Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “You can’t go to her this way.”

  “It were unwise, perhaps,” said Desboro, pleasantly.

  Cairns gripped his arm: “You go to the baths; do you hear? Tell Louis to massage the edge off you. I’m going to speak to your wife.”

  So Desboro sauntered off toward the elevator and Cairns called up Jacqueline’s office.

  It appeared that Jacqueline had left. Should they switch him on to her private apartments above?

  In a moment his call was answered.

  “Is this Mrs. Desboro?” he asked. And at the same instant recognised Cynthia Lessler’s voice.

  She returned his greeting briefly.

  “Jacqueline thought that perhaps she had misunderstood Mr. Desboro, so she has gone to the station. Did he go there?”

  “N — no. He had an appointment and — —”

  “Where?”

  “At the club — the Olympian Club — —”

  “Is he there?”

  “Yes — —”

  “Then tell him to go at once to the station, or he will miss his wife and the 6:15 train, too!”

  “I — he — Jim isn’t feeling very well — —”

  “Is he ill!”

  “N — no. Oh, no! He’s merely tired — over-worked — —”

  “What!”

  “Oh, he’s just taking a cold plunge and a rub-down — —”

  “Mr. Cairns!”

  “Yes.”

  “Take a taxi and come here before Jacqueline returns.”

  “Did you wish — —”

  “Yes. How soon can you get here?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “A rotten piece of business,” muttered Cairns, taking hat and stick from the cloak room.

  The starter had a taxi ready. Except for the usual block on Fifth Avenue, they would have made it in four minutes. It took them ten.

  Cynthia met him on the landing and silently ushered him into Jacqueline’s pretty little parlour. She still wore her hat and coa

  t; a fur boa lay on a sofa.

  “‘Now,’ she said, leaning forward ... ‘what is the meaning of this?’”

  “Now,” she said, leaning forward in her chair as soon as he was seated, “what is the meaning of this?”

  “Of what?” he asked, pretending mild surprise.

  “Of Mr. Desboro’s behaviour! He was married yesterday to the dearest, sweetest, loveliest girl in the world. To-day, I stop at her office to see her — and I find that she is unhappy. She couldn’t hide it from me! I love her! And all her smiles and forced gaiety and clever maneuvering were terrible to me — heart-breaking. She is dreadfully unhappy. Why?”

  “I didn’t know it,” said Cairns honestly.

  “Is that true?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Very well. But you know why he didn’t meet Jacqueline at five, don’t you?”

  He looked at her miserably: “Yes, I know. I wouldn’t let him.”

  “Is he intoxicated?”

  “No. He has had more than he should have.”

  “What a cur!” she said between her teeth.

  Cairns bit his lip and nervously twirled his walking stick.

  “See here, Cynthia, Jim isn’t a cur, you know.”

  “What do you call a man who has done what he’s done?”

  “I — I tell you it has me guessing. Because it isn’t like Jim Desboro. He’s never that way — not once in years. Only when he’s up against it does he ever do that. And he’s perfectly mad about his wife. Don’t make any mistake there; he’s dead in love with her — crazy about her. But — he came into the office about one to-day, looking like the deuce — so changed, so white, so ‘all in,’ that I thought he had the grippe or something.”

  Cynthia said: “They’ve had a quarrel. Oh, what is it — what could it be, Jack? You know it will break her heart. It’s breaking mine now. I can’t bear it — I simply can’t — —”

  “Haven’t the least idea what’s wrong,” said Cairns, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and beating the hearth with his walking stick.

  “Can’t Mr. Desboro come here pretty soon?”

  “Oh, yes, I think so. I’ll go back and look him over — —”

  Cynthia’s eyes suddenly glistened with tears, and she bowed her head.

