Читать книгу The Death Wish - Elisabeth Sanxay Holding - Страница 3

Whitestone Makes a Confession

Delancey lit a cigarette, and leaning back in his chair, gazed across the breakfast table toward the window through which he could see the garden in the green freshness of early Summer. He had eaten with excellent appetite, he had slept soundly all night, he felt comfortable and cheerful; he enjoyed the sight of the clear blue sky; he liked to watch the neat, rosy little housemaid moving deftly about the table.

And, as long as possible, he meant to avoid looking at his wife across the table from him. He was very well aware that there were tears in her eyes, which she wanted him to see; he knew that if he spoke to her, she would answer in a grieved, reproachful voice. Presently, of course, he would be obliged to notice her. …

He sighed inaudibly. He liked to laugh, to be easy and careless and good-humored, and Josephine most effectively prevented that. She made his home life a continual uneasiness, with her affectations, her moods, her sudden changes from clinging affection to hostility. Yet he felt no bitterness toward her, no resentment.

“Makes herself more miserable than anyone else,” he thought.

He was a man of immense tolerance; a big, stalwart handsome fellow of thirty-five or so, with smiling blue eyes, and bold features that might have been almost too regular, if it had not been for that rather long Celtic upper lip of his, that made his mouth half humorous, half rueful. Something of a philosopher he was, in his own careless way; he relished whatever he found good in life, and amiably endured what was disagreeable.

He finished his cigarette, and dropped the glowing end into his coffee cup, with a faint sizzle. “Well…” he said, cheerfully. “I’d better be doing a little work, eh?”

He had to look at her now, at that haggard, olive-skinned face, those brimming dark eyes.

“Well…” he said, again.

“Will you be home to lunch?” she asked, with exactly the tone of reproach and challenge he expected.

“I’ll try, dear,” he assured her.

“No!” she said. “If you’ve got to ‘try’—if it’s an effort, I don’t want you to come. …You didn’t really want me to breakfast with you.”

“My dear girl, I wanted you to get your sleep,” he protested. “I thought—”

“It was horrible!” she cried, with sudden vehemence. “I opened my eyes, and saw you creeping out of the room. …In that stealthy way…You looked—horrible!”

“Now, my dear girl, that’s a bit—”

“You frightened me!” she said. “You looked horrible! Like a—”

“Very well!” he interrupted. “We’ll leave it at that. I’ll ring you up later, about lunch.”

Going round the table, he gave her a perfunctory kiss on her cheek that was wet with tears, and went into the hall. Another moment, and he would have lost patience with her. That was too much, to tell him he looked “stealthy” and “horrible,” when he simply went down to breakfast in his own house. Stealthy and horrible, eh…?

“She ought to be a writer,” he said to himself. “Extraordinary choice of words. …”

He took up his soft hat, and put it on, with a casual glance in the mirror as he passed. And stopped short, staring.

The image he had seen, that man in a soft hat pulled low on his forehead, his eyes glancing sidelong. …Something in the lighting of the hall had given to his healthy, sunburned face a strange look of pallor; the hat brim shadowed his eyes, he looked—

“No, damn it!” he cried to himself. “This is…This won’t do!”

He was in a hurry now to get out into the sunshine; his footsteps rang out briskly on the drive leading to the garage. The chauffeur came running down the stairs from his living quarters above, putting on his coat as he came.

“You’re early, sir,” he said, faintly reproachful. “I’d have been at the house in time, all right.”

“I know that, Linney,” he answered, affably. “But—well—see here! As long as I am early, we might as well stop by for Mr. Whitestone, eh?”

He got into the car, and Linney set off; a good driver the fellow was, careful and sure and quick. Delancey lit another cigarette, and threw it away at once.

“Bad habit,” he told himself. “I’ve never been a heavy smoker, and I won’t begin. Upsets your nerves, makes you short-winded. …The thing is, to keep fit.”

Keep fit—for what? It was as if a voice outside himself had asked him that question, profoundly disturbing. His blue eyes clouded with a sort of bewilderment. He was not in the habit of any self-questioning; he was superbly healthy, equable, easy-going, ready to accept life as it was.

“It’s Josephine,” he thought. “I mean—I’ve always heard that if you live with someone who’s nervous and fanciful, you’re apt to be affected by it.”

He frowned, with a sudden little qualm of uneasiness. It dismayed him to think that his sane good-humor might be undermined, his cheerful zest in life shadowed. But that passed, his tolerance returned.

“It’s worse for her than for me,” he thought.

