Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  How young she had been when last she sat here with this well-worn volume on her knees!

  Nothing of love had she ever known, only the affection of a child for her father. But — now she knew. The torture of every throbbing minute was enlightening her.

  Her hands, tightly clasped together, rested on the pages of the open book; and she was staring at nothing when, without warning, the doorbell rang.

  She rose straight up and pressed her left hand to her side, pale lips parted, listening; then she sprang to the door, opened it, pulled the handle controlling the wire which lifted the street-door latch. Far below in the darkness she heard the click, click, click of the latch, the opening and closing of the door, steps across the hall on the stairs, mounting nearer and nearer. And when she knew that it was he she left the door open and returned to her armchair and lay back almost stifled by the beating of her heart. But when the shaft of light across the corridor fell on him and he stood on her threshold, her heart almost stopped beating. His face was drawn and pinched and colourless; his eyes were strange, his very presence seemed curiously unfamiliar — more so still when he forced a smile and bent over her, lifting her limp fingers to his lips.

  “What has been the matter, Jim?” she tried to say, but her voice almost broke.

  He closed the door and stood looking around him for a moment. Then, with a glance at her, and with just that shade of deference toward her which he never lost, he seated himself.

  “The matter is,” he said quietly, “that I drank to excess at the club and was not fit to keep my appointment with you.”

  “What!” she said faintly.

  “That was it, Jacqueline. Cairns did his best for us both. But — I knew it would be for the last time; I knew you would never again have to endure such things from me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I have said, Jacqueline. You won’t have it to endure again. But I had to have time to recover my senses and think it out. That is why I didn’t come before. So I let Cairns believe I was coming here.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “To my rooms. I had to face it; I had to think it all over before I came here. I would have telephoned you, but you could not have understood. What time is it?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  “I’m sorry. I won’t keep you long — —”

  “What do you mean? Where are you going?”

  “To my rooms, I suppose. I merely came here to tell you what is the only thing for us to do. You know it already. I have just realised it.”

  “I don’t understand what — —”

  “Oh, yes, you do, Jacqueline. You now have no illusions left concerning me. Nor have I any left concerning what I am and what I have done. Curious,” he added very quietly, “that people had to tell me what I am and what I have done to you before I could understand it.”

  “What have you — done — to me?”

  “Married you. And within that very hour, almost, brought sorrow and shame on you. Oh, the magic mirror has been held up to me to-day, Jacqueline; and in it everything I have done to you since the moment I first saw you has been reflected there in its real colours.

  “I stepped across the straight, clean pathway of your life, telling myself the lie that I had no intentions of any sort concerning you. And, as time passed, however indefinite my motives, they became at least vaguely sinister. You were aware of this; I pretended not to be. And at last you — you saved me the infamy of self-revelation by speaking as you did. You engaged yourself to marry me. And I let you. And, not daring to let you stand the test which an announcement of our engagement would surely mean, and fearing to lose you, dreading to see you turn against me, I was cowardly enough to marry you as I did, and trust that love and devotion would hold you.”

  He leaned forward in his chair and shook his head.

  “No use,” he said quietly. “Love and devotion never become a coward. Both mean nothing unless based on honesty. And I was dishonest with you. I should have told you I was afraid that what might be said to you about me would alter you toward me. I should have told you that I dared not stand the test. But all I said to you was that it was better for us to marry as we did. And you trusted me.”

  Her pale, fascinated face never moved, nor did her eyes leave his for a second. He sustained her gaze gravely, and with a drawn composure that seemed akin to dignity.

  “I came here to tell you this,” he said, “to admit that I cheated you, cheated the world out of you, robbed you of your independence under false pretenses, married you as I did because I was afraid I’d lose you otherwise. My justification was that I loved you — as though that could excuse anything. Only could I be excused for marrying you if our engagement had been openly announced and you had found it in you to withstand and forgive whatever ill you heard of me. But I did not give you that chance. I married you. And within that very hour you learned something — whatever it was — that changed you utterly toward me, and is threatening to ruin your happiness — to annihilate within you the very joy of living.”

