“Where?” The word burst from her involuntarily.
“In the library,” he repeated. “It’s a nice, cosy, comfortable place, isn’t it? Fine fat sofas, soft cushions, fire in the grate — oh, a very comfortable place, indeed! I thought so, anyway, while I was waiting for your husband to come down stairs.”
“It appeared that he had finally received my telephone message — presumably after you and he had finished your row — and had left word that I was to be admitted. That’s why they let me in. So I waited very, v — ery comfortably in the library; and somebody had thoughtfully set out cigars, and whisky, and lemon, and sugar, and a jug of hot water. It was a cold night, if you remember.”
He paused long enough to leer at her.
“Odd,” he remarked, “how pleasantly things happen sometimes. And, as I sat there in that big leather chair — you must know which one I mean, Elena — it is the fattest and most comforting — I smoked my cigar and sipped my hot grog, and gazed innocently around. And what do you suppose my innocent eyes encountered — just like that?”
“W — what?” she breathed.
“Why, a letter!” he said, jovially slapping his fat thigh, “a real letter lying right in the middle of the table — badly sealed, Elena — very carelessly sealed — just the gummed point of the envelope clinging to the body of it. Now, wasn’t that a peculiar thing for an enterprising young man to discover, I ask you?”
He leered and leered into her white face; then, satisfied, he went on:
“The writing was yours, dearie. I recognised it. It was addressed to your own husband, who lived under the same roof. And I had seen you creep out, close the front door softly, and scurry away into the night.” He made a wide gesture with his fat hands.
“Naturally,” he said, “I thought I ought to summon a servant to call your husband, so I could tell him what I had seen you do. But — there was a quicker way to learn what your departure meant — whether you were at that moment making for the river or for Maxim’s — anyway, I knew there was no time to be lost. So — —”
She shrank away and half rose, strangling a cry of protest.
“Sure I did!” he said coolly. “I read your note very carefully, then licked the envelope and resealed it, and put it into my pocket. After all, Mr. Desboro is a man. It was none of my business to interfere. So I let him have what was coming to him — and you, too.” He shrugged and waved his hand. “Your husband came down later; we talked jades and porcelains and prices until I nearly yawned my head off. And when it was time to go, I slipped the letter back on the table. After all, you and Desboro had had your fling; why shouldn’t hubby have an inning?”
He lay back in his chair and laughed at the cowering woman, who had dropped her arms on the back of her chair and buried her face in them. Something about the situation struck him as being very funny. He regarded her for a few moments, then rose and walked to the door. There he turned.
“Fix it for me! Understand?” he said sharply; and went out.
As the bronze doors closed behind Mr. Waudle, Elena started and lifted her frightened face from her arms. For a second or two she sat there, listening, then rose and walked swiftly and noiselessly to the bay window. Mr. Waudle was waddling down the street. Across the way, keeping a parallel course, walked the Cubist poet, his ankle-high trousers flapping. They did not even glance at each other until they reached the corner of Madison Avenue. Here they both boarded the same car going south. Mr. Waudle was laughing.
She came back into the drawing-room and stood, clasped hands twisting in sheer agony.
To whom could she turn now? What was there to do? Since January she had given this man so much money that almost nothing remained of her allowance.
How could she go to her husband again? Never had she betrayed the slightest sympathy for him or any interest in his hobby until his anger was awakened by the swindle of which he had been a victim.
Then, for the first time, under the menacing pressure from Waudle, she had attempted finesse — manœuvred as skillfully as possible in the short space of time allotted her, cleverly betrayed an awakening interest in her husband’s collection, pretended to a sudden caprice for the forgeries recently acquired, and carried off very well her astonishment when informed that the jades and porcelains were swindling imitations made in Japan.
It had been useless for her to declare that, whatever they were, she liked them. Her husband would have none of them in spite of his evident delight in her sudden interest. He promised to undertake her schooling in the proper appreciation of all things Chinese — promised to be her devoted mentor and companion in the eternal hunt for specimens. Which was scarcely wh
at she wanted.
