“Marry? No.”
“Is there any girl you want to marry?”
“No. God forbid!”
“Why do you say that? Is it because of what you know about marriages — like mine?”
“Probably. And then some.”
“There are happy ones.”
“Yes, I’ve read about them.”
“But there really are, Jim.”
“Mention one.”
She mentioned several among people both knew. He smiled. Then she said, wearily:
“There are plenty of decent people and decent marriages in the world. The people we play with are no good. It’s only restlessness, idleness, and discontent that kills everything among people of our sort. I know I’m that way, too. But I don’t believe I would be if I had married you.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Why? Don’t you believe any marriage can be happy?”
“Elena, have you ever heard of a honeymoon that lasts? Do you know how long any two people can endure each other without merciful assistance from a third? Don’t you know that, sooner or later, any two people ever born are certain to talk each other out — pump each other dry — love each other to satiation — and ultimately recoil, each into the mysterious seclusion of its own individuality, from whence it emerged temporarily in order that the human race might not perish from the earth!”
“What miserable lesson have you learned to teach you such a creed?” she asked. “I tell you the world is full of happy marriages — full of honoured husbands and beloved wives, and children worshipped and adored — —”
“Children, yes, they come the nearest to making the conventional contract endurable. I wish to God you had some!”
“Jim!”
He said, almost savagely: “If you can, and don’t, you’ll make a hell for yourself with any man, sooner or later — mark my words! And it isn’t worth while to enact the hypocrisy of marriage with nothing more than legal license in view! Why bother with priest or clergyman? That contract won’t last. And it’s less trouble not to make one at all than to go West and break one.”
“Do you know you are talking very horridly to me?” she said.
“Yes — I suppose I am. I’ve got to be going now, anyway — —”
As he spoke, the glittering house became dark; the curtain opened upon a dim scene of shadowy splendour, into which, exquisite and bewitchingly immortal as any goddess in the heavenly galaxy, glided Farrar, in the shimmering panoply of Ariane.
“Desboro stood staring down at the magic picture. Mrs. Clydesdale, too, had risen”
Desboro stood staring down at the magic picture. Mrs. Clydesdale, too, had risen. Below them the beauty of Farrar’s matchless voice possessed the vast obscurity, searching the darkness like a ray of crystal light. One by one the stone crypts opened, disclosing their tinted waterfalls of jewels.
“I’ve got to go,” he whispered. “Your people will be arriving.”
They moved silently to the door.
“Jim?”
“Yes.”
“There is no other woman; is there?”
“Not now.”
“Oh! Was there?”
“There might have been.”
“You mean — to — to marry?”
“No.”
“Then — I suppose I can’t help that sort. Men are — that way. Was it that girl at Silverwood?”
“No,” he said, lying.
“Oh! Who was that girl at Silverwood?”
“A business acquaintance.”
“I hear she is unusually pretty.”
“Yes, very.”
“You found it necessary to be at Silverwood when she was there?”
“Once or twice.”
“It is no longer necessary?”
“No longer necessary.”
“So you won’t see her again?”
“No.”
“I’m glad. It hurt, Jim. Some people I know at Willow Lake saw her. They said she was unusually beautiful.”
“Elena,” he said, “will you kindly come to your senses? I’m not going to marry anybody; but that doesn’t concern you. I advise you to attend to your own life’s business — which is to have children and bring them up more decently than the present generation are being brought up in this fool of a town! If nothing else will make your husband endurable, children will come nearest to it — —”
“Jim — please — —”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t cry!” he whispered.
“I — won’t. Dear, don’t you realise that you are all I have in the world — —”
“We haven’t got each other, I tell you, and we’re not going to have each other — —”
“Yes — but don’t take anybody else — marry anyone — —”
“I won’t. Control yourself!”
“Promise me!”
“Yes, I do. Go forward into the box; those people will be arriving — —”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes, if you want me to. Go forward; nobody can see you in the dark. Good-bye — —”
“Good-bye, dear. And thank you — —”
He coolly ignored the upturned face; she caught his hand in a flash of impatient passion, then, with a whispered word, turned and went forward, mistress of herself again, to sit there for an hour or two and witness a mystery that has haunted the human heart for aeons, unexpressed.
On the fifth day, Desboro remained indoors and wrote business letters until late in the afternoon.
Toward evening he telephoned to Mrs. Quant to find out whether everything was being done to render Miss Nevers’s daily sojourn at Silverwood House agreeable.
He learned that everything was being done, that the young lady in question had just departed for New York, and, furthermore, that she had inquired of Mrs. Quant whether Mr. Desboro was not coming soon to Silverwood, desiring to be informed because she had one or two business matters on which to consult him.
“Hold the wire,” he said, and left it for a few moments’ swift pacing to and fro. Then he came again to the telephone.
“Ask Miss Nevers to be kind enough to write me about the matters she has in mind, because I can not leave town at present.”
