CHAPTER XIV
Desboro came for her in his car at five and found her standing alone inher office, dressed in a blue travelling dress, hatted and closelyveiled. He partly lifted the veil, kissed the cold, unresponsive lips,the pallid cheek, the white-gloved fingers.
"Is Her Royal Shyness ready?" he whispered.
"Yes, Jim."
"All her affairs of state accomplished?" he asked laughingly.
"Yes--the day's work is done."
"Was it a hard day for you, sweetheart?"
"Yes--hard."
"I am so sorry," he murmured.
She rearranged her veil in silence.
* * * * *
Again, as the big car rolled away northward, and they were alone oncemore in the comfortable limousine, he took possession of her unresistinghand, whispering:
"I am so sorry you have had a hard day, dear. You really look very paleand tired."
"It was a--tiresome day."
He lifted her hand to his lips: "Do you love me, Jacqueline?"
"Yes."
"Above everything?"
"Yes."
"And you know that I love you above everything in the world?"
She was silent.
"Jacqueline!" he urged. "Don't you _know_ it?"
"I--think you--care for me."
He laughed: "Will Your Royal Shyness never unbend! Is _that_ all thecredit you give me for my worship and adoration?"
She said, after a silence: "If it lies with me, you really will love mesome day."
"Dearest!" he protested, laughing but perplexed. "Don't you know that Ilove you _now_--that I am absolutely mad about you?"
She did not answer, and he waited, striving to see her expressionthrough the veil. But when he offered to lift it, she gently avoidedhim.
"Did you go to business?" she asked quietly.
"I? Oh, yes, I went back to the office. But Lord! Jacqueline, I couldn'tkeep my attention on the tape or on the silly orders people fired at meover the wire. So I left young Seely in charge and went to lunch withJack Cairns; and then he and I returned to the office, where I've beenfidgeting about ever since. I think it's been the longest day I everlived."
"It has been a long day," she assented gravely. "Did Mr. Cairns speak toyou of Cynthia?"
"He mentioned her, I believe."
"Do you remember what he said about her?"
"Well, yes. I think he spoke about her very nicely--about her beinginteresting and ambitious and talented--something of that sort--but howcould I keep my mind on what he was saying about another girl?"
Jacqueline looked out of the window across a waste of swamp and trestleand squalid buildings toward University Heights. She said presently,without turning:
"Some day, may I ask Cynthia to visit me?"
"Dearest girl! Of course! Isn't it your house----"
"Silverwood?"
"Certainly----"
"No, Jim."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"What I say. Silverwood is not yet even partly mine. It must remainentirely yours--until I know you--better."
"Why on earth do you say such silly----"
"What is yours must remain yours," she repeated, in a low voice, "justas my shop, and office, and my apartment must remain mine--for a time."
"For how long?"
"I can not tell."
"Do you mean for always?"
"I don't know."
"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 apprehensiveand 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 sinceI 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 isalready a matter of the past. Life and its business lie before us; thatis all I know. This is our beginning, Jim; and happiness depends on whatwe make of our lives from now on--from now on."
The stray lock of golden hair had fallen across her cheek, accenting theskin's pallor through the veil. She rested her elbow on the windowledge, her tired head on her hand, and gazed at the sunset behind thePalisades. Far below, over the grey and wrinkled river, smoke from asteamboat drifted, a streak of bronze and purple, in the sunset light.
"_What_ has happened?" he muttered under his breath. And, turning towardher: "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 workedvisibly.
"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. Didyou know it?"
"I know it."
"I believe," he said, "that she has been capable of warning you againstme. 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," heconcluded calmly.
"Jim?"
"Yes, dear."
"I married you because I loved you. I love you still. Remember it whenyou 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 willremember 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 beso!"
"I tell you that I do. I could never love anybody else. You are all thatI have in the world; all I care for. You are absolutely everything tome. I loved you and married you; I took you for mine just as you wereand are. And if I didn't quite understand all that--that you are--I tookyou, nevertheless--for better or for worse--and I mean to hold you. AndI know now that, knowing more about you, I would do the same thing if itwere to be done again. I would marry you to-morrow--knowing what Iknow."
"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 anabsolute 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 endlesslines of houses along Broadway, as the car swung into Yonkers, veered tothe west past the ancient manor house, then rolled northward againtoward Hastings.
"Don't you believe me?" he asked at length. "That gossip is a lie--ifthat is what you heard."
She thought: "This is how gentlemen are supposed to behave under suchcircumstances." 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 evidentweariness and reticence, which he could not seem to penetrate orcomprehend. Only that something ominous had happened--that something wasdreadfully wrong--he now thoroughly understood.
In the purposeless career of a man of his sort, there is much that it iswell to forget. And in Desboro's brief career there were many thingsthat he would not care to have such a girl as Jacqueline hear about--somuch, alas! of folly and stupidity, so much of idleness, so muchunworthy, that now in his i
ncreasing chagrin and mortification, in thepainful reaction from happy pride to alarm and self-contempt, he couldnot even guess what had occurred, or for which particular folly he wasbeginning to pay.