Things always had been harder for her than for him. Even in the beginning, when he had first begun his gallant attentions toward the wealthy young widow she had then been, he had known very well how much more serious the whole thing was for her than for him. He had liked her; indeed, in his way, he had loved her, but it was not her kind of love. Not that fierce, jealous, somber passion.

“I’m not capable of that,” he thought, with a sigh. “Never have cared that way for anyone…I’ve done my best. I’ve been faithful to her. I’ve tried to be considerate. …But it’s not enough for her. Well…”

Well, he couldn’t give what he hadn’t got. He had been fond of her, and if he were less fond of her now than he had been at first, he did not show it. No man could do more than his best, and if he had not made her happy, that was really her fault as much as his. He would not deny that her money had made life smoother for him, but after all, he had made a pretty fair return in patience, in unfailing amiability, for three far from easy years.

“Well…” he said, again. “After all, I’m only at home—say, fourteen hours a day, and I’m asleep for eight of them. Only leaves six hours a day to keep my temper with the poor girl. …Except Saturdays and Sundays.”

Unfortunately, this was a Saturday. He would have to go home to lunch, and in the afternoon, if Josephine wanted him to take her out, he would have to do so.

He stopped thinking. He was able to do that; whenever he chose, he could make his mind a blank, and simply absorb, in a half-animal innocence, the sights and sounds and smells about him. They were passing the Luffs’ place now, a place he had always admired; something here, some touch of charming carelessness, entirely lacking in his own formal grounds. He liked the way the Luffs’ driveway wound through the trees.

“Who’s that?” he thought, and in a moment repeated the question to the chauffeur. “Who’s that, do you know, Linney?”

“Some relation of Mrs. Luff’s, sir,” Linney answered, and for a moment his glance left the road, looked where Delancey was looking, at a tall young girl in a striped dress and a wide-brimmed hat, sauntering across the lawn. Delancey had only the briefest glimpse of her face, a grave, beautiful mouth, dark eyes; then they turned a bend in the road, and she was gone, leaving an impression on him of strange charm. She had glanced at them with the aloof unconsciousness of a child, of a creature whose existence is complete, who needs nothing from any other living creature.

“Too bad Josephine had a row with Mrs. Luff,” he thought, and sighed again, a resigned sigh. Josephine was always having rows, always shutting doors in his friendly face. Even poor Whitestone…

“Lord knows why she’s so down on him,” he thought. “He’s always very polite to her.”

He could see Whitestone’s house now, through the trees, a beastly little house, he thought it, damp, hemmed in by those dark pines, a jerry-built little house, with a cheap tiled fireplace, built-in settles on the porch, all sorts of “arty” touches. Poor Whitestone hated it himself, but he had to live in it, just as he had to work in an advertising agency, instead of painting remarkable pictures.

“He can paint, all right,” thought Delancey. “Fellow’s a genius, I think.”

His admiration for his friend was perfectly uncritical. He had admired Whitestone and liked him ever since they had been at a preparatory school together; he admitted candidly that Whitestone was far more intelligent than he was, that it was unfair that he should have so much and Whitestone so little. He wanted very much to help Whitestone; he would have done a great deal for him, if Josephine had not been so disagreeable about it. As it was, he had been able to spare twenty or thirty dollars now and then, had paid the poor devil’s club dues, a garage bill, things like that.

“Oh, forget it!” he would say, when Whitestone tried to thank him. “Some day when you’re famous, you can paint my portrait.”

The car stopped outside the cottage, and Linney sounded the horn. This usually brought Whitestone out in a hurry, glad of the chance to ride so comfortably to the railway station instead of taking a bus. But this morning he did not come. The horn sounded again and again, with no result.

“I’ll go in and see…” said Delancey.

“Only fifteen minutes to catch the train, sir,” Linney warned him.

In his heart Delancey knew well enough that it made very little difference whether he caught that train, or any other. He had desk room in a downtown office, where he went every day to open and answer such letters as came addressed to The Washproof Button Fastener Company. An invention of his own, this was, a device for fastening buttons to any sort of material, so that they were almost undetachable. A good idea, but not very successful. Needed a few improvements, when he could get round to it. …

He went along the brick walk, mounted the steps to the narrow porch, and rang the bell.

“Can’t have gone,” he thought. “Or I’d have seen him at the bus stop.”

There was the sound of a quick, light step inside; he smiled to hear it. Rosalind, of course. It was a pleasure to think of her, the one compensation of poor Whitestone’s life.

“And a big compensation, too,” thought Delancey, somewhat ruefully.

