She sprang up and walked to the fire and stood there, her hands nervously clenching and unclenching.
“When I tell you that my eyes are wide open — that I don’t care what I do — —”
“But your husband’s eyes are not open!”
“They ought to be. I left a note saying where I was going — that rather than be his wife I’d prefer to be your — —”
“Stop! You don’t know what you’re talking about — you little idiot!” he broke out, furious. “The very words you use don’t mean anything to you — except that you’ve read them in some fool’s novel, or heard them on a degenerate stage — —”
“My words will mean something to him, if I can make them!” she retorted hysterically, “ — and if you really care for me — —”
Through the throbbing silence Desboro seemed to see Clydesdale, bulky, partly sober, with his eternal grin and permanently-flushed skin, rambling about among his porcelains and enamels and jades and ivories, like a drugged elephant in a bric-a-brac shop. And yet, there had always been a certain kindly harmlessness and good nature about him that had always appealed to men.
He said, incredulously: “Did you write to him what you have just said to me?”
“Yes.”
“You actually left such a note for him?”
“Yes, I did.”
The silence lasted long enough for her to become uneasy. Again and again she lifted her tear-swollen face to look at him, where he stood before the fire, but he did not even glance at her; and at last she murmured his name, and he turned.
“I guess you’ve done for us both,” he said. “You’re probably right; nobody would believe the truth after this.”
She began to cry again silently.
He said: “You never gave your husband a chance. He was in love with you and you never gave him a chance. And you’re giving yourself none, now. And as for me” — he laughed unpleasantly— “well, I’ll leave it to you, Elena.”
“I — I thought — if I burned my bridges and came to you — —”
“What did you think?”
“That you’d stand by me, Jim.”
“Have I any other choice?” he asked, with a laugh. “We seem to be a properly damned couple.”
“Do — do you care for any other woman?”
“No.”
“Then — then — —”
“Oh, I am quite free to stand the consequences with you.”
“Will you?”
“Can we escape them?”
“You could.”
“I’m not in the habit of leaving a sinking ship,” he said curtly.
“Then — you will marry me — when — —” She stopped short and turned very white. After a moment the doorbell rang again.
Desboro glanced at the clock, then shrugged.
“Wh — who is it?” she faltered.
“It’s probably somebody after you, Elena.”
“It can’t be. He wouldn’t come, would he?”
The bell sounded again.
“What are you going to do?” she breathed.
“Do? Let him in.”
“Who do you think it is?”
“Your husband, of course.”
“Then — why are you going to let him in?”
“To talk it over with him.”
“But — but I don’t know what he’ll do. I don’t know him, I tell you. What do I know about him — except that he’s big and red? How do I know what might be hidden behind that fixed grin of his?”
“Well, we’ll find out in a minute or two,” said Desboro coolly.
“Jim! You must stand by me now!”
“I’ve done it so far, haven’t I? You needn’t worry.”
“You won’t let him take me back! He can’t, can he?”
“Not if you refuse to go. But you won’t refuse — if he’s man enough to ask you to return.”
“But — suppose he won’t ask me to go back?”
“In that case I’ll stand for what you’ve done. I’ll marry you if he means to disgrace you. Now let’s see what he does mean.”
She caught his sleeve as he passed her, then let it go. The steady ringing of the bell was confusing and terrifying her, and she glanced about her like a trapped creature, listening to the distant jingling of chains and the click of bolts as Desboro undid the outer door.
Silence, then a far sound in the hall, footsteps coming nearer, nearer; and she dropped stiffly on the sofa as Desboro entered, followed by Cary Clydesdale in fur motor cap, coat and steaming goggles.
Desboro motioned her husband to a chair, but the man stood looking at his wife through his goggles, with a silly, fixed grin stamped on his features. Then he drew off the goggles and one fur gauntlet, fumbled in his overcoat, produced the crumpled note which she had left for him, laid it on the table between them, and sat down heavily, filling the leather armchair with his bulk. His bare red hand steamed. After a moment’s silence, he pointed at the note.
“Well,” she said, with an effort, “what of it! It’s true — what this letter says.”
“It isn’t true yet, is it?” asked Clydesdale simply.
“What do you mean?”
But Desboro understood him, and answered for her with a calm shake of his head. Then the wife understood, too, and the deep colour dyed her skin from throat to brow.
“Why do you come here — after reading that?” She pointed at the letter. “Didn’t you read it?”
Clydesdale passed his hand slowly over his perplexed eyes.
“I came to take you home. The car is here.”
“Didn’t you understand what I wrote? Isn’t it plain enough?” she demanded excitedly.
“No. You’d better get ready, Elena.”
“Is that as much of a man as you are — when I tell you I’d rather be Mr. Desboro’s — —”
Something behind the fixed grin on her husband’s face made her hesitate and falter. Then he swung heavily around and looked at Desboro.
“How much are you in this, anyway?” he asked, still grinning.
“Do you expect an answer?”
“I think I’ll get one.”
“I think you won’t get one out of me.”
“Oh. So you’re at the bottom of it all, are you?”
