Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “And I don’t understand you, dear,” he said impatiently.

  “You will, Jim.”

  He smiled uneasily: “For how long must we twain, who are now one, maintain solitary sovereignty over our separate domains?”

  “Until I know you better.”

  “And how long is that going to take?” he asked, smilingly apprehensive and deeply perplexed by her quiet and serious attitude toward him.

  “I don’t know how long, I wish I did.”

  “Jacqueline, dear, has anything unpleasant happened to disturb you since I last saw you?”

  She made no reply.

  “Won’t you tell me, dear,” he insisted uneasily.

  “I will tell you this, Jim. Whatever may have occurred to disturb me is already a matter of the past. Life and its business lie before us; that is all I know. This is our beginning, Jim; and happiness depends on what we make of our lives from now on — from now on.”

  The stray lock of golden hair had fallen across her cheek, accenting the skin’s pallor through the veil. She rested her elbow on the window ledge, her tired head on her hand, and gazed at the sunset behind the Palisades. Far below, over the grey and wrinkled river, smoke from a steamboat drifted, a streak of bronze and purple, in the sunset light.

  “What has happened?” he muttered under his breath. And, turning toward her: “You must tell me, Jacqueline. It is now my right to know.”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  His face hardened; for a moment the lean muscles of the jaw worked visibly.

  “Has anybody said anything about me to you?”

  No reply.

  “Has — has Mrs. Hammerton been to see you?”

  “No.”

  He was silent for a moment, then:

  “I’ll tell you now, Jacqueline; she did not wish me to marry you. Did you know it?”

  “I know it.”

  “I believe,” he said, “that she has been capable of warning you against me. Did she?”

  No reply.

  “And yet you married me?” he said, after a silence.

  She said nothing.

  “So you could not have believed her, whatever she may have said,” he concluded calmly.

  “Jim?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I married you because I loved you. I love you still. Remember it when you are impatient with me — when you are hurt — perhaps angry — —”

  “Angry with you, my darling!”

  “You are going to be — very often — I am afraid.”

  “Angry?”

  “I — don’t know. I don’t know how it will be with us. If only you will remember that I love you — no matter how I seem — —”

  “Dear, if you tell me that you do love me, I will know that it must be so!”

  “I tell you that I do. I could never love anybody else. You are all that I have in the world; all I care for. You are absolutely everything to me. I loved you and married you; I took you for mine just as you were and are. And if I didn’t quite understand all that — that you are — I took you, nevertheless — for better or for worse — and I mean to hold you. And I know now that, knowing more about you, I would do the same thing if it were to be done again. I would marry you to-morrow — knowing what I know.”

  “What more do you know about me than you did this morning, Jacqueline?” he asked, terribly troubled.

  But she refused to answer.

  He said, reddening: “If you have heard any gossip concerning Mrs. Clydesdale, it is false. Was that what you heard? Because it is an absolute lie.”

  But she had learned from Mrs. Clydesdale’s reckless lips the contrary, and she rested her aching head on her hand and stared out at the endless lines of houses along Broadway, as the car swung into Yonkers, veered to the west past the ancient manor house, then rolled northward again toward Hastings.

  “Don’t you believe me?” he asked at length. “That gossip is a lie — if that is what you heard.”

  She thought: “This is how gentlemen are supposed to behave under such circumstances.” And she shivered.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, with an effort.

  “A little.”

  He drew the fur robe closer around her, and leaned back in his corner, deeply worried, impatient, but helpless in the face of her evident weariness and reticence, which he could not seem to penetrate or comprehend. Only that something ominous had happened — that something was dreadfully wrong — he now thoroughly understood.

  In the purposeless career of a man of his sort, there is much that it is well to forget. And in Desboro’s brief career there were many things that he would not care to have such a girl as Jacqueline hear about — so much, alas! of folly and stupidity, so much of idleness, so much unworthy, that now in his increasing chagrin and mortification, in the painful reaction from happy pride to alarm and self-contempt, he could not even guess what had occurred, or for which particular folly he was beginning to pay.

  Long since, both in his rooms in town, and at Silverwood, he had destroyed the silly souvenirs of idleness and folly. He thought now of the burning sacrifice he had so carelessly made that day in the library — and how the flames had shrivelled up letter and fan, photograph and slipper. And he could not remember that he had left a rag of lace or a perfumed envelope unburned.

  Had the ghosts of their owners risen to confront him on his own hearthstone, standing already between him and this young girl he had married?

  What whisper had reached her guiltless ears? What rumour, what breath of innuendo? Must a man still be harassed who has done with folly for all time — who aspires to better things — who strives to change his whole mode of life merely for the sake of the woman he loves — merely to be more worthy of her?

  As he sat there so silently in the car beside her, his dark thoughts travelled back again along the weary, endless road to yesterday. Since he had known and loved her, his thoughts had often and unwillingly sought that shadowy road where the only company were ghosts — phantoms of dead years that sometimes smiled, sometimes reproached, sometimes menaced him with suddenly remembered eyes and voiceless but familiar words forever printed on his memory.