Even the harassments of poverty, he imagined, would not be intolerable with a girl like Rosalind to share them, a gay, valiant, pretty comrade. Their devotion was the most beautiful thing…

“Hello, Shawe!” she said cheerfully. “Come in! Robert’s not going in to the office this morning. Another headache. …Come and have a cup—” Her voice broke; she swallowed, and then went on, cheerful again. “Have a cup of coffee.”

Delancey glanced at her compassionately. The poor girl was upset about something; he could see now that her eyes were reddened. Yet she was still so pretty, always so pretty and smart, even in her cotton house-dress, her blond hair waved, her hands beautifully tended; she was so slender and straight.

“Thanks, Rosalind,” he said. “So Robert’s got another of those headaches, eh? Ought to see an eye specialist, I should think.”

“I believe they’re nervous headaches,” she said, lowering her voice. “He doesn’t sleep well, you know. And he lets everything upset him.”

“Artistic temperament!” said Delancey, seriously. “Where is he? In bed?”

“No. In the dining-room. Drinking far too much coffee. But come in, Shawe!”

He followed her along the narrow hall to the little dining-room which, in spite of its low ceiling, its cheap furniture, he had always found attractive. More than ever so now, with the Spring sun shining in, the fresh blue and white cloth on the table, the willow-pattern china, the tulips in a bowl.

“By Jove!” he thought, with a sigh. “Money isn’t everything. …If Whitestone could realize…”

But Whitestone was obviously in a bad mood this morning. He sat slouched in his chair, his dark hair untidy; a lean, haggard fellow of thirty or so, with something unreasonably boyish about him, something touching.

“Hello, old man!” said Delancey. “What’s this I hear about a head—?”

“Got the car there?” Whitestone interrupted. “Run me down to the station, will you, Shawe?”

“Oh, Robert!” cried his wife. “Don’t think of going to work when you feel—”

“I want to get some Bristol board,” he said, curtly.

“But—” she began, and stopped, and Delancey saw her looking at her husband with a curious intensity.

“Worried about him,” he thought. “Poor girl. …”

Whitestone had risen and walked into the hall.

“Come on!” he cried, impatiently.

Delancey turned his head to give Rosalind a comforting smile, but the smile never happened. He saw a look on her face such as he had never seen before; he had not imagined that she could look like this. Always before he had thought of her as a girl; not now, though. Her skin had a dry, blanched look beneath the powder, her eyes were strained, the lids a little wrinkled; with surprise he realized that when she was not gay and smiling, she was not really pretty. Smart, of course, and attractive, nice figure, but not really pretty—and not young. Not like the girl he had seen strolling about the Luffs’ garden. Authentic youth there, with its irresistible and undefinable charm; just the way she had turned her head on her slender neck, the complete unconsciousness of her pose. …Queer how well he remembered that girl. …

“Shawe…” said Rosalind, standing very close to him, and speaking in the lowest possible tone. “Poor Robert. …Do remember, won’t you, that he’s not himself this morning?”

Delancey nodded in kindly reassurance, but he did not want to look at Rosalind again just then. He felt guilty, ashamed to have discerned that she was not young; he felt very sorry for her.

“For God’s sake, come on!” shouted Whitestone, in a fury.

“Temperament, eh?” said Delancey, with a smile in Rosalind’s direction, and made haste to join his friend. They went along the brick walk at a ridiculous pace; Whitestone was almost running.

“Here, now!” said Delancey, half laughing. “What’s the idea?”

“Walk a way with me,” said Whitestone. “Linney can pick us up.”

“O.K.!” said the good-matured Delancey. “May do your head good. We’ll get more shade if we—”

But Whitestone was already striding along the dusty highroad, and after a word to Linney, Delancey set out after him.

“If it’s a question of money,” he thought, “I’ve got dam’ little just now, and that’s a fact. If I can unload those Craddock shares for Josephine, she’ll give me a commission, and that’ll be something. …Thing is, Whitestone lets things get on top of him. Granted he’s short of money—and that’s no joke. But he’s got Rosalind, an ideal home life, sympathy, comradeship, all that. And talent.”

He caught up with his friend, and taking his arm, forced him to a more reasonable pace. They went on for a time in silence, the burly, ruddy, handsome Delancey, and his haggard and temperamental friend.

“See here, old man!” said Delancey, presently, troubled by the other’s blank aloofness. “What you want to do is, take things a little easier. You upset yourself, and you upset Rosalind—”

“Rosalind?” said Whitestone, turning on him suddenly. “Upset Rosalind? I was just thinking—I wish to God I could kill her.”