Long since, both in his rooms in town, and at Silverwood, he haddestroyed the silly souvenirs of idleness and folly. He thought now ofthe burning sacrifice he had so carelessly made that day in thelibrary--and how the flames had shrivelled up letter and fan,photograph and slipper. And he could not remember that he had left arag of lace or a perfumed envelope unburned.
Had the ghosts of their owners risen to confront him on his ownhearthstone, standing already between him and this young girl he hadmarried?
What whisper had reached her guiltless ears? What rumour, what breath ofinnuendo? Must a man still be harassed who has done with folly for alltime--who aspires to better things--who strives to change his whole modeof life merely for the sake of the woman he loves--merely to be moreworthy of her?
As he sat there so silently in the car beside her, his dark thoughtstravelled back again along the weary, endless road to yesterday. Sincehe had known and loved her, his thoughts had often and unwillinglysought that shadowy road where the only company were ghosts--phantoms ofdead years that sometimes smiled, sometimes reproached, sometimesmenaced him with suddenly remembered eyes and voiceless but familiarwords forever printed on his memory.
Out of that grey vista, out of that immaterial waste where onlyimpalpable shapes peopled the void, vanished, grew out of nothing onlyto reappear, _something_ had come to trouble the peace of mind of thewoman he loved--some spectre of folly had arisen and had whispered inher ear, so that, at the mockery, the light had died out in her fearlesseyes and her pure mind was clouded and her tender heart was weightedwith this thing--whatever it might be--this echo of folly which hadreturned to mock them both.
"Dearest," he said, drawing her to him so that her cold cheek restedagainst his, "whatever I was, I am no longer. You said you couldforgive."
"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. Byletting me learn more of you--more about men. I don't understand men. Ithought I did--but I don't. By letting me find out what is the wisestand the best and the most unselfish way to love you. For I don't knowyet. I don't know. All I know is that I am married to the man Iloved--the man I still love. But how I am going to love him I--I don'tyet know."
He was silent; the hot flush on his face did not seem to warm her cheekwhere it rested so coldly against his.
"I want to hold you because it is best for us both," she said, as thoughspeaking 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 musthold 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 mustlearn 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 iswhy I married you--not selfishly, Jim--and I thought I knew--I thought Iknew----"
Her cheek slipped from his and rested on his shoulder. He put his armaround her and she covered her face with her gloved hands.
"I love you dearly, dearly," he whispered brokenly. "If the whisper ofany past stupidity of mine has hurt you, God knows best what punishmentHe visits on me at this moment! If there were any torture I could endureto spare you, Jacqueline, I would beg for it--welcome it! It is a bitterand a hopeless and a ridiculous thing to say; but if I had only knownthere was such a woman as you in the world I would have understoodbetter how to live. I suppose many a man understands it when it is toolate. I realise now, for the first time, how changeless, how irrevocablyfixed, are the truths youth learns to smile at--the immutable laws youthscoffs at----"
He choked, controlled his voice, and went on:
"If youth could only understand it, the truths of childhood are the onlytruths. The first laws we learn are the eternal ones. And their onlymeaning is self-discipline. But youth is restive and mistakes curiosityfor intelligence, insubordination for the courage of independence. Thestupidity of orthodoxy incites revolt. To disregard becomes lessdifficult; to forget becomes a habit. To think for one's self seemsadmirable; but when youth attempts that, it thinks only what it pleasesor does not think at all. I am not trying to find excuses or to evade myresponsibility, dear. I had every chance, no excuse for what Ihave--sometimes--been. And now--on this day--this most blessed and mostsolemn day of my life--I can only say to you I am sorry, and that I meanso to live--always--that no man or woman can reproach me."
She lay very silent against his shoulder. Blindly striving to understandhim, and men--blindly searching for some clue to the path of duty--thepath she must find somehow and follow for his sake--through theobscurity and mental confusion she seemed to hear at moments ElenaClydesdale's shameless and merciless words, and the deadly repetitionseemed to stun her.
Vainly she strove against the recurring horror; once or twice,unconsciously, her hands crept upward and closed her ears, as though shecould shut out what was dinning in her brain.
With every reserve atom of mental strength and self-control she battledagainst 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, andbegin once more to grope for the clue to duty--how most unselfishly shemight serve him for his salvation and her own--than the horror she haddriven back stirred stealthily and crawled nearer. And the battle was ononce more.
Twilight had fallen over the Westchester hills; a familiar country layalong the road they travelled. In the early darkness, glancing from thewindows he divined unseen landmarks, counted the miles unconsciously asthe car sped across invisible bridges that clattered or resounded underthe 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 thelighted windows of Silverwood glimmered all a-row; the wet gravelcrunched under the slowing wheels, tall Norway spruces toweredphantomlike on every side; the car stopped.
"Home," he whispered to her; and she rested her arm on his shoulder anddrew herself erect.
