Complete weird tales of.., p.717
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 717
“It lies with you,” snapped Aunt Hannah.
“Yes — a great deal seems to lie with me. The burden of decision seems to lie with me very often. Somehow I can’t escape it. And I am not wise, not experienced enough — —”
“You are good. That’s wisdom enough for decision.”
“But — do you know — I am not very good.”
“Why not?”
“Because I understand much that is evil. How can real innocence be so unworthily wise?”
“Innocence isn’t goodness by a long shot!” said Aunt Hannah bluntly. “The good know — and refrain.”
There was a silence; the elder woman in her black gown stood waiting, her head still obstinately averted. Suddenly she felt the girl’s soft arms around her neck, quivered, caught her in a fierce embrace.
“I — I want you to care for Jim,” faltered the girl. “I want you to know what he really is — the dearest and most generous of men. I want you to discover the real nobility in him. He is only a boy, as yet, Aunt Hannah. And he — he must not be — cruelly — punished.”
When Aunt Hannah had marched out, still inclined to dab at her eyes, but deeply and thankfully happy, Jacqueline called up her husband at his office.
“Jim, dear,” she said, “I have had a visit from Aunt Hannah. And she’s terribly unhappy because she thinks you and I are; so I told her that we are not unhappy, and I scolded her for saying those outrageous things to you. And she took it so meekly, and — and she does really care for us — and — and I’ve made up with her. Was it disloyal to you to forgive her?”
“No,” he said quietly. “What she said to me was the truth.”
“I don’t know what she said to you, dear. She didn’t tell me. But I gathered from her that it was something intensely disagreeable. So don’t ever tell me — because I might begin to dislike her again. And — it wasn’t true, anyway. She knows that now. So — we will be friendly to her, won’t we?”
“Of course. She adores you anyway — —”
“If she doesn’t adore you, too, I won’t care for her!” said the girl hotly.
He laughed; she could hear him distinctly; and she realised with a little thrill that it was the same engaging laugh which she had first associated with the delightful, graceful, charming young fellow who was now her husband.
“What are you doing, Jim?” she asked, smiling in sympathy.
“There’s absolutely nothing doing in the office, dear.”
“Then — could you come over here?”
“Oh, Jacqueline! Do you tempt me?”
“No,” she said hastily. “I suppose you ought to be there in the office, whether there’s anything to do or not. Listen, Jim. I’ve invited Cynthia and Jack Cairns for the week-end. Was it all right?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t really mind, do you?”
“Not a bit, dear.”
“We can be by ourselves if we wish. They’re going to read a play together,” she explained naïvely, “and they won’t bother us — —”
She checked herself, blushing furiously. He, at his end of the wire, could scarcely speak for the quick tumult of his heart, but he managed to say calmly enough:
“We’ve got the entire estate to roam over if they bore us.”
“Will you take me for a walk on Sunday?”
“Yes, if you would care to go.”
“Haven’t I invited you to take me?”
“Have you really, Jacqueline?”
“Yes. Good-bye. I will be waiting for you at five.”
She returned to her desk, the flush slowly cooling in her cheeks; and she was just resuming her seat when a clerk brought Clydesdale’s card.
“I could see Mr. Clydesdale now,” she said, glancing over the appointment list on her desk. Her smile had died out with the colour in her cheeks, and her beautiful eyes grew serious and stern. For the name that this man bore was associated in her mind with terrible and unspeakable things. Never again could she hear that name with equanimity; never recall it unmoved. Yet, now, she made an effort to put from her all that menaced her composure at the mere mention of that name — strove to think only of the client and kindly amateur who had treated her always with unvarying courtesy and consideration.
He came in grinning, as usual, and she took his extended and highly-coloured paw, smiling her greeting.
“Is it a little social visit, Mr. Clydesdale, or have you discovered some miracle of ancient Cathay which you covet?”
“It’s — my wife.”
