The Business of Life Read online

  CHAPTER I

  "'A lady to see you, sir'"]

  "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 realthing?"

  "I don't know, sir. It's hard to tell these days; one dresses liket'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 thestompin' 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 tellhim he could go."

  Desboro remained silent for a few moments, looking hard at thefireplace; then he tossed his cigarette onto the embers, dropped theamber mouthpiece into the pocket of his dinner jacket, dismissed Farriswith a pleasant nod, and walked very slowly along the hall, as though inno haste to meet his visitor before he could come to some conclusionconcerning her identity. For among all the women he had known,intimately or otherwise, he could remember very few reckless enough, orbrainless enough, or sufficiently self-assured, to pay him an impromptuvisit in the country at such an hour of the night.

  The reception room, with its early Victorian furniture, appeared to beempty, at first glance; but the next instant he saw somebody in thecurtained embrasure of a window--a shadowy figure which did not seeminclined to leave obscurity--the figure of a woman in veil and furs, herface 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 cameover 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 meabout, always under foot, always grinning--and buying sixteenth centuryenamels--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, andreached out toward him to be guided.

  In the library fireplace a few embers were still alive. He laid a logacross the coals and used the bellows until the flames started. Afterthat he dusted his hands, lighted a cigarette, and stood for a momentwatching the mounting blaze.

  She had cast aside her furs and was resting on one elbow, twisting herhandkerchief 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 firewith wide eyes still tearfully brilliant.

  "You have me on your hands," she said. "What are you going to do withme?"

  "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 askedme to marry him. He only grinned. It was a perfectly cold-bloodedbargain. 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 Iever 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 spiteof 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 hergloves 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 ornot 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 saidsavagely:

  "You ought not to have come here. There isn't one single thing to excuseit. Besides, you have just reminded me of my loyalty to you. Can't youunderstand that that includes your husband? Also, it isn't in me toforget that I once asked you to be my wife. Do you think I'd let youstand for anything less after that? Do you think I'm going to blacken myown face? I never asked any other woman to marry me, and this settlesit--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 hairdishevelled, sagging between her long, white fingers.

  He remained aloof, knowing her, and always afraid of her and of himselftogether--a very deadly combination for mischief. And she remained bowedin the attitude of despair, her lithe young body shaken.

  His was naturally a lightly irresponsible disposition, and it came veryeasily for him to console beauty in distress--or out of it, for thatmatter. Why he was now so fastidious with his conscience in regard toMrs. Clydesdale he himself scarcely understood, except that he had onceasked her to marry him; and that he knew her husband. These two factsseemed to keep him steady. Also, he rather liked her burly husband; andhe had almost recovered from the very real pangs which had pierced himwhen she suddenly flung him over and married Clydesdale's millions.

  One of the logs had burned out. He rose to replace it with another. Whenhe returned to the sofa, she looked up at him so pitifully that he bentover 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, doyou hear? Don't be frightened. If there's trouble, I'll stand by you, ofcourse. 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 nothingdangerous about me. I never dealt with any man whose eyes were not wideopen--nor with any woman, either. Cary's are shut; yours are blinded."

  She sprang up and walked to the fire and stood there, her handsnervously clenching and unclenching.

  "When I tell you that my eyes _are_ wide open--that I don't care what Ido----"

  "But your husband's eyes are not open!"

  "They ought to be. I left a note saying where I was going--that ratherthan be his wife I'd prefer to be your----"

  "Stop! You don't know what you're talking about--you little idiot!" hebroke out, furious.
"The very words you use don't mean anything toyou--except that you've read them in some fool's novel, or heard them ona degenerate stage----"

  "My words will mean something to _him_, if I can make them!" sheretorted hysterically, "--and if you really care for me----"

  Through the throbbing silence Desboro seemed to see Clydesdale, bulky,partly sober, with his eternal grin and permanently-flushed skin,rambling about among his porcelains and enamels and jades and ivories,like a drugged elephant in a bric-a-brac shop. And yet, there hadalways been a certain kindly harmlessness and good nature about him thathad always appealed to men.

  He said, incredulously: "Did you write to him what you have just said tome?"

  "Yes."

  "You actually left such a note for him?"

  "Yes, I did."

  The silence lasted long enough for her to become uneasy. Again and againshe lifted her tear-swollen face to look at him, where he stood beforethe fire, but he did not even glance at her; and at last she murmuredhis name, and he turned.

  "I guess you've done for us both," he said. "You're probably right;nobody would believe the truth after this."

  She began to cry again silently.

  He said: "You never gave your husband a chance. He was in love with youand you never gave him a chance. And you're giving yourself none, now.And as for me"--he laughed unpleasantly--"well, I'll leave it to you,Elena."

  "I--I thought--if I burned my bridges and came to you----"

  "What _did_ you think?"

  "That you'd stand by me, Jim."