“Yes, Mr. James. Are you well, sir?”
“Perfectly.”
“Thank you, sir. If you feel chilly like at night — —”
“But I don’t. Good-night!”
He dressed, dined at the club, and remained there reading the papers until he had enough of their complacent ignorance. Then he went home, still doggedly refusing to attempt to analyse the indirect message from Jacqueline.
If it had any significance other than its apparent purport, he grimly refused to consider even such a possibility. And, deadly weary at last, he fell asleep and slept until late in the morning.
It was snowing hard when he awoke. His ablutions ended, he rang for breakfast. On his tray was a note from the girl in blue; he read it and dropped it into his pocket, remembering the fireplace sacrifice of a few days ago at Silverwood, and realising that such frivolous souvenirs were beginning to accumulate again.
He breakfasted without interest, unfolded the morning paper, glanced over the headlines, and saw that there was a little more murder, divorce, and boot-licking than he cared for, laid it aside, and lighted a cigarette. As he dropped the burnt match on the tray, he noticed under it another letter which he had overlooked among the bills and advertisements composing the bulk of the morning mail.
For a little while he held the envelope in his hand, not looking at it; then, with careless deliberation, he cut it open, using a paper knife, and drew out the letter. As he slowly opened it his hands shook in spite of him.
“My Dear Mr. Desboro: I telephoned Mrs. Quant last night and learned that she had given you my message over the wire only a few minutes before; and that you had sent word you could not come to Silverwood, but that I might communicate with you by letter.
“This is what I had to
say to you: There is a suit of armour here which is in a very bad condition. It will be expensive to have it repaired by a good armourer. Did you wish to include it in the sale as it is, or have it repaired? It is No. 41 in the old list; No. 69 in my catalogue, now almost completed and ready for the printer. It is that rather unusual suit of black plate-mail, called ‘Brigandine Armour,’ a XV century suit from Aragon; and the quilted under-jacket has been ruined by moths and has gone completely to pieces. It is a very valuable suit.
“Would you tell me what to do?
“Very sincerely yours,
“Jacqueline Nevers.”
An hour later he still sat there with the letter in his hand, gazing at nothing. And until the telephone beside him rang twice he had not stirred.
“Who is it?” he asked finally.
At the reply his face altered subtly, and he bowed his head to listen.
The distant voice spoke again, and:
“Silverwood?” he asked.
“Yes, here’s your party.”
An interval filled with a vague whirring, then:
“Mr. Desboro?”
“Yes. Good-morning, Miss Nevers.”
“Good-morning. Have you a note from me?”
“Yes, thank you. It came this morning. I was just reading it — again.”
“I thought I ought to consult you in such a matter.”
“Certainly.”
“Then — what are your wishes?”
“My wishes are yours.”
“I cannot decide such a matter. It will be very expensive — —”
“If it is worth the cost to you, it is worth it to me.”
“I don’t know what you mean. The burden of decision lies with you this time, doesn’t it?”
“With us both. Unless you wish me to assume it.”
“But it is yours to assume!”
“If you wish, then. But I may ask your opinion, may I not?”
There was a silence, then:
“Whatever you do I approve. I have no — opinion.”
“You do not approve all I do.”
The rejoinder came faintly: “How do you know?”
“I — wrote to you. Do you approve my writing to you?”
“Yes. If you do.”
“And do you approve of what I wrote?”
“Not of all that you wrote.”
“I wrote that I would not see you again.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think that is best?”
“I — do not think about it.”
He said: “That, also, is best. Don’t think of it at all. And about the armour, do exactly what you would do if you were in my place. Good-bye.”
“Mr. Desboro — —”
“Yes.”
“Could you wait a moment? I am trying to think — —”
“Don’t try, Jacqueline!”
“Please wait — for me!”
There was a silence; a tiny spot of blood reddened his bitten lip before she spoke again; then:
“I wished to tell you something. I knew why you wrote. Is it right for me to tell you that I understood you? I wanted to write and say so, and — say something else — about how I felt — but it seems I can’t. Only — we could be friends more easily now — if you wish.”
“You have not understood!” he said.
“Yes, I have, Mr. Desboro. But we can be friends?”
“Could you be mine, after what I have written?”
“I thought I couldn’t, at first. But that day was a — long one. And when a girl is much alone she becomes very honest with herself. And it all was entirely new to me. I didn’t know what I ought to have done about it — only what I wished to do.”
“And — what is that, Jacqueline?”
“Make things as they were — before — —”
“Before I wrote?”
“Yes.”
“All up to that time you wish might be again as it was? All?”
No answer.
“All?” he repeated.
“Don’t ask me. I don’t know — I don’t know what I think any more.”
“How deeply do you suppose I feel about it?”
“I did not know you felt anything very deeply.”
There was a long pause, then her voice again:
“You know — you need not be afraid. I did not know enough to be until you wrote. But I understand, now.”