But he flatly refused to encourage her in her admiration for these forgeries or to tolerate such junk under his roof.
“What was she to do? She had gone half mad with fear”
What was she to do? She had gone, half mad with fear, to throw herself upon the sympathy and mercy of Jacqueline Nevers. Terrified, tortured, desperate, she had even thought to bribe the girl to pronounce the forgeries genuine. Then, suddenly, at the mere mention of Desboro, she had gone all to pieces. And when it became clear to her that there was already an understanding between this girl and the man she had counted on as her last resort, fear and anger completed her demoralisation.
She remembered the terrible scene now, remembered what she had said — her shameless attitude — the shameful lie which her words and her attitude had forced Jacqueline to understand.
Why she had acted such a monstrous falsehood she scarcely knew; whether it had been done to cut the suspected bond between Desboro and Jacqueline before it grew too strong to sever — whether it had been sheer hysteria under the new shock — whether it was reckless despair that had hardened her to a point where she meant to take the final plunge and trust to Desboro’s chivalry, she did not know then; she did not know now.
But the avalanche she had loosened that night in December, when she wrote her note and went to Silverwood, was still thundering along behind her, gathering new force every day, until the menacing roar of it never ceased in her ears.
And now it had swept her last possible resource away — Desboro. All her humiliation, all her shame, the lie she had acted, had not availed. This girl had married him after all. Like a lightning stroke the news of their wedding had fallen on her. And on the very heels of it slunk the blackmailer with his terrifying bag of secrets.
Where was she to go? To her husband? It was useless. To Desboro? It was too late. Even now, perhaps, he was listening scornfully to his young wife’s account of that last interview. She could see the contempt in his face — contempt for her — for the woman who had lied to avow her own dishonour.
Why had he come to see her then? To threaten her? To warn her? To spurn her? Yet, that was not like Desboro. Why had he come? What she had said and intimated to Jacqueline was done after the girl was a wife. Could it be possible that Jacqueline was visiting her anger on Desboro, having learned too late that which would have prevented her from marrying him at all?
Elena crept to the sofa and sank down in a heap, cowering there in one corner, striving to think.
What would come of it? Would this proud and chaste young girl, accepting the acted lie as truth, resent it? By leaving Desboro? By beginning a suit for divorce — and naming ——
Elena cringed, stifling a cry of terror. What had she done? Every force she had evoked was concentrating into one black cloud over her head, threatening her utter destruction. Everything she had done since that December night was helping the forces gathering to annihilate her. Even Desboro, once a refuge, was now part of this tempest about to be unloosened.
Truly she had sowed the wind, and the work of her small white hands was already established upon her.
Never in her life had she really ever cared for any man. Her caprice for Desboro, founded on the lesser motives, had been the nearest approach.
It had cost her all he
r self-control, all her courage, to play the diplomat with her husband for the sake of obtaining his consent to keep the forged porcelains. And after all it had been in vain.
In spite of her white misery and wretchedness, now, as she sat there in the drawing-room alone, her cheeks crimsoned hotly at the memory of her arts and wiles and calineries; of her new shyness with the man she had never before spared; of her clever attitude toward him, the apparent dawn of tenderness, the faint provocation in her lifted eyes — God! It should have been her profession, for she had taken to it like a woman of the streets — had submitted like one, earning her pay. And, like many, had been cheated in the end.
She rose unsteadily, cooling her cheeks in her hands and gazing vacantly in front of her.
She had not been well for a few days; had meant to see her physician. But in the rush of events enveloping her there had been no moment to think of mere bodily ills.
Now, dizzy, trembling, and faintly nauseated, she stood supporting her weight on a gilded chair, closing her eyes for a moment to let the swimming wretchedness pass.
It passed after a while, leaving her so utterly miserable that she leaned over and rang for a maid.
“Order the car — the Sphex limousine,” she said. “And bring me my hat and furs.”
“Yes, madame.”
“And — my jewel box. Here is the key — —” detaching a tiny gold one from its chain in her bosom. “And if Mr. Clydesdale comes in, say to him that I have gone to the doctor’s.”
