He spoke about gardens as though he had known many; he spoke of trees and of land and of stock; and, as he spoke in his pleasant, grave young voice, he noticed the portraits on the wall; and he spoke of pictures as though he had known many, and he spoke of foreign cities, and of old-world scenes. And she listened in silence and in such content that the happiness of it seemed to invade her utterly and leave her physically numb.
From time to time his dark eyes wandered from her to the objects in the room; they rested for a moment on the centre-table with its Book, lingered, passed on. For a little while he did not look at her — as though first it were necessary to come to a conclusion. Whatever the conclusion might have been, it seemed to make his eyes and mouth alternately grave and amused — but only very faintly amused — as though the subject he was considering held him closely attentive.
And at last he looked up at her, gently, not all the curiosity yet quenched.
“You are kind enough to wish to know about me; and too well bred to ask — now that the time is come. Shall I speak of myself?”
Her voiceless lips found a word.
“Then — It began in college — after my uncle died and left nothing for me to go on with. . . . I worked my way through — by my wits. . . . Up to that time it was only luck and card-sense — and luck again — the ability to hold the best cards at the best time — hold them honestly, I mean. It happens — I don’t know why or what laws govern it. Some men hold them — always hold them — with intervals of bad fortune — but only intervals.”
He gazed thoughtfully at the rag carpet, passed a well-shaped hand over his forehead.
“Yes, it is the truth. . . . And so, Fortune linked arms with me . . . and I drifted into it — gradually — not all at once . . . lower — always a little lower — until — what you saw occurred.”
She would not meet his eyes, perhaps with an idea of sparing him.
He said: “You know nothing of such things, of course. . . . I am — on a commission basis for doing what — they threw me out of that hotel for doing. . . . Of course, a man can fall lower — but not much lower. . . . The business from which I receive commissions is not honest — a square game, as they say. Some games may be square for a while; no games are perfectly square all the time. . . . I have heard of honest gamblers; I never saw one. . . . There may be some; but I’m afraid they’re like good Indians. . . . And that is the way in which Life and I are situated.”
After a while she managed to look at him.
“Could you tell me — are you — your circumstances — —”
“I am not in want,” he said gently.
“Then it is not — not necessity — —”
“No. It is easier and more interesting than for me to earn a decent living.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Have you no — regrets?”
“Sometimes. . . . I am not immune to shame. . . . I wonder whether you know what it cost me to come here.”
A dull flush mounted to his forehead, but he faced her steadily enough.
“You saw me kicked out of a hotel by an Irish servant because I was not fit to be tolerated among reputable people. . . . And you did not pass by on the other side. . . . Under your clear eyes my spirit died a thousand shameful deaths while I went with you to your destination. . . . The contempt of the whole world burnt me; and your compassion drove every flame into me — —” He checked himself, swallowed, forced a smile, and went on in his low, pleasant voice: “I am afraid I have been dramatic. . . . All I meant to say is that my humiliation, witnessed by you, is a heavier price to pay — a more painful reckoning with Fate, than I had really ever looked for.”
“I — I had no contempt for you,” she faltered.
“You could not escape it; but it is kind of you to say that.”
“You don’t understand. I had no contempt. I was — it — the dread of harm to you — frightened me. . . . And afterward I was only so sorry for you — and wanted to — to help — —”
He nodded. “The larger charity,” he said. “You may read all about it there in that Bible, but — the world takes it out in reading about it. . . . I do not mean to speak bitterly. . . . There is nothing wrong with me as far as the world goes — I mean my world. . . . Only — in the other and real world there is — you. . . . You, who did not pass by on the other side; and to whom the Scriptures there are merely the manual which you practice — for the sake of Christ.”
“You think me better — far better than I am.”
“I know what you are. I know what it cost you to even let me lean on you, there in the glare of the electric light — there where men stood leering and sneering and misjudging you! — and my blood on your pretty gown — —”
“Oh — I did not think — care about that — or the men — —”
“You cared about them. It is a growing torture to you. Even in the generous flush of mercy you thought of it; you said you would never go back to that hotel. I knew why you said it. I knew what, even then, you suffered — what of fear and shame and outraged modesty. I know what you stood for, there in the street with a half-senseless crook hanging to your arm — tugging for a weapon which would have sent two more mongrels to hell — —”
“You shall not say that!” she cried, white and trembling. “You did not know what you were doing — —”
He interrupted: “‘For they know not what they do.’ . . . You are right. . . . We don’t really know, any of us. But few, except such as you, believe it — few except such as you — and the Master who taught you. . . . And that is all, I think. . . . I can’t thank you; I can’t even try. . . . It is too close to melodrama now — not on your side, dear little lady!”