  Out of that grey vista, out of that immaterial waste where only impalpable shapes peopled the void, vanished, grew out of nothing only to reappear, something had come to trouble the peace of mind of the woman he loved — some spectre of folly had arisen and had whispered in her ear, so that, at the mockery, the light had died out in her fearless eyes and her pure mind was clouded and her tender heart was weighted with this thing — whatever it might be — this echo of folly which had returned to mock them both.

  “Dearest,” he said, drawing her to him so that her cold cheek rested against his, “whatever I was, I am no longer. You said you could forgive.”

  “I do — forgive.”

  “Can you not forget, too?”

  “I will try — with your help.”

  “How can I help you? Tell me.”

  “By letting me love you — as wisely as I can — in my own fashion. By letting me learn more of you — more about men. I don’t understand men. I thought I did — but I don’t. By letting me find out what is the wisest and the best and the most unselfish way to love you. For I don’t know yet. I don’t know. All I know is that I am married to the man I loved — the man I still love. But how I am going to love him I — I don’t yet know.”

  He was silent; the hot flush on his face did not seem to warm her cheek where it rested so coldly against his.

  “I want to hold you because it is best for us both,” she said, as though speaking to herself.

  “But — you need make no effort to hold me, Jacqueline!” e protested, amazed.

  “I want to hold you, Jim,” she repeated. “You are my husband. I — I must hold you. And I don’t know how I am to do it. I don’t know how.”

  “My darling! Who has been talking to you? What have they said?”

  “It has got to be done, somehow,�
�� she interrupted, wearily. “I must learn how to hold you; and you must give me time, Jim — —”

  “Give you time!” he repeated, exasperated.

  “Yes — to learn how to love you best — so I can serve you best. That is why I married you — not selfishly, Jim — and I thought I knew — I thought I knew — —”

  Her cheek slipped from his and rested on his shoulder. He put his arm around her and she covered her face with her gloved hands.

  “I love you dearly, dearly,” he whispered brokenly. “If the whisper of any past stupidity of mine has hurt you, God knows best what punishment He visits on me at this moment! If there were any torture I could endure to spare you, Jacqueline, I would beg for it — welcome it! It is a bitter and a hopeless and a ridiculous thing to say; but if I had only known there was such a woman as you in the world I would have understood better how to live. I suppose many a man understands it when it is too late. I realise now, for the first time, how changeless, how irrevocably fixed, are the truths youth learns to smile at — the immutable laws youth scoffs at — —”

  He choked, controlled his voice, and went on:

  “If youth could only understand it, the truths of childhood are the only truths. The first laws we learn are the eternal ones. And their only meaning is self-discipline. But youth is restive and mistakes curiosity for intelligence, insubordination for the courage of independence. The stupidity of orthodoxy incites revolt. To disregard becomes less difficult; to forget becomes a habit. To think for one’s self seems admirable; but when youth attempts that, it thinks only what it pleases or does not think at all. I am not trying to find excuses or to evade my responsibility, dear. I had every chance, no excuse for what I have — sometimes — been. And now — on this day — this most blessed and most solemn day of my life — I can only say to you I am sorry, and that I mean so to live — always — that no man or woman can reproach me.”

  She lay very silent against his shoulder. Blindly striving to understand him, and men — blindly searching for some clue to the path of duty — the path she must find somehow and follow for his sake — through the obscurity and mental confusion she seemed to hear at moments Elena Clydesdale’s shameless and merciless words, and the deadly repetition seemed to stun her.

  Vainly she strove against the recurring horror; once or twice, unconsciously, her hands crept upward and closed her ears, as though she could shut out what was dinning in her brain.

  With every reserve atom of mental strength and self-control she battled against this thing which was stupefying her, fought it off, held it, drove it back — not very far, but far enough to give her breathing room. But no sooner did she attempt to fix her mind on the man beside her, and begin once more to grope for the clue to duty — how most unselfishly she might serve him for his salvation and her own — than the horror she had driven back stirred stealthily and crawled nearer. And the battle was on once more.

  Twilight had fallen over the Westchester hills; a familiar country lay along the road they travelled. In the early darkness, glancing from the windows he divined unseen landmarks, counted the miles unconsciously as the car sped across invisible bridges that clattered or resounded under the heavy wheels.

  The stars came out; against them woodlands and hills took shadowy shape, marking for him remembered haunts. And at last, far across the hills the lighted windows of Silverwood glimmered all a-row; the wet gravel crunched under the slowing wheels, tall Norway spruces towered phantomlike on every side; the car stopped.

  “Home,” he whispered to her; and she rested her arm on his shoulder and drew herself erect.

  Every servant and employee on the Desboro estate was there to receive them; she offered her slim hand and spoke to every one. Then, on her husband’s arm, and her proud little head held high, she entered the House of Desboro for the first time bearing the family name — entered smiling, with death in her heart.