  “My dear child,” expostulated Cairns, “it’s nothing to weep over. It’s a — one of those things likely to happen to any man — —”

  “But I can’t bear to have it happen to Jacqueline’s husband. Oh, I wish she had never seen him, never heard of him! He is a thousand, thousand miles beneath her. He isn’t worth — —”

  “For heaven’s sake, Cynthia, don’t think that!”

  “Think it! I know it! Of what value is that sort of man compared to a girl like Jacqueline! Of what use is that sort of man anyway! I know them,” she said bitterly, “I’ve had my lesson in that school. One and all, young and old, rich or poor — comparatively poor — they are the same. The same ideas haunt their idle and selfish minds, the same motives move them, the same impulses rule them, and they reason with their emotions, not with their brains. Arrogant, insolent, condescending, self-centred, self-indulgent, and utterly predatory! That is the type! And they belong where people prey upon one another, not among the clean and sweet and innocent. They belong where there is no question of marriage or of home or of duty; they belong where lights are many and brilliant, where there is money, and plenty of it! Where there is noise, and too much of it! That is where that sort of man belongs. And nobody knows it as well as such a girl as I! Nobody, nobody!” Her lip quivered and she choked back the tears.

  “And — and now — such a man has taken my little friend — my little girl — Jacqueline — —”

  “Do you think he’s as rotten as what you say?”

  “Yes. Yes!”

  “Then — what must you think of me?”

  She glanced up, blotting her wet lashes with her handkerchief.

  “What do you mean, Jack?”

  “I suppose I’m included among the sort of men you have been so graphically describing?”

  She did not answer.

  “Am I not included?”

  She shook her head slightly.

  “Why not? If your description fits Jim Desboro and Reggie Ledyard, and that set, it must naturally fit me, also.”

  But she shook her head almost imperceptibly.

  “Why do you exclude me, Cynthia?”

  But she had nothing to say about him. Long ago — long, long since, she had made excuses for all that he should have been and was not. It was not a matter for discussion; she and her heart had settled it between them without calling in Logic as umpire, and without recourse to Reason for an opinion.

  “The worst of it is,” he said, rising and picking up his hat, “some of your general description does fit me.”

  “I — did not mean it that way — —”

  “But it does fit, Cynthia; doesn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “What!” incredulously.

  She said in a low voice: “You were very kind to me, Jack; and — not like other men. Do you think I can ever forget that?”

  He forced a laugh: “Great actresses are expected to forget things. Besides, there isn’t anything to remember — except that — we were friends.”

  “Real friends. I know it now. Because the world is full of the other kind. But a real friend does not — destroy. Good-bye.”

  “Shall I see you again?” he asked, troubled.

  “If you wish. I gave you my address yesterday.”

  “Will you really be at home to me, Cynthia?”

  “Try,” she said, unsmiling.

  She went to the landing with him.

  “Will you see that Mr. Desboro comes here as soon as he is — fit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. I’ll tell Jacqueline he was not feeling well and fell asleep at the club. It’s one of those l
ies that may be forgiven—” she shrugged “ — but anyway I’ll risk it.”

  So he went away, and she watched his departure, standing by the old-time stair-well until she heard the lower door clang. Then, grieved and angry, she seated herself and nervously awaited Jacqueline’s reappearance.

  The girl returned ten minutes later, pale and plainly worried, but carrying it off lightly enough.

  “Cynthia!” she exclaimed, smilingly. “Where do you suppose that husband of mine can be! He isn’t at the station. I boarded the train, but he was not on it! Isn’t it odd? I — I don’t suppose anything could have happened to him — any accident — because the motor drivers are so reckless — —”

  “You darling thing!” laughed Cynthia. “Your young man is perfectly safe — —”

  “Oh, of course I — I believe so — —”

  “He is! He’s at his club.”

  “What!”

  “It’s perfectly simple,” said Cynthia coolly, “he went there from his office, feeling a bit under the weather — —”

  “Is he ill?”

  “No, no! He was merely tired, I believe. And he stretched out and fell asleep and failed to wake up. That’s all.”