He rose.
“Are you — going?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
He turned unconsciously and looked through the windows into the southern darkness.
“I — want you to stay,” she said.
He turned and bent toward her with his youthful and engaging manner.
“It is sweet and good of you; but you know it is best that I go.”
“Why?”
“Because — it might be that some of your friends would know me. . . . It is for your sake I am going.”
“I wish you to stay.”
“I know it. It makes me wonderfully happy.”
“Won’t you?”
“I must not.”
“What are you going to do in the city?”
There was a silence; then: “The same?” she faltered.
“I am afraid so.”
“Why?”
“What else is there?”
“Everything. . . . And I — ask it of you.”
He looked at her with troubled eyes.
“I’m afraid you don’t know what you are asking — —”
“I do know! I ask — your soul of God!”
For a long while he stood there as though turned to stone. Then, as though rousing from a dream, he walked slowly to the window, looked long into the south. At last he turned.
She sat on the edge of the sofa, her face in her hands, deathly silent, waiting.
“Tell me,” she whispered, not looking up as he bent over her.
“About that matter of a stray soul?” he said pleasantly. “It’s all right — if you care to — bother with it. . . .”
Her hands dropped, and when she looked up he saw the tears standing in her grey eyes.
“Do you mean it?” she asked, trembling.
“God knows what I mean,” he said unsteadily; “and I shall never know unless you tell me.”
And he sat down beside her, resting his elbows on his knees and his head between his hands, wondering what he could do with life and with the young soul already in his dark keeping. And, after a while, the anxiety of responsibility, being totally new, wearied him; perplexed, he lifted his head, seeking her eyes; and saw the compassion in her face an
d the slow smile trembling on her lips. And suddenly he understood which of them was better fitted for a keeper of souls.
“Will you be patient?” he said.
“Can you ask?”
He shook his head, looking vacantly at the lamp-light.
“Because I’ve gone all wrong somehow . . . since I was a boy. . . . You will be patient with me — won’t you?”
“Yes,” she said.
ENVOI
In all Romances
And poet’s fancies
Where Cupid prances,
Embowered in flowers,
The tale advances
‘Mid circumstances
That check love’s chances
Through tragic hours.
The reader’s doleful now,
The lover’s soulful now,
At least a bowlful now
Of tears are poured.
The villain makes a hit,
The reader throws a fit,
The author grins a bit
And draws his sword!
Strikes down Fate’s lances,
Avoids mischances,
And deftly cans his
Loquacious lore
‘Mid ardent glances
And lover’s trances
And wedding dances
Forevermore.
THE BUSINESS OF LIFE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
TO
ELSIE CHAMBERS
“Il est des noeuds secrets, il est des sympathies
Dont par le doux rapport les Ames assorties
S’attachent l’une à l’autre et se laissent piquer
Par ces je ne sais quoi qu’on ne peut expliquer.”
Rodogune.
CHAPTER I
“A lady to see you, sir,” said Farris.
Desboro, lying on the sofa, glanced up over his book.
“A lady?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, who is she, Farris?”
“She refused her name, Mr. James.”
Desboro swung his legs to the carpet and sat up.
“What kind of lady is she?” he asked; “a perfect one, or the real thing?”
“I don’t know, sir. It’s hard to tell these days; one dresses like t’other.”
Desboro laid aside his book and arose leisurely.
“Where is she?”
“In the reception room, sir.”
“Did you ever before see her?”
“I don’t know, Mr. James — what with her veil and furs — —”
“How did she come?”
“In one of Ransom’s hacks from the station. There’s a trunk outside, too.”
“What the devil — —”
“Yes, sir. That’s what made me go to the door. Nobody rang. I heard the stompin’ and the noise; and I went out, and she just kind of walked in. Yes, sir.”
“Is the hack out there yet?”
“No, sir. Ransom’s man he left the trunk and drove off. I heard her tell him he could go.”
Desboro remained silent for a few moments, looking hard at the fireplace; then he tossed his cigarette onto the embers, dropped the amber mouthpiece into the pocket of his dinner jacket, dismissed Farris with a pleasant nod, and walked very slowly along the hall, as though in no haste to meet his visitor before he could come to some conclusion concerning her identity. For among all the women he had known, intimately or otherwise, he could remember very few reckless enough, or brainless enough, or sufficiently self-assured, to pay him an impromptu visit in the country at such an hour of the night.
The reception room, with its early Victorian furniture, appeared to be empty, at first glance; but the next instant he saw somebody in the curtained embrasure of a window — a shadowy figure which did not seem inclined to leave obscurity — the figure of a woman in veil and furs, her face half hidden in her muff.