Her smile fled and her features altered to an expressionless and colourless mask. For a second there was a gleam of fear in her eyes, then they grew cold and clear and blue as arctic ice.
He remained standing, the grin stamped on his sanguine features. Presently he said, heavily:
“I have come to you to make what reparation I can — in my wife’s name — in her behalf. Our deep humiliation, deeper contrition, are the only reparation we can offer you. It is hard for me to speak. My wife is at home, ill. And she can not rest until she has told you, through me, that — that what she said to you the last time she saw you — here, in this office — was an untruth.”
Jacqueline, dazed, merely stared at him. He bent his head and seemed to be searching in his mind for words. He found them after a while.
“Yes,” he said in a low voice, “what my wife said, and what she permitted you to infer — concerning herself and — Mr. Desboro — was utterly untrue. God alone knows why she said it. But she did. I could plead extenuation for her — if your patience permits. She is naturally very nervous; she did care a great deal for Mr. Desboro; she did, at that time, really dislike me,” he added with a quiet dignity which made every word he uttered ring out clear as a shot. And Jacqueline seemed to feel their impact on her very heart.
He said: “There are other circumstances — painful ones. She had been for months — even years — in fear of blackmail — terrorised by it until she became morbid. I did not know this. I was not aware that an indiscreet but wholly innocent escapade of her youth had furnished this blackmailer with a weapon. I understand now, why, caring as she did for Mr. Desboro, and excited, harassed, terrified, exasperated, she was willing to make an end of it with him rather than face possible disgrace with me for whom she did not care. It is no excuse. She offers none. I offer none for her. Nothing — no mental, no physical state could excuse what she has done. Only — I wish — and she wishes you to know that she has been guilty of permitting you to believe a monstrous untruth which would have consigned her to infamy had it been true, and absolutely damned the man you have married.”
She strove to comprehend this thing that he was saying — tried to realise that he was absolutely clearing her husband of the terrible and nameless shadow which, she knew now, never could have entirely fled away, except for the mercy of God and the words of humiliation now sounding in her ears.
She stared at him. And the terrible thing was that he was grinning still — grinning through all the agony of his shame and dreadful abasement. And she longed to turn away — to shut out his face from her sight. But dared not.
“That is all,” he said heavily. “Perhaps there is a little more to say — but it will leave you indifferent, very naturally. Yet, may I say that this — this heart-breaking crisis in her life, and — in mine — has — brought us together? And — a little more. My wife is to become a mother. Which is why I venture to hope that you will be merciful to us both in your thoughts. I do not ask for your pardon, which you could never give — —”
“Mr. Clydesdale!” She had risen, trembling, both little hands flat on the desk top to steady her, and was looking straight at him.
“‘I — I have never thought mercilessly’”
“I — my thoughts — —” she stammered “are not cruel. Say so to your wife. I — I have never thought mercilessly. Every instinct within me is otherwise. And I know what suffering is. And I do not wish it for anybody. Say so to your wife, and that I wish her — happiness — with her baby.”
She was trembling so that he could scarcely control between his two huge fists the little hand that he saluted in wordless gratitude and grief.
Then, without looking at her again, or speaking, he went his way. And she dropped back into her chair, the tears of sheer happiness and excitement flowing unchecked.
But she was permitted no time to collect her thoughts, no solitude for happy tears, and, at the clerk’s sharp knocking, she dried her eyes hastily and bade him enter.
The card he laid on her desk seemed to amaze her.
“That man!” she said slowly. “Is he here, Mr. Mirk?”
“Yes, madam. He asks for one minute only, saying that it is a matter of most desperate importance to you — —”
“To me?”
“Yes, madam.”
Again she looked at Mr. Waudle’s card.
“Bring him,” she said crisply. And the blue lightning flashed in her eyes.
When Mr. Waudle came in and the clerk had gone and closed the door, Jacqueline said quietly:
“I’ll give you one minute, Mr. Waudle. Proceed.”
