. But his resentment took the form ofviolent protest to the family, against even allowing Elizabeth to haveanything to do with Dick if he turned up.

  "He'll buy his freedom, if he isn't dead," he said to Nina, "and he'llcome snivelling back here, with that lost memory bunk, and they're justfool enough to fall for it."

  "I've fallen for it, and I'm at least as intelligent as you are."

  Before her appraising eyes his own fell.

  "Suppose I did something I shouldn't and turned up here with such astory, would you believe it?"

  "No. When you want to do something you shouldn't you don't appear toneed any excuse."

  But, on the whole, they managed to live together comfortably enough.They each had their reservations, but especially after Jim's death theytacitly agreed to stop bickering and to make their mutual concessions.What Nina never suspected was that he corresponded with BeverlyCarlysle. Not that the correspondence amounted to much. He had sent herflowers the night of the New York opening, with the name of his club onhis card, and she wrote there in acknowledgment. Then, later, twicehe sent her books, one a biography, which was a compromise with hisconscience, and later a volume of exotic love verse, which was not. Ashe replied to her notes of thanks a desultory correspondence had sprungup, letters which the world might have read, and yet which had to himthe savor and interest of the clandestine.

  He did not know that that, and not infatuation, was behind his desire tosee Beverly again; never reasoned that he was demonstrating to himselfthat his adventurous love life was not necessarily ended; neveracknowledged that the instinct of the hunter was as alive in him asin the days before his marriage. Partly, then, a desire for adventure,partly a hope that romance was not over but might still be waitingaround the next corner, was behind his desire to see her again.

  Probably Nina knew that, as she knew so many things; why he had taken toreading poetry, for instance. Certain it is that when he began, early inOctober, to throw out small tentative remarks about the necessity of abusiness trip before long to New York, she narrowed her eyes. Shewas determined to go with him, if he went at all, and he was equallydetermined that she should not.

  It became, in a way, a sort of watchful waiting on both sides. Thenthere came a time when some slight excuse offered, and Leslie took upthe shuttle for forty-eight hours, and wove his bit in the pattern. Ithappened to be on the same evening as Dick's return to the old house.

  He was a little too confident, a trifle too easy to Nina.

  "Has the handle of my suitcase been repaired yet?" he asked. He waslighting a cigarette at the time.

  "Yes. Why?"

  "I'll have to run over to New York to-morrow. I wanted Joe to go alone,but he thinks he needs me." Joe was his partner. "Oh. So Joe's going?"

  "That's what I said."

  She was silent. Joe's going was clever of him. It gave authenticity tohis business, and it kept her at home.

  "How long shall you be gone?"

  "Only a day or two." He could not entirely keep the relief out of hisvoice. It had been easy, incredibly easy. He might have done it a monthago. And he had told the truth; Joe was going.

  "I'll pack to-night, and take my suitcase in with me in the morning."

  "If you'll get your things out I'll pack them." She was still thinking,but her tone was indifferent. "You won't want your dress clothes, ofcourse."

  "I'd better have a dinner suit."


  She looked at him then, with a half contemptuous smile. "Yes," she saidslowly. "I suppose you will. You'll be going to the theater."

  He glanced away.

  "Possibly. But we'll be rushing to get through. There's a lot to do.Amazing how business piles up when you find you're going anywhere. Therewon't be much time to play."

  She sat before the mirror in her small dressing-room that night,ostensibly preparing for bed but actually taking stock of her situation.She had done all she could, had been faithful and loyal, had madehis home attractive, had catered to his tastes and tried to like hisfriends, had met his needs and responded to them. And now, this. She wasbewildered and frightened. How did women hold their husbands?

  She found him in bed and unmistakably asleep when she went into thebedroom. Man-like, having got his way, he was not troubled by doubts orintrospection. It was done.

  He was lying on his back, with his mouth open. She felt a sudden andviolent repugnance to getting into the bed beside him. Sometime in thenight he would turn over and throwing his arm about her, hold her closein his sleep; and it would be purely automatic, the mechanical result ofhabit.

  She lay on the edge of the bed and thought things over.