He hesitated a second, then walked toward her; and she lifted her head.
“Elena!” he said, astonished.
“Are you angry, Jim?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I didn’t know what to do,” said Mrs. Clydesdale, wearily, “and it came over me all at once that I couldn’t stand him any longer.”
“What has he done?”
“Nothing. He’s just the same — never quite sober — always following me about, always under foot, always grinning — and buying sixteenth century enamels — and — I can’t stand it! I — —” Her voice broke.
“Come into the library,” he said curtly.
She found her handkerchief, held it tightly against her eyes, and reached out toward him to be guided.
In the library fireplace a few embers were still alive. He laid a log across the coals and used the bellows until the flames started. After that he dusted his hands, lighted a cigarette, and stood for a moment watching the mounting blaze.
She had cast aside her furs and was resting on one elbow, twisting her handkerchief to rags between her gloved hands, and staring at the fire. One or two tears gathered and fell.
“He’ll divorce me now, won’t he?” she asked unsteadily.
“Why?”
“Because nobody would believe the truth — after this.”
She rested her pretty cheek against the cushion and gazed at the fire with wide eyes still tearfully brilliant.
“You have me on your hands,” she said. “What are you going to do with me?”
“Send you home.”
“You can’t. I’ve disgraced myself. Won’t you stand by me, Jim?”
“I can’t stand by you if I let you stay here.”
“Why not?”
“Because that would be destroying you.”
“Are you going to send me away?”
“Certainly.”
“Where are you going to send me?”
“Home.”
“Home!” she repeated, beginning to cry again. “Why do you call his house ‘home’? It’s no more my home than he is my husband — —”
“He is your husband! What do you mean by talking this way?”
“He isn’t my husband. I told him I didn’t care for him when he asked me to marry him. He only grinned. It was a perfectly cold-blooded bargain. I didn’t sell him everything!”
“You married him.”
“Partly.”
“What!”
She flushed crimson.
“I sold him the right to call me his wife and to — to make me so if I ever came to — care for him. That was the bargain — if you’ve got to know. The clergy did their part — —”
“Do you mean — —”
“Yes!” she said, exasperated. “I mean that it is no marriage, in spite of law and clergy. And it never will be, because I hate him!”
Desboro looked at her in utter contempt.
“Do you know,” he said, “what a rotten thing you have done?”
“Rotten!”
“Do you think it admirable?”
“I didn’t sell myself wholesale. It might have been worse.”
“You are wrong. Nothing worse could have happened.”
“Then I don’t care what else happens to me,” she said, drawing off her gloves and unpinning her hat. “I shall not go back to him.”
“You can’t stay here.”
“I will,” she said excitedly. “I’m going to break with him — whether or not I can count on your loyalty to me — —” Her voice broke childishly, and she bowed her head.
He caught his lip between his teeth for a moment. Then he said savagely:
“You ought not to have come here. There isn’t one single thing to excuse it. Besides, you have just reminded me of my loyalty to you. Can’t you understand that that includes your husband? Also, it isn’t in me to forget that I once asked you to be my wife. Do you think I’d let you stand for anything less after that? Do you think I’m going to blacken my own face? I never asked any other woman to marry me, and this settles it — I never will! You’ve finished yourself and your sex for me!”
She was crying now, her head in her hands, and the bronze-red hair dishevelled, sagging between her long, white fingers.
He remained aloof, knowing her, and always afraid of her and of himself together — a very deadly combination for mischief. And she remained bowed in the attitude of despair, her lithe young body shaken.
His was naturally a lightly irresponsible disposition, and it came very easily for him to console beauty in distress — or out of it, for that matter. Why he was now so fastidious with his conscience in regard to Mrs. Clydesdale he himself scarcely understood, except that he had once asked her to marry him; and that he knew her husband. These two facts seemed to keep him steady. Also, he rather liked her burly husband; and he had almost recovered from the very real pangs which had pierced him when she suddenly flung him over and married Clydesdale’s millions.
One of the logs had burned out. He rose to replace it with another. When he returned to the sofa, she looked up at him so pitifully that he bent over and caressed her hair. And she put one arm around his neck, crying, uncomforted.
“It won’t do,” he said; “it won’t do. And you know it won’t, don’t you? This whole business is dead wrong — dead rotten. But you mustn’t cry, do you hear? Don’t be frightened. If there’s trouble, I’ll stand by you, of course. Hush, dear, the house is full of servants. Loosen your arms, Elena! It isn’t a square deal to your husband — or to you, or even to me. Unless people have an even chance with me — men or women — there’s nothing dangerous about me. I never dealt with any man whose eyes were not wide open — nor with any woman, either. Cary’s are shut; yours are blinded.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 632