  Jacqueline looked at her in relieved astonishment for a moment.

  “Did he telephone?”

  “Yes — or rather, Mr. Cairns did — —”

  “Mr. Cairns! Why did Mr. Cairns telephone? Why didn’t my husband telephone? Cynthia — look at me!”

  Cynthia met her eye undaunted.

  “Why,” repeated Jacqueline, “didn’t my husband telephone to me? Is he too ill? Is that it? Are you concealing it? Are you, Cynthia?”

  Cynthia smiled: “He’s a casual young man, darling. I believe he’s taking a cold plunge or something. He’ll probably be here in a few minutes. So I’ll say good-night.” She picked up her fur neckpiece, glanced at the mirror, fluffed a curl or two, and turned to Jacqueline. “Don’t spoil him, ducky,” she whispered, putting her hands on the young wife’s shoulders and looking her deep in the eyes.

  Jacqueline flushed painfully.

  “How do you mean, Cynthia?”

  The latter said: “There are a million ways of spoiling a man beside giving up to him.”

  “I don’t give up to him,” said Jacqueline in a colourless voice.

  Cynthia looked at her gravely:

  “It’s hard to know what to do, dear. When a girl gives up to a man she spoils him sometimes; when she doesn’t she sometimes spoils him. It’s hard to know what to do — very hard.”

  Jacqueline’s gaze grew troubled and remote.

  “How to love a man wisely — that’s a very hard thing for a girl to learn,” murmured Cynthia. “But — the main thing — the important thing, is to love him, I think. And I suppose we have to take our chances of spoiling him.”

  “The main thing,” said Jacqueline slowly, “is that he should know you do love him; isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But the problem is, how best to show it. And that requires wisdom, dear. And where is a girl to acquire that kind of wisdom? What experience has she? What does she know? Ah, we don’t know. There lies the trouble. By instinct, disposition, natural reticence, and training, we are disposed to offer too little, perhaps; But often, in fear that our reticence may not be understood, we offer too much.”

  “I — am afraid of that.”

  “Of offering too much?”

  “Yes.”

  They stood, thoughtful a moment, not looking at each other.

  Cynthia said in a low voice: “Be careful of him, ducky. His is not the stronger character. Perhaps he needs more than you give.”

  “What!”

  “I — I think that perhaps he is not the kind of man to be spoiled by giving. And — it is possible to starve some men by the well-meant kindness of reserve.”

  “All women — modest women — are reserved.”

  “Is a mother’s reserve praiseworthy when her child comes to her for intimate companionship — for tenderness perhaps — and puts its little arms around her neck?”

  Jacqueline stared, then blushed furiously.

  “Why do you suppose that I am likely to be lacking in sympathy, Cynthia?”

  “You are not. I know you too well, ducky. But you might easily be exquisitely undemonstrative.”

  “All women — are — undemonstrative.”

  “Not always.”

  “An honest, chaste — —”

  “No.”

  Jacqueline, deeply flushed, began in a low voice:

  “To discourage the lesser emotions — —”

  “No! To separate them, class them as lesser, makes them so. They are merely atoms in the molecule — a tiny fragment of perfection. To be too conscious of them makes them too important; to accept them with the rest as part of the ensemble is the only way.”

  “Cynthia!”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Who has been educating you to talk this way?”

  “Necessity. There is no real room for ignorance in my profession. So I don’t go to parties any more; I try to educate myself. There are cultivated people in the company. They have been very kind to me. And my carelessness in English — my lack of polish — these were not inherited. My father was an educated man, if he was nothing else. You know that. Your father knew it. All I needed was to be awakened. And I am awake.”

  She looked honestly into the honest eyes that met hers, and shook her head.

  “No self-deception can aid us to lie down to pleasant dreams, Jacqueline. And the most terrible of all deceptions is self-righteousness. Let me know myself, and I can help myself. And I know now how it would be with me if the happiness of marriage ever came to me. I would give — give everything good in me, everything needed — strip myself of my best! Because, dear, we always have more to give than they; and they need it all — all we can give them — every one.”