“Yes, madame.”
“And — I shall take some jewels to — the safe deposit — one or two pieces which I don’t wear.”
The maid was silent.
“Do you understand about the — jewels?”
“Yes, madame.”
She went away. Presently she returned with Elena’s hat and furs and jewel box. The private garage adjoined the house; the car rolled out before she was ready.
On the way down town she was afraid she would faint — almost wished she would. The chauffeur’s instructions landed her at a jeweler’s where she was not known.
A few moments later, in a private office, a grey old gentleman very gently refused to consider the purchase of any jewelry from her unless he knew her name, residence, and other essentials which she flatly declined to give.
So a polite clerk put her into her car and she directed the chauffeur to Dr. Allen’s office, because she felt really too ill for the moment to continue her search. Later she would manage to find somebody who would buy sufficient of her jewelry to give her — and Mr. Waudle — the seven thousand dollars necessary to avoid exposure.
Dr. Allen was in — just returned. Only one patient was ahead of her. Presently she was summoned, rose with an effort, and went in.
The physician was a very old man; and after he had questioned her for a few moments he smiled. And at the same instant she began to understand; got to her feet blindly, stood swaying for a moment, then dropped as he caught her.
Neither the physician nor the trained nurse who came in at his summons seemed to be very greatly worried. As they eased the young wife and quietly set about reviving her, they chatted carelessly. Later Elena opened her eyes. Later still the nurse went home with her in her limousine.
CHAPTER XVII
About midday Clydesdale, who had returned to his house from a morning visit to his attorney in Liberty Street, was summoned to the telephone.
“Is that you, Desboro?” he asked.
“Yes. I stopped this morning to speak to your wife a moment, but very naturally she was not at home to me at such an hour in the morning. I have just called her on the telephone, but her maid says she has gone out.”
“Yes. She is not very well. I understand she has gone to see Dr. Allen. But she ought to be back pretty soon. Won’t you come up to the house, Desboro?”
There was a short pause, then Desboro’s voice again, in reply:
“I believe I will come up, Clydesdale. And I think I’ll talk to you instead of to your wife.”
“Just as it suits you. Very glad to see you anyway. I’ll be in the rear extension fussing about among the porcelains.”
“I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”
In less time than that Desboro arrived, and was piloted through the house and into the gallery by an active maid. At the end of one of the aisles lined by glass cases, the huge bulk of Cary Clydesdale loomed, his red face creased with his eternal grin.
“Hello, Desboro!” he called. “Come this way. I’ve one or two things here which will match any of yours at Silverwood, I think.”
And, as Desboro approached, Clydesdale strode forward, offering him an enormous hand.
“Glad to see you,” he grinned. “Congratulations on your marriage! Fine girl, that! I don’t know any to match her.” He waved a comprehensive arm. “All this stuff is her arrangement. Gad! But I had it rottenly displayed. And the collection was full of fakes, too. But she came floating in here one morning, and what she did to my junk-heap was a plenty, believe me!” And the huge fellow grinned and grinned until Desboro’s sombre face altered and became less rigid.
A maid appeared with a table and a frosted cocktail shaker.
“You’ll stop and lunch with us,” said Clydesdale, filling two glasses. “Elena won’t be very long. Don’t know just what ails her, but she’s nervous and run down. I guess it’s the spring that’s coming. Well, here’s to all bad men; they need the boost and we don’t. Prosit!”
He emptied his glass, set it aside, and from the open case beside him extracted an exquisite jar of the Kang-He, famille noire, done in five colours during the best period of the work.
“God knows I’m not proud,” he said, “but can you beat it, Desboro?”
Desboro took the beautiful jar, and, carefully guarding the cover, turned it slowly. Birds, roses, pear blossoms, lilies, exquisite in composition and colour, passed under his troubled eyes. He caressed the paste mechanically.
“It is very fine,” he said.
