Читать книгу The Death Wish - Elisabeth Sanxay Holding - Страница 5

The Luffs

Delancey had missed his usual train, and the one after it; the people waiting on the platform were strangers to him, not those well-known faces he was accustomed to seeing six days a week. But they were ordinary, decent, comprehensible people; he felt a great good-will toward them; he felt the relief of one waking from a nightmare to familiar surroundings. And he felt, too, the vague terror that a nightmare leaves.

“Whew!” he said to himself. “That was a—very unpleasant experience. …But fantastic, of course.”

The word pleased him.

“Fantastic,” he repeated to himself, as he boarded the train.

It seemed to dispose in a thoroughly satisfactory fashion of poor Whitestone and all he had said, it gave to the scene in the birch glade an air of unreality. The real world was this, the train, the crowds, the Grand Central Station, the subway, his desk at the office, the amiable stenographer who worked for him when he needed her.

He did not need her this morning; his business was not brisk.

“I’m going to look around for something else,” he thought. “A regular job with a salary.”

He had mentioned this once or twice to Josephine, and she had protested.

“Oh, don’t, Shawe! It’s so nice for you to have your own business. I’d hate to think of your working for someone else—being at someone’s beck and call.”

Very generous, she was. He had his own bank account, in which she deposited a check the first of every month. She never asked what he did with it, and if he said he needed a bit more, for his business, she almost always gave it. Almost always. Sometimes, when he least expected it, she would make extraordinary accusations against him, would say she knew he wanted the money to spend on some other woman. …Of course, she had her faults, like everyone else. He had faults himself. But, with the exception of a little scene now and then. …Simply nerves. …She was a high-strung girl, poor Josephine. …Well, not exactly a girl, perhaps. She admitted to being five years older than he, and sometimes he had a suspicion that it was a bit more than that. When she waked in the morning, there was a look about her eyes…

He wished he had not thought of that. He always tried to avoid looking at her until she had removed her “night cream” and applied those “toning lotions” and so on.

Suddenly he felt rather sick.

“That damned cheese soufflé last night,” he thought. “I need a drink.”

He was very temperate by habit; he never drank in the morning; he could not remember ever wanting a drink as he did now. He opened a perfectly unimportant letter, frowned at it, and rose, with a purposeful air.

“I’ll have to see this man at once,” he observed, aloud, for the benefit of the stenographer, and taking his hat, went out of the office.

It did him good. He ordered another. Nearly eleven. If he was to get home for lunch, he ought to catch the 12:24. He didn’t want to get home for lunch. Well, nothing remarkable in that. Plenty of men he knew, men who appreciated their homes as much as he did, nevertheless liked to stop in town now and then. He might ring up Foster, or Duval. He might go to the club.

“No,” he decided. “Josephine was a bit upset this morning. I’d better go home, this time.”

Linney was waiting for him at the station, smart looking fellow in that uniform; the car, too, was one of the finest; these men with their shabby little coupes must envy him. There was a rush for the waiting taxis; never enough of them. One young man got left; he stood on the platform, with his bag beside him, and glanced at his watch.

“Hold on a moment Linney!” said Delancey, and leaning out of his car, addressed the stranger. “See here, going north? Perhaps I can give you a lift.”

He often did that, and liked to do it.

“Sorry, but I don’t know whether it’s north or not,” answered the stranger, “I’m going to Mrs. Luff’s—if you happen to know where that is.”

“That’s right on my way! Hop in!”

“Thanks!” said the stranger, gave his bag to Linney, and got in beside Delancey. He was a neat, fair-haired young fellow, slight, rather short, quietly dressed, quiet in voice, yet there was something about him which made Delancey anxious to impress him.

“Fine place the Luffs have,” he observed.

“Is it?” said the other politely.

“Yes. …They’re neighbors of ours, you know. Delancey, my name is. Shawe Delancey.”

“My name’s Acheson.”

“Acheson. …” Delancey repeated. “Yes. …Fine place the Luffs have. Quite an estate. Our place isn’t half the size, but my wife’s a great gardener. I wish you could see—”

He stopped, with an odd look on his ruddy face. The thought had entered his mind, and would not be banished, that he would not like this quiet young man to meet Josephine.

