The Business of Life
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