“No doubt. A woman doesn’t do such a thing unpersuaded. If you don’t know enough to look after your own wife, there are plenty of men who’ll apply for the job — as I did.”
“You’re a very rotten scoundrel, aren’t you?” said Clydesdale, grinning.
“Oh, so-so.”
Clydesdale sat very still, his grin unchanged, and Desboro looked him over coolly.
“Now, what do you want to do? You and Mrs. Clydesdale can remain here to-night if you wish. There are plenty of bedrooms — —”
Clydesdale rose, bulking huge and menacing in his furs; but Desboro, sitting on the edge of the table, continued to swing one foot gently, smiling at danger.
And Clydesdale hesitated, then veered around toward his wife, with the heavy movement of a perplexed and tortured bear.
“Get your furs on,” he said, in a dull voice.
“Do you wish me to go home?”
“Get your furs on!”
“Do you wish me to go home, Cary?”
“Yes. Good God! What do you suppose I came here for?”
She walked over to Desboro and held out her hand:
“No wonder women like you. Good-bye — and if I come again — may I remain?”
“Don’t come,” he said, smiling, and holding her coat for her.
Clydesdale strode forward, took the fur garment from Desboro’s hands, and held it open. His wife looked up at him, shrugged her shoulders, and suffered him to invest her with the coat.
After a moment Desboro said:
“Clydesdale, I am not your enemy. I wish you good luck.”
“You go to hell,” said Clydesdale thickly.
Mrs. Clydesdale moved toward the door, her husband on one sid
e, Desboro on the other, and so, along the hall in silence, and out to the porch, where the glare of the acetylenes lighted up the frozen drive.
“It feels like rain,” observed Desboro. “Not a very gay outlook for Christmas. All the same, I wish you a happy one, Elena. And, really, I believe you could have it if you cared to.”
“Thank you, Jim. You have been mistakenly kind to me. I am afraid you will have to be crueller some day. Good-bye — till then.”
Clydesdale had descended to the drive and was conferring with the chauffeur. Now he turned and looked up at his wife. She went down the steps beside Desboro, and he nodded good-night. Clydesdale put her into the limousine and then got in after her.
A few moments later the red tail-lamp of the motor disappeared among the trees bordering the drive, and Desboro turned and walked back into the house.
“That,” he said aloud to himself, “settles the damned species for me! Let the next one look out for herself!”
He sauntered back into the library. The letter that she had left for her husband still lay on the table, apparently forgotten.
“A fine specimen of logic,” he said. “She doesn’t get on with him, so she decides to use Jim to jimmy the lock of wedlock! A white man can understand the Orientals better.”
He glanced at the clock, and decided that there was no sense in going to bed, so he composed himself on the haircloth sofa once more, lighted a cigarette, and began to read, coolly using the note she had left, as a bookmark.
It was dawn before he closed the book and went away to bathe and change his attire.
While breakfasting he glanced out and saw that it had begun to rain. A green Christmas for day after to-morrow! And, thinking of Christmas, he thought of a girl he knew who usually wore blue, and what sort of a gift he had better send her when he went to the city that morning.
But he didn’t go. He called up a jeweler and gave directions what to send and where to send it.
Then, listless, depressed, he idled about the great house, putting off instinctively the paramount issue — the necessary investigation of his finances. But he had evaded it too long to attempt it lightly now. It was only a question of days before he’d have to take up in deadly earnest the question of how to pay his debts. He knew it; and it made him yawn with disgust.
After luncheon he wrote a letter to one Jean Louis Nevers, a New York dealer in antiques, saying that he would drop in some day after Christmas to consult Mr. Nevers on a matter of private business.
And that is as far as he got with his very vague plan for paying off an accumulation of debts which, at last, were seriously annoying him.
The remainder of the day he spent tramping about the woods of Westchester with a pack of nondescript dogs belonging to him. He liked to walk in the rain; he liked his mongrels.
In the evening he resumed his attitude of unstudied elegance on the sofa, also his book, using Mrs. Clydesdale’s note again to mark his place.
Mrs. Quant ventured to knock, bringing some “magic drops,” which he smilingly refused. Farris announced dinner, and he dined as usual, surrounded by dogs and cats, all very cordial toward the master of Silverwood, who was unvaryingly so just and so kind to them.
After dinner he lighted a pipe, thought idly of the girl in blue, hoped she’d like his gift of aquamarines, and picked up his book again, yawning.
He had had about enough of Silverwood, and he was realising it. He had had more than enough of women, too.
The next day, riding one of his weedy hunters over Silverwood estate, he encountered the daughter of a neighbor, an old playmate of his when summer days were half a year long, and yesterdays immediately became embedded in the middle of the middle ages.
She was riding a fretful, handsome Kentucky three-year-old, and sitting nonchalantly to his exasperating and jiggling gait.
The girl was one Daisy Hammerton — the sort men call “square” and “white,” and a “good fellow”; but she was softly rounded and dark, and very feminine.
She bade him good morning in a friendly voice; and her voice and manner might well have been different, for Desboro had not behaved very civilly toward her or toward her family, or to any of his Westchester neighbors for that matter; and the rumours of his behaviour in New York were anything but pleasant to a young girl’s ears. So her cordiality was the more to her credit.