  "Have I any other choice?" he asked, with a laugh. "We seem to be aproperly damned couple."

  "Do--do you care for any other woman?"

  "No."

  "Then--then----"

  "Oh, I am quite free to stand the consequences with you."

  "Will you?"

  "Can we escape them?"

  "_You_ could."

  "I'm not in the habit of leaving a sinking ship," he said curtly.

  "Then--you will marry me--when----" She stopped short and turned verywhite. After a moment the doorbell rang again.

  Desboro glanced at the clock, then shrugged.

  "Wh--who is it?" she faltered.

  "It's probably somebody after you, Elena."

  "It _can't_ be. He wouldn't come, would he?"

  The bell sounded again.

  "What are you going to do?" she breathed.

  "Do? Let him in."

  "Who do you think it is?"

  "Your husband, of course."

  "Then--why are you going to let him in?"

  "To talk it over with him."

  "But--but I don't know what he'll do. I don't know him, I tell you. Whatdo I know about him--except that he's big and red? How do I know whatmight be hidden behind that fixed grin of his?"

  "Well, we'll find out in a minute or two," said Desboro coolly.

  "Jim! You _must_ stand by me now!"

  "I've done it so far, haven't I? You needn't worry."

  "You won't let him take me back! He can't, can he?"

  "Not if you refuse to go. But you won't refuse--if he's man enough toask you to return."

  "But--suppose he won't ask me to go back?"

  "In that case I'll stand for what you've done. I'll marry you if hemeans to disgrace you. Now let's see what he does mean."

  She caught his sleeve as he passed her, then let it go. The steadyringing of the bell was confusing and terrifying her, and she glancedabout her like a trapped creature, listening to the distant jingling ofchains and the click of bolts as Desboro undid the outer door.

  Silence, then a far sound in the hall, footsteps coming nearer, nearer;and she dropped stiffly on the sofa as Desboro entered, followed by CaryClydesdale in fur motor cap, coat and steaming goggles.

  Desboro motioned her husband to a chair, but the man stood looking athis wife through his goggles, with a silly, fixed grin stamped on hisfeatures. Then he drew off the goggles and one fur gauntlet, fumbled inhis overcoat, produced the crumpled note which she had left for him,laid it on the table between them, and sat down heavily, filling theleather armchair with his bulk. His bare red hand steamed. After amoment's silence, he pointed at the note.

  "Well," she said, with an effort, "what of it! It's true--what thisletter says."

  "It isn't true yet, is it?" asked Clydesdale simply.

  "What do you mean?"

  But Desboro understood him, and answered for her with a calm shake ofhis head. Then the wife understood, too, and the deep colour dyed herskin from throat to brow.

  "Why do you come here--after reading that?" She pointed at the letter."Didn't you read it?"

  Clydesdale passed his hand slowly over his perplexed eyes.

  "I came to take you home. The car is here."

  "Didn't you understand what I wrote? Isn't it plain enough?" shedemanded excitedly.

  "No. You'd better get ready, Elena."

  "Is that as much of a man as you are--when I tell you I'd rather be Mr.Desboro's----"

  Something behind the fixed grin on her husband's face made her hesitateand falter. Then he swung heavily around and looked at Desboro.

  "How much are you in this, anyway?" he asked, still grinning.

  "Do you expect an answer?"

  "I think I'll get one."

  "I think you won't get one out of me."

  "Oh. So you're at the bottom of it all, are you?"

  "No doubt. A woman doesn't do such a thing unpersuaded. If you don'tknow enough to look after your own wife, there are plenty of men who'llapply for the job--as I did."

  "You're a very rotten scoundrel, aren't you?" said Clydesdale, grinning.

  "Oh, so-so."

  Clydesdale sat very still, his grin unchanged, and Desboro looked himover coolly.

  "Now, what do you want to do? You and Mrs. Clydesdale can remain hereto-night if you wish. There are plenty of bedrooms----"

  Clydesdale rose, bulking huge and menacing in his furs; but Desboro,sitting on the edge of the table, continued to swing one foot gently,smiling at danger.

  And Clydesdale hesitated, then veered around toward his wife, with theheavy movement of a perplexed and tortured bear.

  "Get your furs on," he said, in a dull voice.

  "Do you wish me to go home?"

  "Get your furs on!"

  "Do you wish me to go home, Cary?"

  "Yes. Good God! What do you suppose I came here for?"

  She walked over to Desboro and held out her hand:

  "No wonder women like you. Good-bye--and if I come again--may I remain?"

  "Don't come," he said, smiling, and holding her coat for her.

  Clydesdale strode forward, took the fur garment from Desboro's hands,and held it open. His wife looked up at him, shrugged her shoulders, andsuffered him to invest her with the coat.

  After a moment Desboro said:

  "Clydesdale, I am not your enemy. I wish you good luck."