  He shook his head again, slowly.

  “That won’t do, Jacqueline. Happiness is as much your right as is life itself. The world has a right to you, too; because you have lived nobly, and your work has been for the betterment of things. Whoever knows you honours you and loves you. It is such a woman as you who is of importance in the world. Men and women are better for you. You are needed. While I — —”

  He made a quick gesture; his lip trembled, but he smiled.

  “So,” he said, “I have thought it all out — there alone in my rooms to-night. There will be no more trouble, no anxiety for you. I’ll step out of your life very quietly, Jacqueline, without any stir or fuss or any inconvenience to you, more than waiting for my continued absence to become flagrant and permanent enough to satisfy the legal requirements. And in a little while you will have your liberty again; the liberty and, very soon, the tranquillity of mind and the happiness out of which I have managed to swindle you.”

  She had been seated motionless, leaning forward in her chair to listen. After a few moments of silence which followed, the constraint of her attitude suddenly weakened her, and she slowly sank back into the depths of her big chair.

  “And that,” she said aloud to herself, “is what he has come here to tell me.”

  “Yes, Jacqueline.”

  She turned her head toward him, her cheek resting flat against the upholstered chintz back.

  “One thing you have not told me, Jim.”

  “What is that?” he asked in a strained voice.

  “How I am to live without you.”

  There was a silence. When his self-control seemed assured once more, he said:

  “Do you mean that the damage I have done is irreparable?”

  “What you have done cannot be undone. You have made me — love you.” Her lip trembled in a pitiful attempt to smile. “Are you, after all, about to send me forth ‘between tall avenues of spears, to die?’”

  “Do you still think you care for such a man as I am?” he said hoarsely.

  She nodded:

  “And if you leave me it will be the same, Jim. Wherever you are — living alone or married to another woman — or whether you are living at all, or dead, it will always be the same with me. Love is love. Nothing you say now can alter it. Words — yours or the words of others — merely wound me, and do not cripple my love for you. Nor can deeds do so. I know that, now. They can slay only me, not my love, Jim — for I think, with me, it is really and truly immortal.”

  His head dropped between his hands. She saw his body trembling at moments. After a little while she rose, and, stepping to his side, bent over him, letting her hand rest lightly on his hair.

  “All I ask of you is to be patient,” she whispered. “And you don’t understand — you don’t seem to understand me, dear. I am learning very fast — much faster and more thoroughly than I believed possible. Cynthia was here this evening. She helped me s
o much. She taught me a great deal — a very great deal. And your goodness — your unselfishness in coming to me this way — with your boyish amends, your unconsidered and impulsive offers of restitution — restitution of single blessedness — —” She smiled; and, deep within her breast, a faint thrill stirred her like a far premonition.

  Timidly, scarcely daring, she ventured by degrees to encircle his head with her arm, letting her cool fingers rest over the tense, and feverish hands that covered his face.

  “What a boy is this grown man!” she whispered. “What a foolish, emotional, impulsive boy! And such an unhappy one; and such a tired one!”

  And, once more hesitating, and with infinite precaution, lest he become suddenly too conscious of this new and shy demonstration, she ventured to seat herself on the arm of his chair and bend closer to him.

  “You must go back to your rooms, dear,” she murmured. “It is morning, and we both are in need of sleep, I think. So you must say good-night to me and go back to — to pleasant dreams. And to-morrow we will go to Silverwood for over Sunday. Two whole days together, dear — —”

  Her soft cheek rested against his; her voice died out. Slowly, guided by the most delicate pressure, his head moved toward her shoulder, resisted, fell forward on her breast. For one instant’s ecstasy she drew his face against her, tightly, almost fearfully, then sprang to her feet, breathless, blushing from throat to brow, and stepped back.

  He was on his feet, too, flushed, dazed, moving toward her.

  She stretched out both hands swiftly.