“I think,” he said, looking at her out of his inflamed eyes, “that you’ll feel inclined to give me more than that when you understand what I’ve got in this packet.” And he drew from his overcoat pocket a roll of galley proofs.
“What is it?” she asked, looking calmly into his dangerous red eyes.
“It’s a story, set up and in type — as you see. And it’s about your husband and Mrs. Clydesdale — if you want to know.”
A shaft of fear struck straight through her. Then, in an instant the blanched cheeks flushed and the blue eyes cleared and sparkled.
“What is it you wish?” she asked in a curiously still voice.
“I’ll tell you; don’t worry. I want you to stop this man Clydesdale, and stop him short. I don’t care how you do it; do it, that’s all. He’s bought and paid for certain goods delivered to him by me. Now he’s squealing. He wants his money back. And — if he gets it back this story goes in. Want me to read it to you?”
“No. What is it you wish me to do — deceive Mr. Clydesdale? Make him believe that the remainder of the jades and rose-quartz carvings are genuine?”
“It looks good to me,” said Mr. Waudle more cheerfully. “It sounds all right. You threw us down; it’s up to you to pick us up.”
“I see,” she said pleasantly. “And unless I do you are intending to publish that — story?”
“Sure as hell!” he nodded.
She remained silent and thoughtful so long that he began to hitch about in his chair and cast furtive, sidelong glances at her and at the curtained walls around the room. Suddenly his face grew ghastly.
“Look here!” he whispered hoarsely. “Is this a plant?”
“What?”
“Is there anybody else in this room?” He lurched to his feet and waddled hastily around the four walls, flinging aside the green velvet curtains. Only the concealed pictures were revealed; and he went back to his chair, removing the cold sweat from his forehead and face with his sleeve.
“By God!” he said. “For a moment I thought you had done me good and plenty. But it wouldn’t have helped you! They’ve got this story in the office, and the minute I’m pinched, in it goes! Understand?”
“No,” she said serenely, “but it doesn’t really matter. You may go now, Mr. Waudle.”
“Hey?”
“Must I ring for a clerk to put you out?”
“Oh! So that’s the game, is it? Well, I tell you that you can’t bluff me, little lady! Let’s settle it now.”
“No,” she said. “I must have time to consider.”
“How long?”
“An hour or two.”
“You’ll make up your mind in two hours?”
“Yes.”
“All right,” he said, almost jovially. “That suits me. Call me up on the ‘phone and tell me what you decide. My number is on my card.”
She looked at the card. It bore his telephone number and his house address.
He seemed inclined to linger, evidently with the idea of tightening his grip on her by either persuasion or bullying, as her attitude might warrant. But she touched the bell and Mr. Mirk appeared; and the author of “Black Roses” took himself off perforce, with many a knowing leer, both threatening and blandishing.
As soon as he had gone, she called up her husband. Very quietly, but guardedly, she conversed with him for a few moments.
When she hung up the receiver she was laughing. But it was otherwise with Desboro.
“Cairns,” he said, turning from the telephone to his associate, “there’s a silly fellow bothering my wife. If you don’t mind my leaving the office for a few minutes I’ll step around and speak to him.” His usually agreeable features had grown colourless and ugly, but his voice sounded casual enough.
“What are you going to do, Jim? Murder?”
Desboro laughed.
“I’ll be gone only a few minutes,” he said.
“It could be done in a few minutes,” mused Cairns. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“No, thanks.” He picked up his hat, nodded curtly, and went out.
Mr. Waudle and Mr. Munger maintained a “den,” literary and otherwise, in one of the new studio buildings just east of Lexington Avenue. This was the address Mr. Waudle had left for Jacqueline; to this destination Desboro now addressed himself. Thither an itinerant taxicab bore him on shaky springs. He paid the predatory chauffeur, turned to enter the building, and met Clydesdale face to face, entering the same doorway.