  "You go to hell," said Clydesdale thickly.

  Mrs. Clydesdale moved toward the door, her husband on one side, Desboroon the other, and so, along the hall in silence, and out to the porch,where the glare of the acetylenes lighted up the frozen drive.

  "It feels like rain," observed Desboro. "Not a very gay outlook forChristmas. All the same, I wish you a happy one, Elena. And, really, Ibelieve you could have it if you cared to."

  "Thank you, Jim. You have been mistakenly kind to me. I am afraid youwill have to be crueller some day. Good-bye--till then."

  Clydesdale had descended to the drive and was conferring with thechauffeur. Now he turned and looked up at his wife. She went down thesteps beside Desboro, and he nodded good-night. Clydesdale put her intothe limousine and then got in after her.

  A few moments later the red tail-lamp of the motor disappeared among thetrees bordering the drive, and Desboro turned and walked back into thehouse.

  "That," he said aloud to himself, "settles the damned species for me!Let the next one look out for herself!"
>
  He sauntered back into the library. The letter that she had left for herhusband still lay on the table, apparently forgotten.

  "A fine specimen of logic," he said. "She doesn't get on with him, soshe decides to use Jim to jimmy the lock of wedlock! A white man canunderstand the Orientals better."

  He glanced at the clock, and decided that there was no sense in going tobed, so he composed himself on the haircloth sofa once more, lighted acigarette, and began to read, coolly using the note she had left, as abookmark.

  It was dawn before he closed the book and went away to bathe and changehis attire.

  While breakfasting he glanced out and saw that it had begun to rain. Agreen Christmas for day after to-morrow! And, thinking of Christmas, hethought of a girl he knew who usually wore blue, and what sort of a gifthe had better send her when he went to the city that morning.

  But he didn't go. He called up a jeweler and gave directions what tosend and where to send it.

  Then, listless, depressed, he idled about the great house, putting offinstinctively the paramount issue--the necessary investigation of hisfinances. But he had evaded it too long to attempt it lightly now. Itwas only a question of days before he'd have to take up in deadlyearnest the question of how to pay his debts. He knew it; and it madehim yawn with disgust.

  After luncheon he wrote a letter to one Jean Louis Nevers, a New Yorkdealer in antiques, saying that he would drop in some day afterChristmas to consult Mr. Nevers on a matter of private business.

  And that is as far as he got with his very vague plan for paying off anaccumulation of debts which, at last, were seriously annoying him.

  The remainder of the day he spent tramping about the woods ofWestchester with a pack of nondescript dogs belonging to him. He likedto walk in the rain; he liked his mongrels.

  In the evening he resumed his attitude of unstudied elegance on thesofa, also his book, using Mrs. Clydesdale's note again to mark hisplace.

  Mrs. Quant ventured to knock, bringing some "magic drops," which hesmilingly refused. Farris announced dinner, and he dined as usual,surrounded by dogs and cats, all very cordial toward the master ofSilverwood, who was unvaryingly so just and so kind to them.

  After dinner he lighted a pipe, thought idly of the girl in blue, hopedshe'd like his gift of aquamarines, and picked up his book again,yawning.

  He had had about enough of Silverwood, and he was realising it. He hadhad more than enough of women, too.

  The next day, riding one of his weedy hunters over Silverwood estate, heencountered the daughter of a neighbor, an old playmate of his whensummer days were half a year long, and yesterdays immediately becameembedded in the middle of the middle ages.

  She was riding a fretful, handsome Kentucky three-year-old, and sittingnonchalantly to his exasperating and jiggling gait.

  The girl was one Daisy Hammerton--the sort men call "square" and"white," and a "good fellow"; but she was softly rounded and dark, andvery feminine.

  She bade him good morning in a friendly voice; and her voice and mannermight well have been different, for Desboro had not behaved very civillytoward her or toward her family, or to any of his Westchester neighborsfor that matter; and the rumours of his behaviour in New York wereanything but pleasant to a young girl's ears. So her cordiality was themore to her credit.

  He made rather shame-faced inquiries about her and her parents, but shelightly put him at his ease, and they turned into the woods together onthe old and unembarrassed terms of comradeship.

  "Captain Herrendene is back. Did you know it?" she asked.

  "Nice old bird," commented Desboro. "I must look him up. Where did hecome from--Luzon?"

  "Yes. He wrote us. Why don't you ask him up for the skating, Jim?"

  "What skating?" said Desboro, with a laugh. "It will be a greenChristmas, Daisy--it's going to rain again. Besides," he added, "Ishan't be here much longer."

  "Oh, I'm sorry."

  He reddened. "You always were the sweetest thing in Westchester. Fancyyour being sorry that I'm going back to town when I've never once riddenover to see you as long as I've been here!"

  She laughed. "We've known each other too long to let such things makeany real difference. But you _have_ been a trifle negligent."