  At last the dinner was at an end. Farris served the coffee and set the silver lamp and cigarettes on the library table, and retired.

  Luminous red shadows from the fireplace played over wall and ceiling — the same fireplace where Desboro had made his offering — as though flame could purify and ashes end the things that men have done!

  In her frail dinner gown of lace, she lay in a great chair before the blaze, gazing at nothing. He, seated on the rug beside her chair, held her limp hand and rested his face against it, staring at the ashes on the hearth.

  And this was marriage! Thus he was beginning his wedded life — here in the house of his fathers, here at the same hearthstone where the dead brides of dead forebears had sat as his bride was sitting now.

  But had any bride ever before faced that hearth so silent, so motionless, so pale as was this young girl whose fingers rested so limply in his and whose cold palm grew no warmer against his cheek?

  What had he done to her? What had he done to himself — that the joy of things had died out in her eyes — that speech had died on her lips — that nothing in her seemed alive, nothing responded, nothing stirred.

  Now, all the bitterness that life and its unwisdom had stored up for him through the swift and reckless years, he tasted. For that cup may not pass. Somewhere, sooner or later, the same lips that have so lightly emptied sweeter draughts must drain this one. None may refuse it, none wave it away until the cup be empty.

  “Jacqueline?”

  She moved slightly in her chair.

  “Tell me,” he said, “what is it that can make amends?”

  “They — are made.”

  “But the hurt is still there. What can heal it, dear?”

  “I — don’t know.”

  “Time?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Love?”

  “Yes — in time.”

  “How long?”

  “I do not know, Jim.”

  “Then — what is there for me to do?”

  She was silent.

  “Could you tell me, Jacqueline?”

  “Yes. Have patience — with me.”

  “With you?”

  “It will be necessary.”

  “How do you mean, dear?”

  “I mean you must have patience with me — in many ways. And still be in love with me. And still be loyal to me — and — faithful. I don’t know whether a man can do these things. I don’t know men. But I know myself — and what I require of men — and of you.”

  “What you require of me I can be if you love me.”

  “Then never doubt it. And when I know that you have become what I require you to be, you could not doubt my loving you even if you wished to. Then you will know; until then — you must believe.”

  He sat thinking before the hearth, the slow flush rising to his temples and remaining.

  “What is it you mean to do, Jacqueline?” he asked, in a low voice.

  “Nothing, except what I have always done. The business of life remains unchanged; it is always there to be done.”

  “I mean — are you going to — change — toward me?”

  “I have not changed.”

  “Your confidence in me has gone.”

  “I have recovered it.”

  “You believe in me still?”

  “Oh, yes — yes!” Her little hand inside his clenched convulsively and her voice broke.

  Kneeling beside her, he drew her into his arms and felt her breath suddenly hot and feverish against his shoulder. But if there had been tears in her eyes they dried unshed, for he saw no traces of them when he kissed her.

  “In God’s name,” he whispered, “let the past bury its accursed dead and give me a chance. I love you, worship you, adore you. Give me my chance in life again, Jacqueline!”

  “I — I give it to you — as far as in me lies. But it rests with you, Jim, what you will be.”

  His own philosophy returned to mock him out of the stainless mouth of this young girl! But he said passionately:

  “How can I be arbiter of my own fate unless I have
all you can give me of love and faith and unswerving loyalty?”

  “I give you these.”

  “Then — as a sign — return the kiss I give you — now.”

  There was no response.

  “Can you not, Jacqueline?”

  “Not — yet.”

  “You — you can not respond!”

  “Not — that way — yet.”

  “Is — have I — has what you know of me killed all feeling, all tenderness in you?”

  “No.”

  “Then — why can you not respond — —”

  “I can not, Jim — I can not.”

  He flushed hotly: “Do you — do I inspire you with — do I repel you — physically?”

  She caught his hand, cheeks afire, dismayed, striving to check him:

  “Please — don’t say such — it is — not — true — —”

  “It seems to be — —”

  “No! I — I ask you — not to say it — think it — —”

  “How can I help thinking it — thinking that you only care for me — that the only attraction on your part is — is intellectual — —”

  She disengaged her hand from his and shrank away into the velvet depths of her chair.

  “I can’t help it,” he said. “I’ve got to say what I think. Never since I have told you I loved you have you ever hinted at any response, even to the lightest caress. We are married. Whatever — however foolish I may have been — God knows you have made me pay for it this day. How long am I to continue paying? I tell you a man can’t remain repentant too long under the stern and chilling eyes of retribution. If you are going to treat me as though I were physically unfit to touch, I can make no further protest. But, Jacqueline, no man was ever aided by a punishment that wounds his self-respect.”

  “I must consider mine, too,” she said, in a ghost of a voice.

  “Very well,” he said, “if you think you must maintain it at the expense of mine — —”

  “Jim!”

  The low cry left her lips trembling.

  “What?” he said, angrily.

  “Have — have you already forgotten what I said?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked — I asked you to be patient with me — because — I love you — —”