“Hello!” said the latter with a cheerful grin. “Where are you bound?”
“Oh, there’s a man hereabouts with whom I have a few moments’ business.”
“Same here,” observed Clydesdale.
They entered the building together, and both walked straight through to the elevator.
“Mr. Waudle,” said Clydesdale briefly to the youth in charge. “You need not announce me.”
Desboro looked at him curiously, and caught Clydesdale’s eyes furtively measuring him.
“Odd,” he said pleasantly, “but my business is with the same man.”
“I was wondering.”
They exchanged perfectly inexpressive glances.
“Couldn’t your business wait?” inquired Desboro politely.
“Sorry, Desboro, but I was a little ahead of you in the entry, I think.”
The car stopped.
“Studio twenty,” said the boy; slammed the gates, and shot down into dimly lighted depths again, leaving the two men together.
“I am wondering,” mused Clydesdale gently, “whether by any chance your business with this — ah — Mr. Waudle resembles my business with him.”
They looked at each other.
Desboro nodded: “Very probably,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh! Then perhaps you might care to be present at the business meeting,” said Clydesdale, “as a spectator, merely, of course.”
“Thanks, awfully. But might I not persuade you to remain as a spectator — —”
“Very good of you, Desboro, but I need the — ah — exercise. Really, I’ve gone quite stale this winter. Don’t even keep up my squash.”
“Mistake,” said Desboro gravely. “‘Fraid you’ll overdo it, old chap.”
“Oh, I’ll have a shy at it,” said Clydesdale cheerfully. “Very glad to have you score, if you like.”
“If you insist,” replied the younger man courteously.
There was a bell outside Studio No. 20. Desboro punched it with the ferrule of his walking stick; and when the door opened, somewhat cautiously, Clydesdale inserted his huge foot between the door and the sill.
There was a brief and frantic scuffle; then the poet fled, his bunch of frizzled hair on end, and the two men entered the apartment.
To the left a big studio loomed, set with artistic furniture and bric-a-brac and Mr. Waudle — the latter in motion. In fact, he was at that moment in the process of rushing at Mr. Clydesdale, and under full head-way.
Whenever Mr. Waudle finally obtained sufficient momentum to rush, he appeared to be a rather serious proposition; for he was as tall as Clydesdale and very much fatter, and his initial velocity, combined with his impact force per square inch might have rivalled the dynamic problems of the proving ground.
Clydesdale took one step forward to welcome him, and Waudle went down, like thunder.
Then he got up, went down immediately; got up, went down, stayed down for an appreciable moment; arose, smote the air, was smitten with a smack so terrific that the poet, who was running round and round the four walls, squeaked in sympathy.
Waudle sat up on the floor, his features now an unrecognisable mess. He was crying.
“I say, Desboro, catch that poet for me — there’s a good chap,” said Clydesdale, breathing rather hard.
The Cubist, who had been running round and round like a frantic rabbit, screamed and ran the faster.
“Oh, just shy some bric-a-brac at him and come home,” said Desboro in disgust.
But Clydesdale caught him, seated himself, jerked the devotee of the moon across his ponderous knees, and, grinning, hoisted on high the heavy hand of justice. And the post-impressionistic literature of the future shrieked.
“Very precious, isn’t it?” panted Clydesdale. “You dirty little mop of hair, I think I’ll spank you into the future. Want a try at this moon-pup, Desboro? No? Quite right; you don’t need the exercise. Whew!” And he rolled the writhing poet off his knees and onto the floor, sat up breathing hard and grinning around him.
“Now for the club and a cold plunge — eh, Desboro? I tell you it puts life into a man, doesn’t it? Perhaps, while I’m about it, I might as well beat up the other one a little more — —”
“My God!” blubbered Waudle.
“Oh, very well — if you feel that way about it,” grinned Clydesdale. “But you understand that you won’t have any sensation to feel with at all if you ever again even think of the name of Mrs. Clydesdale.”