  “Good-night, dearest — dearest of men. You have made me happy again. You are making me happier every moment. Only — be patient with me. And it will all come true — what we have dreamed.”

  Her fragrant hands were crushed against his lips, and her heart was beating faster and faster, and she was saying she scarcely knew what.

  “All will be well with us. I no longer doubt it. You must not. I — I am the girl you desire. I will be, always — always. Only be gentle and patient with me — only that — only that.”

  “How can I take you this way — and keep you — after what I have done?” he stammered. “How can I let your generosity and mercy rob you of what is your due — —”

  “Love is my due, I think. But only you can give it. And if you withhold it, Jim, I am robbed indeed.”

  “Your pity — your sweetness — —”

  “My pity is for myself if you prove unkind.”

  “I? Unkind! Good God — —”

  “Oh! He is good, Jim! And He will be. Never doubt it again. And lie down to pleasant dreams. Will you come for me to-morrow at five?”

  “Yes.”

  “And never again distrust yourself or me?”

  He drew a deep, unsteady breath.

  “Good-night,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Jacqueline had been half an hour late at her office and the routine business was not yet quite finished when Captain Herrendene was announced at the telephone.

  “I thought you had sailed!” she exclaimed in surprise, as he greeted her over the wire.

  He laughed: “I’m ordered to Governor’s Island. Jolly, isn’t it?”

  “Fine!” she said cordially. “We shall see you sometimes, I suppose.”

  “I’m asked to the Lindley Hammertons for the week-end. Are you to be at Silverwood by any happy chance?”

  “Indeed we are. We are going up to-night.”

  “Good business!” he said. “And — may I wish you happiness, Mrs. Desboro? Your husband is a perfectly bully fellow — lots of quality in that young man — loads of reserve and driving force! Tell him I congratulate him with all my heart. You know what I think of you!”

  “It’s very sweet of you to speak this way about us,” she said. “You may surmise what I think of my husband. So thank you for wishing us happiness. And you will come over with Daisy, won’t you? We are going to be at home until Monday.”

  “Indeed I will come!” he said heartily.

  She hung up the receiver, smiling but a trifle flushed; and in her blue eyes there lingered something resembling tenderness as she turned once more to the pile of typewritten letters awaiting her signature. She had cared a great deal for this man’s devotion; and since she had refused him she cared for his friendship even more than before. And, being feminine, capable, and very tender-hearted, she already was experiencing the characteristic and ominous solicitude of her sex for the future consolation and ultimate happiness of this young and unmarried man. Might it not be accomplished through Daisy Hammerton? What could be more suitable, more perfect?

  Her sensitive lips were edged with a faint smile as she signed her name to the first business letter. It began to look dark for Captain Herrendene. No doubt, somewhere aloft, the cherubim were already giggling. When a nice girl refuses a man, his business with her has only just begun.

  She continued to sign her letters, the ominous smile always hovering on her upcurled lips. And, pursuing that train of thought, she came, unwittingly, upon another, so impossible, yet so delightful and exciting that every feminine fibre in her responded to the invitation to meddle. She could scarcely wait to begin, so possessed was she by the alluringly hopeless proposition evolved from her inner consciousness; and, as soon as the last letter had been signed, and her stenographer had taken away the correspondence, she flew to the telephone and called up Cynthia Lessler.

  “Is it you, dear?” she asked excitedly; and Cynthia, at the other end of the wire, caught the happy ring in her voice, for she answered:

  “You sound very gay this morning. Are you, dear?”

  “Yes, darling. Tell me, what are you doing over Sunday?”

  Cynthia hesitated, then she answered calmly:

  “Mr. Cairns is coming in the morning to take me to the Metropolitan Museum.”

  “What a funny idea!”

  “Why is it funny? He suggested that we go and look at the Chinese porcelains so that we could listen more intelligently to you.”

  “As though I were accustomed to lecture my friends! How absurd, Cynthia. You can’t go. I want you at Silverwood.”