“Have you anything to beat it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How are yours marked?” inquired the big man, taking the jar into his own enormous paws as lovingly as a Kadiak bear embraces her progeny. “This magnificent damn thing is a forgery. Look! Here’s the mark of the Emperor Ching-hwa! Isn’t that the limit? And the forgery is every bit as fine as the originals made before 1660 — only it happened to be the fashion in China in 1660 to collect Ching-hwa jars, so the maker of this piece deliberately forged an earlier date. Can you beat it?”
Desboro smiled as though he were listening; and Clydesdale gingerly replaced the jar and as carefully produced another.
“Ming!” he said. “Seventeenth century Manchu Tartar. I’ve some earlier Ming ranging between 1400 A.D. and 1600; but it can’t touch this, Desboro. In fact, I think the eighteenth century Ming is even finer; and, as far as that goes, there is magnificent work being done now — although the occidental markets seldom see it. But — Ming for mine, every time! How do you feel about it, old top?”
Desboro looked at the vase. The soft beauty of the blue underglaze, the silvery thickets of magnolia bloom amid which a magnificent, pheasant-hued phœnix stepped daintily, meant at the moment absolutely nothing to him.
Nor did the poudre-bleu jar, triumphantly exhibited by the infatuated owner — a splendid specimen painted on the overglaze. And the weeds and shells and fiery golden fishes swimming had been dimmed a little by rubbing, so that the dusky aquatic depths loomed more convincingly.
“Clydesdale,” said Desboro in a low voice, “I want to say one or two things to you. Another time it would give me pleasure to go over these porcelains with you. Do you mind my interrupting you?”
The big man grinned.
“Shoot,” he said, replacing the “powder-blue” and carefully closing and locking the case. Then, dropping the keys into his pocket, he came over to where Desboro was seated beside the flimsy folding card-table, shook the cocktail shaker,
offered to fill Desboro’s glass, and at a gesture of refusal refilled his own.
“This won’t do a thing to my appetite,” he remarked genially. “Go ahead, Desboro.” And he settled himself to listen, with occasional furtive, sidelong glances at his beloved porcelains.
Desboro said: “Clydesdale, you and I have known each other for a number of years. We haven’t seen much of each other, except at the club, or meeting casually here and there. It merely happened so; if accident had thrown us together, the chances are that we would have liked each other — perhaps sought each other’s company now and then — as much as men do in this haphazard town, anyway. Don’t you think so?”
Clydesdale nodded.
“But we have been on perfectly friendly terms, always — with one exception,” said Desboro.
“Yes — with one exception. But that is all over now — —”
“I am afraid it isn’t.”
Clydesdale’s grin remained unaltered when he said: “Well, what the hell — —” and stopped abruptly.
“It’s about that one exception of which I wish to speak,” continued Desboro, after a moment’s thought. “I don’t want to say very much — just one or two things which I hope you already know and believe. And all I have to say is this, Clydesdale; whatever I may have been — whatever I may be now, that sort of treachery is not in me. I make no merit of it — it may be mere fastidiousness on my part which would prevent me from meditating treachery toward an acquaintance or a friend.”
Clydesdale scrutinised him in silence.
“Never, since Elena was your wife, have I thought of her except as your wife.”
Clydesdale only grinned.
“I want to be as clear as I can on this subject,” continued the other, “because — and I must say it to you — there have been rumours concerning — me.”
“And concerning her,” said Clydesdale simply. “Don’t blink matters, Desboro.”
“No, I won’t. The rumours have included her, of course. But what those rumours hint, Clydesdale, is an absolute lie. I blame myself in a measure; I should not have come here so often — should not have continued to see Elena so informally. I was in love with her once; I did ask her to marry me. She took you. Try to believe me, Clydesdale, when I tell you that though for me there did still linger about her that inexplicable charm which attracted me, which makes your wife so attractive to everybody, never for a moment did it occur to me not to acquiesce in the finality of her choice. Never did I meditate any wrong toward you or toward her. I did dangle. That was where I blame myself. Because where a better man might have done it uncriticised, I was, it seems, open to suspicion.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 664