  After a silence they kissed each other; and, when Cynthia had departed, Jacqueline closed the door and returned to her chair. Seated there in deep and unhappy thought, while the slow minutes passed without him, little by little her uneasiness returned.

  Eight o’clock rang from her little mantel clock. She started up and went to the window. The street lamps were shining over pavements and sidewalks deserted. Very far in the west she could catch the low roar of Broadway, endless, accentless, monotonous, interrupted only by the whiz of motors on Fifth Avenue. Now and then a wayfarer passed through the silent street below; rarely a taxicab; but neither wayfarer nor vehicle stopped at her door.

  She did not realise how long she had been standing there, when from behind the mantel clock startled her again, ringing out nine. She came back into the centre of the room, and, hands clasped, stared at the dial.

  She had not eaten since morning; there had been no opportunity in the press of accumulated business. She felt a trifle faint, mostly from a vague anxiety. She did not wish to call up the club; instinct forbade it; but at a quarter to ten she went to the telephone, and learned that Desboro had gone out between eight and nine. Then she asked for Cairns, and found that he also had gone away.

  Sick at heart she hung up the receiver, turned aimlessly into the room again, and stood there, staring at the clock.

  What had happened to her husband? What did it mean? Had she anything to do with his strange conduct? In her deep trouble and perplexity — still bewildered by the terrible hurt she had received — had her aloofness, her sadness, impossible to disguise, wounded him so deeply that he had already turned away from her?

  She had meant only kindness to him — was seeking only her own convalescence, desperately determined to love and to hold this man. Hadn’t he understood it? Could he not give her time to recover? How could he expect more of her — a bride, confronted in the very first hours of her wedded life by her husband’s self-avowed mistress!

  She stood, hesitating, clenching and unclenching her white and slender hands, striving to think, succeeding only in enduring, un
til endurance itself was rapidly becoming impossible.

  Why was he hurting her so? Why? Why? Yet, never once was her anger aroused against this man. Somehow, he was not responsible. He was a man as God made him — one in the endless universe of men — the only one in that limitless host existing for her. He was hers — the best of him and the worst. And the worst was to be forgiven and protected, and the best was to thank God for.

  She knew fear — the anxious solicitude that mothers know, awaiting the return of an errant child. She knew pain — the hurt dismay of a soul, deep wounded by its fellow, feeling a fresher and newer wound with every dragging second.

  Her servant came, asking in an awed whisper whether her mistress would not eat something.

  Jacqueline’s proud little head went up.

  “Mr. Desboro has been detained unexpectedly. I will ring for you when he comes.”

  But at midnight she rang, saying that she required nothing further, and that the maid could retire after unhooking her gown.

  Now, in her loosened chamber-robe, she sat before the dresser combing out the thick, lustrous hair clustering in masses of gold around her white face and shoulders.

  She scarcely knew what she was about — knew not at all what she was going to do with the rest of the night.

  Her hair done, she lay back limply in her chintz armchair, haunted eyes fixed on the clock; and, after staring became unendurable, she picked up a book and opened it mechanically. It was Grenville, on Spanish Armour. Suddenly she remembered sitting here before with this same volume on her knees, the rain beating against the windows, a bright fire in the grate — and Fate at her elbow, bending in the firelight beside her as one by one she turned the illuminated pages, only to encounter under every jeweled helmet Desboro’s smiling eyes. And, as her fingers crisped on the pages at the memory, it seemed to her at one moment that it had all taken place many, many years ago; and, in the next moment, that it had happened only yesterday.

  How young she had been then — never having known sorrow except when her father died. And that sorrow was different; there was nothing in it hopeless or terrifying, believing, as she believed, in the soul’s survival; nothing to pain, wound, menace her, or to awake in depths unsounded a hell of dreadful apprehension.