  He had his good qualities. He was kind and affectionate to her family.He had been wonderful when Jim died, and he loved Elizabeth dearly. Hewas generous and open-handed. He was handsome, too, in a big, heavy way.

  She began to find excuses for him. Men were always a child-like preyto some women. They were vain, and especially they were sex-vain; goodlooking men were a target for every sort of advance. She transferred herloathing of him to the woman she suspected of luring him away from her,and lay for hours hating her.

  She saw Leslie off in the morning with a perfunctory good-bye while coldanger and suspicion seethed in her. And later she put on her hat andwent home to lay the situation before her mother. Mrs. Wheeler was out,however, and she found only Elizabeth sewing by her window.

  Nina threw her hat on the bed and sat down dispiritedly.

  "I suppose there's no news?" she asked.

  Nina watched her. She was out of patience with Elizabeth, exasperatedwith the world.

  "Are you going to go on like this all your life?" she demanded. "Sittingby a window, waiting? For a man who ran away from you?"

  "That's not true, and you know it."

  "They're all alike," Nina declared recklessly. "They go along wellenough, and they are all for virtue and for the home and fireside stuff,until some woman comes their way. I ought to know."

  Elizabeth looked up quickly.

  "Why, Nina!" she said. "You don't mean--"

  "He went to New York this morning. He pretended to be going on business,but he's actually gone to see that actress. He's been mad about her formonths."

  "I don't believe it."

  "Oh, wake up," Nina said impatiently. "The world isn't made up ofgood, kind, virtuous people. It's rotten. And men are all alike. DickLivingstone and Les and all the rest--tarred with the same stick. Aslong as there are women like this Carlysle creature they'll fall forthem. And you and I can sit at home and chew our nails and plan to keepthem by us. And we can't do it."

  In spite of herself a little question of doubt crept that day intoElizabeth's mind. She had always known that they had not told her allthe truth; that the benevolent conspiracy to protect Dick extended evento her. But she had never thought that it might include a woman. Oncethere, the very humility of her love for Dick was an element in favor ofthe idea. She had never been good enough, or wise or clever enough, forhim. She was too small and unimportant to be really vital.

  Dismissing the thought did no good. It came back. But because she wasa healthy-minded and practical person she took the one course she couldthink of, and put the question that night to her father, when he cameback from seeing David.

  David had sent for him early in the evening. All day he had thoughtover the situation between Dick and Elizabeth, with growing pain anduneasiness. He had not spoken of it to Lucy, or to Harrison Miller; heknew that they would not understand, and that Lucy would suffer. She wasbewildered enough by Dick's departure.

  At noon he had insisted on getting up and being helped into histrousers. So clad he felt more of a man and better able to cope withthings, although his satisfaction in them was somewhat modified by theknowledge of two safety-pins at the sides, to take up their superfluousgirth at the waistband.

  But even the sense of being clothed as a man again did not make iteasier to say to Walter Wheeler what must be said.

  Walter took the news of Dick's return with a visible brightening. It wasas though, out of the wreckage of his middle years, he saw that therewas now some salvage, but he was grave and inarticulate over it, wrungDavid's hand and only said:

  "Thank God for it, David." And after a pause: "Was he all right? Heremembered everything?"

  But something strange in the situation began to obtrude itself into hismind. Dick had come back twenty-four hours ago. Last night. And all thistime--

  "Where is he now?"

  "He's not here, Walter."

  "He has gone away again, without seeing Elizabeth?"

  David cleared his throat.

  "He is still a fugitive. He doesn't himself know he isn't guilty. Ithink he feels that he ought not to see her until--"

  "Come, come," Walter Wheeler said impatiently. "Don't try to findexcuses for him. Let's have the truth, David. I guess I can stand it."

  Poor David, divided between his love for Dick and his native honesty,threw out his hands.

  "I don't understand it, Wheeler," he said. "You and I wouldn't, Isuppose. We are not the sort to lose the world for a woman. The plaintruth is that there is not a trace of Judson Clark in him to-day, saveone. That's the woman."

