The Business of Life

For a long while they sat there in silence; Desboro fiddling with his empty glass, the other, motionless, his ponderous hands clasped on his knees. At length, Desboro spoke again: "I do not know how it is with you, but I am not escaping anything that I have ever done."

"I'm getting mine," said Clydesdale heavily.

After a few moments, what Desboro had said filtered into his brain; and he turned and looked at the younger man.

"Have these rumours – " he began. And Desboro nodded:

"These rumours – or others. These happen not to have been true."

"That's tough on her," said Clydesdale gravely.

"That's where it is toughest on us. I think we could stand anything except that they should suffer through us. And the horrible part of it is that we never meant to – never dreamed that we should ever be held responsible for the days we lived so lightly – gay, careless, irresponsible days – God! Is there any punishment to compare with it, Clydesdale?"

"None."

Desboro rose and stood with his hand across his forehead, as though it ached.

"You and Elena and I are products of the same kind of civilisation. Jacqueline – my wife – is the result of a different training in a very different civilisation."

"And the rottenness of ours is making her ill."

Desboro nodded. After a moment he stirred restlessly.

"Well," he said, "I must go to the office. I haven't been there yet."

Clydesdale got onto his feet.

"Won't you stay?"

"No."

"As you wish. And – I'm sorry, Desboro. However, you have a better chance than I – to make good. My wife – dislikes me."

He went as far as the door with his guest, and when Desboro had departed he wandered aimlessly back into the house and ultimately found himself among his porcelains once more – his only refuge from a grief and care that never ceased, never even for a moment eased those massive shoulders of their dreadful weight.

From where he stood, he heard the doorbell sounding distantly. Doubtless his wife had returned. Doubtless, too, as long as there was no guest, Elena would prefer to lunch alone in her own quarters, unless she had an engagement to lunch at the Ritz or elsewhere.

He had no illusion that she desired to see him, or that she cared whether or not he inquired what her physician had said; but he closed and locked his glass cases once more and walked heavily into the main body of the house and descended to the door.

To the man on duty there he said: "Did Mrs. Clydesdale come in?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you."

He hesitated, turned irresolutely, and remounted the stairs. To a maid passing he said:

"Is Mrs. Clydesdale lunching at home?"

"Yes, sir. Mrs. Clydesdale is not well, sir."

"Has she gone to her room?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please go to her and say that I am sorry and – and inquire if there is anything I can do."

The maid departed and the master of the house wandered into the music-room – perhaps because Elena's tall, gilded harp was there – the only thing in the place that ever reminded him of her, or held for him anything of her personality.

Now, in the rose dusk of the drawn curtains, he stood beside it, not touching it – never dreaming of touching it without permission, any more than he would have touched his wife.

Somebody knocked; he turned, and the maid came forward.

"Mrs. Clydesdale desires to see you, sir."

He stared for a second, then his heart beat heavily with alarm.

"Where is Mrs. Clydesdale?"

"In her bedroom, sir."

"Unwell?"

"Yes, sir."

"In bed?"

"I think so, sir. Mrs. Clydesdale's maid spoke to me."

"Very well. Thank you."

He went out and mounted the stairs, striding up silently to the hall above, where his wife's maid quietly opened the door for him, then went away to her own little chintz-lined den.

Elena was lying on her bed in a frilly, lacy, clinging thing of rose tint. The silk curtains had been drawn, but squares of sunlight quartered them, turning the dusk of the pretty room to a golden gloom.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him as he advanced.

"I'm terribly sorry," he said; and his heavy voice shook in spite of him.

She motioned toward the only armchair – an ivory-covered affair, the cane bottom covered by a rose cushion.

"Bring it here – nearer," she said.

He did so, and seated himself beside the bed cautiously.

She lay silent after that; once or twice she pressed the palms of both hands over her eyes as though they pained her, but when he ventured to inquire, she shook her head. It was only when he spoke of calling up Dr. Allen again that she detained him in his chair with a gesture:

"Wait! I've got to tell you something! I don't know what you will do about it. You've had trouble enough – with me. But this is – is – unspeakable – "