  "Daisy, dear, I'm that way in everything. If anybody asked me to namethe one person I would not neglect, I'd name you. But you see whathappens--even to you! I don't know--I don't seem to have any character.I don't know what's the matter with me----"

  "I'm afraid that you have no beliefs, Jim."

  "How can I have any when the world is so rotten after nineteen hundredyears of Christianity?"

  "I have not found it rotten."

  "No, because you live in a clean and wholesome circle."

  "Why don't you, too? You can live where you please, can't you?"

  He laughed and waved his hand toward the horizon.

  "You know what the Desboros have always been. You needn't pretend youdon't. All Westchester has it in for us. But relief is in sight," headded, with mock seriousness. "I'm the last of 'em, and your children,Daisy, won't have to endure the morally painful necessity of toleratinganybody of my name in the county."

  She smiled: "Jim, you could be so nice if you only would."

  "What! With no beliefs?"

  "They're so easily acquired."

  "Not in New York town, Daisy."

  "Perhaps not among the people you affect. But such people really countfor so little--they are only a small but noisy section of a vast andquiet and wholesome community. And the noise and cynicism are both basedon idleness, Jim. Nobody who is busy is destitute of beliefs. Nobody whois responsible can avoid ideals."

  "Quite right," he said. "I am idle and irresponsible. But, Daisy, it'sas much part of me as are my legs and arms, and head and body. I am notstupid; I have plenty of mental resources; I am never bored; I enjoy mydrift through life in an empty tub as much as the man who pullsfuriously through it in a rowboat loaded with ambitions, ballasted withbrightly moral resolves, and buffeted by the cross seas of duty andconscience. That's rather neat, isn't it?"

  "You can't drift safely very long without ballast," said the girl,smiling.

  "Watch me."

  She did not answer that she had been watching him for the last fewyears, or tell him how it had hurt her to hear his name linked with thegossip of fashionably vapid doings among idle and vapid people. For hishad been an inheritance of ability and culture, and the leisure todevelop both. Out of idleness and easy virtue had at last emerged threegenerations of Desboros full of energy and almost ruthless ability--hisgreat-grandfather, grandfather and father--but he, the fourthgeneration, was throwing back into the melting pot all that his fatherand grandfathers had carried from it--even the material part of it. Landand fortune, were beginning to disappear, together with the sturdymental and moral qualities of a race that had almost overcome itsvicious origin under the vicious Stuarts. Only the physical stamina asyet seemed to remain intact; for Desboro was good to look upon.

  "An odd thing happened the other night--or, rather, early in themorning," she said. "We were awakened by a hammering at the door and ahorn blowing--and guess who it was?"

  "Not Gabriel--though you look immortally angelic to-day----"

  "Thank you, Jim. No; it was Cary and Elena Clydesdale, saying that theircar had broken down. What a ridiculous hour to be motoring! Elena washalf dead with the cold, too. It seems they'd been to a party somewhereand were foolish enough to try to motor back to town. They stopped withus and took the noon train to town. Elena told me to give you her love;that's what reminded me."

  "Give her mine when you see her," he said pleasantly.

  * * * * *

  When he returned to his house he sat down with a notion of trying tobring order out of the chaos into which his affairs had tumbled. But themere sight of his desk, choked with unanswered letters and unpaid bills,sickened him, and he threw himself on the sofa and picked up his book,determin
ed to rid himself of Silverwood House and all its curious,astonishing and costly contents.

  "Tell Riley to be on hand Monday," he said to Mrs. Quant that evening."I want the cases in the wing rooms and the stuff in the armoury cleanedup, because I expect a Mr. Nevers to come here and recatalogue theentire collection next week."

  "Will you be at home, Mr. James?" she asked anxiously.

  "No. I'm going South, duck-shooting. See that Mr. Nevers is comfortableif he chooses to remain here; for it will take him a week or two to dohis work in the armoury, I suppose. So you'll have to start bothfurnaces to-morrow, and keep open fires going, or the man will freezesolid. You understand, don't you?"

  "Yes, sir. And if you are going away, Mr. James, I could pack a littlebottle of 'magic drops'----"

  "By all means," he said, with good-humoured resignation.

  He spent the evening fussing over his guns and ammunition, determined togo to New York in the morning. But he didn't; indecision had become ahabit; he knew it, wondered a little at himself for his lack ofdecision.

  He was deadly weary of Silverwood, but too lazy to leave; and it madehim think of the laziest dog on record, who yelped all day because hehad sat down on a tack and was too lazy to get up.

  So it was not until the middle of Christmas week that Desboro summonedup sufficient energy to start for New York. And when at last he was onthe train, he made up his mind that he wouldn't return to Silverwood ina hurry.

  But that plan was one of the mice-like plans men make so confidentlyunder the eternal skies.