Every servant and employee on the Desboro estate was there to receivethem; she offered her slim hand and spoke to every one. Then, on herhusband's arm, and her proud little head held high, she entered theHouse of Desboro for the first time bearing the family name--enteredsmiling, with death in her heart.
* * * * *
At last the dinner was at an end. Farris served the coffee and set thesilver lamp and cigarettes on the library table, and retired.
Luminous red shadows from the fireplace played over wall andceiling--the same fireplace where Desboro had made his offering--asthough 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 theblaze, gazing at nothing. He, seated on the rug beside her chair, heldher limp hand and rested his face against it, staring at the ashes onthe hearth.
And this was marriage! Thus he was beginning his wedded life--here inthe house of his fathers, here at the same hearthstone where the deadbrides of dead forebears had sat as his bride was sitting now.
But had any bride ever before faced that hearth so silent, somotionless, so pale as was this young girl whose fingers rested solimply 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 ofthings had died out in her eyes--that speech had died on her lips--thatnothing in her seemed alive, nothing respo
nded, nothing stirred.
Now, all the bitterness that life and its unwisdom had stored up for himthrough the swift and reckless years, he tasted. For that cup may notpass. Somewhere, sooner or later, the same lips that have so lightlyemptied sweeter draughts must drain this one. None may refuse it, nonewave 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 inlove with me. And still be loyal to me--and--faithful. I don't knowwhether a man can do these things. I don't know men. But I knowmyself--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 Irequire you to be, you could not doubt my loving you even if you wishedto. _Then_ you will know; _until_ then--you must _believe_."
He sat thinking before the hearth, the slow flush rising to his templesand 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 remainsunchanged; 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 hervoice broke.
Kneeling beside her, he drew her into his arms and felt her breathsuddenly hot and feverish against his shoulder. But if there had beentears in her eyes they dried unshed, for he saw no traces of them whenhe kissed her.
"In God's name," he whispered, "let the past bury its accursed dead andgive me a chance. I love you, worship you, adore you. Give me my chancein 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 ofthis young girl! But he said passionately:
"How can I be arbiter of my own fate unless I have all you can give meof 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 tendernessin 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 repelyou--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--thatthe only attraction on your part is--is intellectual----"
She disengaged her hand from his and shrank away into the velvet depthsof her chair.
"I can't help it," he said. "I've got to say what I think. Never since Ihave told you I loved you have you ever hinted at any response, even tothe lightest caress. We are married. Whatever--however foolish I mayhave been--God knows you have made me pay for it this day. How long am Ito continue paying? I tell you a man can't remain repentant too longunder the stern and chilling eyes of retribution. If you are going totreat me as though I were physically unfit to touch, I can make nofurther protest. But, Jacqueline, no man was ever aided by a punishmentthat 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 expenseof 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----"
But the words halted; she bowed her head in her hands, quivering,scarcely conscious that he was on his knees again at her feet, scarcelyhearing his broken words of repentance and shame for the sorry andcontemptible role he had been playing.
No tears came to help her even then, only a dry, still agony possessedher. But the crisis passed and wore away; sight and hearing and thesense of touch returned to her. She saw his head bowed in contrition onher knees, heard his voice, bitter in self-accusation, felt his handscrisping over hers, crushing them till her new rings cut her.
For a while she looked down at him as though dazed; then the real painfrom her wedding ring aroused her and she gently withdrew that handand rested it on his thick, short, curly hair.
For a long while they remained so. He had ceased to speak; her broodinggaze rested on him, unchanged save for the subtle tenderness of thelips, which still quivered at moments.
Clocks somewhere in the house were striking midnight. A little later alog fell from the dying fire, breaking in ashes.
He felt her stir, change her position slightly; and he lifted his head.After a moment she laid her hand on his arm, and he aided her to rise.
As they moved slowly, side by side, through the house, they saw that itwas filled with flowers everywhere, twisted ropes of them on thebanisters, too, where they ascended.
Her own maid, who had arrived by train, rose from a seat in the uppercorridor to meet her. The two rooms, which were connected by a sittingroom, disclosed themselves, almost smothered in flowers.
Jacqueline stood in the sitting room for a moment, gazing vaguely aroundher at the flowers and steadying herself by one hand on thecentre-table, which a great bowlful of white carnations almost covered.
Then, as her maid reappeared at the door of her room, she turned andlooked at Desboro.
There was a silence; his face was very white, hers was deathly.
He said: "Shall we say good-night?"
"It is--for you--to say."
"Then--good-night, Jacqueline."
"Good-night."
"She turned ... looked back, hesitated"]
She turned, took a step or two--looked back, hesitated, then slowlyretraced her steps to where he was standing by the flower-covered table.
From the mass of blossoms she drew a white carnation, touched it to herlips, and, eyes still lowered, offered it to him. In her palm, besideit, lay a key. But he took only the blossom, touching it to his lips asshe had done.
She looked at the key, lying in her trembling hand, then lifted herconfused eyes to his once more, whispering:
"Good-night--and thank you."
"Good-night," he said, "until to-morrow."
And they went their separate ways.