  When Wheeler said nothing, but sat twisting his hat in his hands, Davidwent on. It might be only a phase. As its impression on Dick's youthhad been deeper than others, so its effect was more lasting. It mightgradually disappear. He was confident, indeed, that it would. He hadbeen reading on the subject all day.

  Walter Wheeler hardly heard him. He was facing the incredible fact, andstruggling with his own problem. After a time he got up, shook handswith David and went home, the dog at his heels.

  During the evening that followed he made his resolution, not to tellher, never to let her suspect the truth. But he began to wonder if shehad heard something, for he found her eyes on him more than once, andwhen Margaret had gone up to bed she came over and sat on the arm of hischair. She said an odd thing then, and one that made it impossible tolie to her later.

  "I come to you, a good bit as I would go to God, if he were a person,"she said. "I have got to know something, and you can tell me."

  He put his arm around her and held her close.

  "Go ahead, honey."

  "Daddy, do you realize that I am a woman now?"

  "I try to. But it seems about six months since I was feeding you hotwater for colic."

  She sat still for a moment, stroking his hair and being very careful notto spoil his neat parting.

  "You have never told me all about Dick, daddy. You have always keptsomething back. That's true, isn't it?"

  "There were details," he said uncomfortably. "It wasn't necessary--"

  "Here's what I want to know. If he has gone back to the time--you know,wouldn't he go back to caring for the people he loved then?" Then,suddenly, her childish appeal ceased, and she slid from the chair andstood before him. "I must know, father. I can bear it. The thing youhave been keeping from me was another woman, wasn't it?"

  "It was so long ago," he temporized. "Think of it, Elizabeth. A boy oftwenty-one or so."

  "Then there was?"

  "I believe so, at one time. But I know positively that he hadn't seen orheard from her in ten years."

  "What sort of woman?"

  "I wouldn't think about it, honey. It's all so long ago."

  "Did she live in Wyoming?"

  "She was an actress," he said,
hard driven by her persistence.

  "Do you know her name?"

  "Only her stage name, honey."

  "But you know she was an actress!"

  He sighed.

  "All right, dear," he said. "I'll tell you all I know. She was anactress, and she married another man. That's all there is to it. She'snot young now. She must be thirty now--if she's living," he added, as anafterthought.

  It was some time before she spoke again.

  "I suppose she was beautiful," she said slowly.

  "I don't know. Most of them aren't, off the stage. Anyhow, what does itmatter now?"

  "Only that I know he has gone back to her. And you know it too."

  He heard her going quietly out of the room.

  Long after, he closed the house and went cautiously upstairs. She waswaiting for him in the doorway of her room, in her nightgown.

  "I know it all now," she said steadily. "It was because of her he shotthe other man, wasn't it?"

  She saw her answer in his startled face, and closed her door quickly. Hestood outside, and then he tapped lightly.

  "Let me in, honey," he said. "I want to finish it. You've got a wrongidea about it."

  When she did not answer he tried the door, but it was locked. He turnedand went downstairs again...

  When he came home the next afternoon Margaret met him in the hall.

  "She knows it, Walter."

  "Knows what?"

  "Knows he was back here and didn't see her. Annie blurted it out; she'dgot it from the Oglethorpe's laundress. Mr. Oglethorpe saw him on thestreet."

  It took him some time to drag a coherent story from her. Annie hadtold Elizabeth in her room, and then had told Margaret. She had gone toElizabeth at once, to see what she could do, but Elizabeth had been inher closet, digging among her clothes. She had got out her best frockand put it on, while her mother sat on the bed not even daring to broachthe matter in her mind, and had gone out. There was a sort of colddetermination in her that frightened Margaret. She had laughed a goodbit, for one thing.

  "She's terribly proud," she finished. "She'll do something reckless,I'm sure. It wouldn't surprise me to see her come back engaged to WallieSayre. I think that's where she went."

  But apparently she had not, or if she had she said nothing about it.From that time on they saw a change in her; she was as loving as ever,but she affected a sort of painful brightness that was a little hard. Asthough she had clad herself in armor against further suffering.