He made rather shame-faced inquiries about her and her parents, but she lightly put him at his ease, and they turned into the woods together on the old and unembarrassed terms of comradeship.
“Captain Herrendene is back. Did you know it?” she asked.
“Nice old bird,” commented Desboro. “I must look him up. Where did he come from — Luzon?”
“Yes. He wrote us. Why don’t you ask him up for the skating, Jim?”
“What skating?” said Desboro, with a laugh. “It will be a green Christmas, Daisy — it’s going to rain again. Besides,” he added, “I shan’t be here much longer.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
He reddened. “You always were the sweetest thing in Westchester. Fancy your being sorry that I’m going back to town when I’ve never once ridden over to see you as long as I’ve been here!”
She laughed. “We’ve known each other too long to let such things make any real difference. But you have been a trifle negligent.”
“Daisy, dear, I’m that way in everything. If anybody asked me to name the one person I would not neglect, I’d name you. But you see what happens — even to you! I don’t know — I don’t seem to have any character. I don’t know what’s the matter with me — —”
“I’m afraid that you have no beliefs, Jim.”
“How can I have any when the world is so rotten after nineteen hundred years of Christianity?”
“I have not found it rotten.”
“No, because you live in a clean and wholesome circle.”
“Why don’t you, too? You can live where you please, can’t you?”
He laughed and waved his hand toward the horizon.
“You know what the Desboros have always been. You needn’t pretend you don’t. All Westchester has it in for us. But relief is in sight,” he added, with mock seriousness. “I’m the last of ‘em, and your children, Daisy, won’t have to endure the morally painful necessity of tolerating anybody of my name in the county.”
She smiled: “Jim, you could be so nice if you only would.”
“What! With no beliefs?”
“They’re so easily acquired.”
“Not in New York town, Daisy.”
“Perhaps not among the people you affect. But such people really count for so little — they are only a small but noisy section of a vast and quiet and wholesome community. And the noise and cynicism are both based on idleness, Jim. Nobody who is busy is destitute of beliefs. Nobody who is responsible can avoid ideals.”
“Quite right,” he said. “I am idle and irresponsible. But, Daisy, it’s as much part of me as are my legs and arms, and head and body. I am not stupid; I have plenty of mental resources; I am never bored; I enjoy my drift through life in an empty tub as much as the man who pulls furiously through it in a rowboat loaded with ambitions, ballasted with brightly moral resolves, and buffeted by the cross seas of duty and conscience. That’s rather neat, isn’t it?”
“You can’t drift safely very long without ballast,” said the girl, smiling.
“Watch me.”
She did not answer that she had been watching him for the last few years, or tell him how it had hurt her to hear his name linked with the gossip of fashionably vapid doings among idle and vapid people. For his had been an inheritance of ability and culture, and the leisure to develop both. Out of idleness and easy virtue had at last emerged three generations of Desboros full of energy and almost ruthless ability — his great-grandfather, grandfather and father — but he, the fourth generation, was throwing back into the melting pot all that his father and grandfathers had carried from it — even the material
part of it. Land and fortune, were beginning to disappear, together with the sturdy mental and moral qualities of a race that had almost overcome its vicious origin under the vicious Stuarts. Only the physical stamina as yet seemed to remain intact; for Desboro was good to look upon.
“An odd thing happened the other night — or, rather, early in the morning,” she said. “We were awakened by a hammering at the door and a horn blowing — and guess who it was?”
“Not Gabriel — though you look immortally angelic to-day — —”
“Thank you, Jim. No; it was Cary and Elena Clydesdale, saying that their car had broken down. What a ridiculous hour to be motoring! Elena was half dead with the cold, too. It seems they’d been to a party somewhere and were foolish enough to try to motor back to town. They stopped with us and took the noon train to town. Elena told me to give you her love; that’s what reminded me.”
“Give her mine when you see her,” he said pleasantly.
When he returned to his house he sat down with a notion of trying to bring order out of the chaos into which his affairs had tumbled. But the mere sight of his desk, choked with unanswered letters and unpaid bills, sickened him, and he threw himself on the sofa and picked up his book, determined to rid himself of Silverwood House and all its curious, astonishing and costly contents.
“Tell Riley to be on hand Monday,” he said to Mrs. Quant that evening. “I want the cases in the wing rooms and the stuff in the armoury cleaned up, because I expect a Mr. Nevers to come here and recatalogue the entire collection next week.”
“Will you be at home, Mr. James?” she asked anxiously.
“No. I’m going South, duck-shooting. See that Mr. Nevers is comfortable if he chooses to remain here; for it will take him a week or two to do his work in the armoury, I suppose. So you’ll have to start both furnaces to-morrow, and keep open fires going, or the man will freeze solid. You understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. And if you are going away, Mr. James, I could pack a little bottle of ‘magic drops’ — —”
“By all means,” he said, with good-humoured resignation.
He spent the evening fussing over his guns and ammunition, determined to go to New York in the morning. But he didn’t; indecision had become a habit; he knew it, wondered a little at himself for his lack of decision.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 633