  “Thank you, dear, but I’ve promised him — —”

  “Then come up on the noon train!”

  “In the afternoon,” explained Cynthia, still more calmly, “Mr. Cairns and I are to read together a new play which has not yet been put in rehearsal.”

  “But, darling! I do want you for Sunday! Why can’t you come up for this week-end, and postpone the Museum meanderings? Please ask him to let you off.”

  There was a pause, then Cynthia said in a still, small voice:

  “Mr. Cairns is here. You may ask him.”

  Cairns came to the telephone and said that he would consult the wishes and the convenience of Miss Lessler.

  There ensued another pause, ostensibly for consultation, during which Jacqueline experienced a wicked and almost overwhelming desire to laugh.

  Presently Cynthia called her:

  “We think,” she said with pretty emphasis, “that it would be very jolly to visit you. We can go to the museum any other Sunday, Mr. Cairns says.”

  But the spirit of mischief still possessed Jacqueline, and she refused to respond to the hint.

  “So you are coming?” she exclaimed with enthusiasm.

  “If you want us, darling.”

  “That’s delightful! You know Jim and I haven’t had a chance yet to entertain our bridesmaid. We want her to be our very first guest. Thank you so much, darling, for coming. And please say to Mr. Cairns that it is perfectly dear of him to let you off — —”

  “But he is coming, too, isn’t he?” exclaimed Cynthia anxiously. “You are asking us both, aren’t you. What are you laughing at, you little wretch!”

  But Jacqueline’s laughter died out and she said hastily:

  “Bring him with you, dear,” and turned to confront Mrs. Hammerton, who arrived by appointment and exactly on the minute.

  The cle
rk who, under orders, had brought the old lady directly to the office, retired, closing the door behind him. Jacqueline hung up the telephone receiver, rose from her chair and gazed silently at the woman whose letter to her had first shattered her dream of happiness. Then, with a little gesture:

  “Won’t you please be seated?” she said quietly.

  Aunt Hannah’s face was grim as she sat down on the chair indicated.

  “‘You have no further interest in me, have you?’”

  “You have no further interest in me, have you?” she demanded.

  Jacqueline did not answer.

  “I ought to have come here before,” said Aunt Hannah. “I ought to have come here immediately and explained to you that when I wrote that letter I hadn’t the vaguest notion that you were already married. Do you think I’d have been such a fool if I’d known it, Jacqueline?”

  Jacqueline lifted her troubled eyes: “I do not think you should have interfered at all.”

  “Good heavens! I know that! I knew it when I did it. It’s the one hopelessly idiotic act of my life. Never, never was anything gained or anything altered by interfering where real love is. I knew it, child. It’s an axiom — a perfectly self-evident proposition — an absolutely hopeless effort. But I chanced it. Your mother, if she were alive, would have chanced it. Don’t blame me too much; be a little sorry for me. Because I loved you when I did it. And many, many of the most terrible mistakes in life are made because of love, Jacqueline. The mistakes of hate are fewer.”

  Aunt Hannah’s folded hands tightened on the gun-metal reticule across her knees.

  “It’s too late to say I’m sorry,” she said. “Besides, I’d do it again.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, I would. So would your mother. I am sorry; but I would do it again! I love you enough to do it again — and — and suffer what I am suffering in consequence.”

  Jacqueline looked at her in angry bewilderment, and the spark in the little black eyes died out.

  “Child,” she said wearily, “we childless women who love are capable of the same self-sacrifice that mothers understand. I wrote you to save you, practically certain that I was giving you up by doing it — and that with every word of warning I was signing my own death warrant in your affections. But I couldn’t sit still and let you go to the altar unwarned. Had I cared less for you, yes! I could have let you take your chances undisturbed by me. But — you took them anyway — took them before my warning could do anything except anger you. Otherwise, it would have hurt and angered you, too. I have no illusions; what I said would have availed nothing. Only — it was my duty to say it. I never was crazy about doing my duty. But I did it this time.”