He said: “It will be all right, then. It will be quite all right, Jacqueline. I’ll come up on the noon train.”
His car met him at the station. The snow had melted and the wet macadam road glittered under a declining winter sun, as the car rolled smoothly away through the still valleys of Westchester.
Mrs. Quant, in best bib and tucker and lilac ribbons, welcomed him, and almost wept at his pallor; but he shrugged impatiently and sprang up the low steps. Here the necessity for self-control stopped him short on his way to the armoury. He turned to Mrs. Quant with an effort:
“Is everything all right?”
“No, Mr. James. Phibby broke a cup and saucer Saturday, and there is new kittens in the laundry — which makes nine cats — —”
“Oh, all right! Miss Nevers is here?”
“Yes, sir — in the liberry — which ain’t been dusted right by that Phibby minx — —”
“Tell Phoebe to dust it!” he said sternly. “Do you suppose Miss Nevers cares to handle dirty books!” His restless glance fell on the clock: “Tell Farris I’m here and that Miss Nevers and I will lunch as soon as it’s served. And say to Miss Nevers that I’ll be down in a few minutes.” He turned and mounted the stairs to his room, and found it full of white, clove-scented carnations.
Mrs. Quant came panting after him:
“Miss Nevers, she cut them in the greenhouse, and told me to put ’em in your room, sayin’ as how clove pinks is sanitary. Would you — would you try a few m-m-magic drops, Mr. James, sir? Miss Nevers takes ’em regular.”
“Oh, Lord!” he exclaimed, laughing in sheer exuberance of spirits. “I’ll swallow anything you like, only hurry!”
She dosed him with great content, he, both hands in soap-suds, turning his head to receive the potion. And at last, ablutions finished, he ran down the stairs, checked himself, and managed to stroll leisurely through the hall and into the library.
She was writing; looked up, suddenly pale under her golden crown of hair; and the red lips quivered, but her eyes were steady.
She bent her head again, both hands abandoned to him, sitting in silence while his lips rested against her fingers.
“Is all well with you, Jacqueline?”
“Yes. And with you?”
“All is well with me. I missed you — if you know what that really means.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Won’t you even look at me?”
“In a moment. Do you see all these piles of manuscript? All that is your new catalogue — and mine,” she added, with a faint smile; but her head remained averted.
“You wonderful girl!” he said softly. “You wonderful girl!”
“Thank you. It was a labor of — pleasure.” Colour stole to the tips of her ears. “I have worked — worked — every minute since — —”
“Yes.”
“Really, I have — every minute. But somehow, it didn’t seem to tire me. To-day — now — I begin to feel a little tired.” She rested her cheek on one hand, still looking away from him.
“I took a peep into the porcelain and jade rooms,” she said, “just a glance over what lies before me. Mrs. Quant very kindly gave me the keys. Did you mind?”
“Do I mind anything that it pleases you to do? What did you find in the jade room?”
She smiled: “Jadeite, of course; and lapis and crystals — the usual.”
“Any good ones?”
“Some are miracles. I don’t really know, yet; I gave just one swift glance and fled — because you see I haven’t finished in the armoury, and I ought not to permit my
self the pleasures of curiosity.”
“The pleasures of curiosity and of anticipation are the only real ones. Sages have said it.”
She shook her head.
“Isn’t it true?” he insisted.
She looked up at him at last, frank-eyed but flushed:
“‘Which is the real pleasure?’ she asked”
“Which is the real pleasure,” she asked, “seeing each other, or anticipating the — the resumption of the entente cordial?”
“You’ve smashed the sages and their philosophy,” he nodded, studying the exquisite, upturned features unsmilingly. “To be with you is the greater — content. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
She nodded thoughtfully: “Five days and a half.”
“You — counted them, too?”
“Yes.”
This wouldn’t do. He rose and walked over to the fire, which needed a log or two; she turned and looked after him with little expression in her face except that the blue of her eyes had deepened to a lilac tint, and the flush on her cheeks still remained.
“You know,” she said, “I didn’t mean to take you from any business in New York — or pleasures — —”
He shuddered slightly.
“Did I?” she asked.
“No.”
“I only wished you to come — when you had time — —”
“I know, Jacqueline. Don’t show me your soul in every word you utter.”
“What?”
He turned on his heel and came back to her, and she shrank a little, not knowing why; but he came no nearer than her desk.
“‘The thing to do,’ he said ... ‘is for us both to keep very busy’”
“The thing to do,” he said, speaking with forced animation and at random, “is for us both to keep very busy. I think I’ll go into farming — raise some dinky thing or other — that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go in for the country squire business — that’s what I’ll do. And I’ll have my neighbours in. I’m never here long enough to ask ‘em. They’re a funny lot; they’re all right, though — deadly respectable. I’ll give a few parties — ask some people from town, too. Betty Barkley could run the conventional end of it. And you’d come floating in with other unattached girls — —”
“You want me!”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 644