“Most men of my age have younger wives,” he thought. “Girls…”

Then he recalled that this was Josephine’s car, and that she was generous to him.

“She’s a fine-looking woman, too,” he thought. “And she knows how to dress. I mean to say, Mrs. Luff’s like a rag-bag, compared to Josephine.”

He liked Mrs. Luff very much, though; he greatly regretted that Josephine did not get on with her. When they had first come here, the Luffs had been remarkably nice, had invited them to dinner, had been friendly in a fashion he had never before encountered. With honest humility he admitted to himself that the Luffs were “a cut above him,” and above Josephine, too. Their way of living, their simplicity, their ease, the atmosphere of careless comfort in their house, seemed to him about the best thing there could be. He would have liked to live like them; he would have liked to be like them.

“Drive right up to the Luffs’ house, Linney,” he said.

For, after all, he had not quarreled with the Luffs; he didn’t even know exactly what had gone amiss between Josephine and Mrs. Luff. Whenever he met Luff, at the railway station, or on the train, they always chatted together. There was no reason why he should not take this young man to the door; and if he happened to see Mrs. Luff, well, he wouldn’t be sorry for a chance to say a few friendly words to her. That would be no offense against Josephine.

“Fact is,” he thought, “I believe Josephine’s sorry now. I believe she’d be glad of an excuse to patch things up with Mrs. Luff. She lets her nerves get the better of her.”

His heart quickened a little, to see Mrs. Luff on the terrace. He had always admired that terrace, with the striped awning over it, the comfortable chairs and little tables.

“Suppose she—snubs me?” he thought, and he imagined her speaking with the haughty arrogance he had heard Josephine employ toward the presumptuous.

Mrs. Luff rose as the car stopped, and came to the head of the steps.

“Hugh!” she said. “I’m so glad. …And Mr. Delancey. …How nice!”

Her husband had come to her side.

“Delancey…” he said. “Come up and have a drink?”

Delancey was delighted with this welcome; he mounted the steps, smiling joyously.

“Elsie, dear,” said Mrs. Luff. “Mr. Delancey, Miss Sackett. …And I forgot—you don’t know Hugh Acheson, either.”

It was the girl he had seen in the garden that morning, the girl Whitestone said he loved. …She was wearing a sleeveless white dress that made her olive skin seem darker; her face was exquisite, great black eyes, soft and somber, a wide and sullen and beautiful mouth. She was very young, and her manner was not amiable, yet, for all her immaturity and her lack of graciousness, Delancey knew that she was something rare. Without being at all able to define it, he nevertheless knew that here was the sorcery that men have died for since the beginning of things.

“Poor Robert…” he thought, with a pang. “Poor devil!”

For what could this lovely girl find to please her in the bitter and moody Whitestone, a man certainly ten years older than she, and a married man, too? Yet, if Whitestone’s heart had once turned to her, how could he ever forget…? Poor devil!

A parlour-maid brought out whiskey and a syphon of soda on a tray; Luff held out his cigarette case; there was the friendliest air. But for once Delancey’s cheerful talk deserted him; he felt unhappy, desolate, and did not understand why. Only that somehow this was the right life; somehow Luff, lean and amiably taciturn, Mrs. Luff in her debonair dowdiness, the quiet young Acheson, the unforgettable Elsie, were the right people, whom he had been longing for, without knowing it. And he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t ever get back here once he had left.

He sipped his drink slowly; when anyone spoke to him he answered, and that was the best he could do. He wanted to make this moment last.

“You’ll stay to lunch, won’t you?” asked Mrs. Luff, and he came to, with a slight start.

“Why, thank you,” he answered. “I’d certainly like to, but my wife’s expecting me home. …”

He had to go now, and go forever. Mrs. Luff would simply not be interested in “patching things up” with Josephine.

“It was all Josephine’s fault, whatever it was,” he thought. “Must have been. Mrs. Luff wouldn’t quarrel with people. She must think Josephine is—”

The word came to his mind; it was as if he had heard Mrs. Luff say, in her lazy, pleasant voice—“impossible.” That must be what all their neighbors called Josephine. The impossible Mrs. Delancey. …

He got into the superb dark-blue car, and he was ashamed of it. He was ashamed of his own bigness, his hearty voice; he sat back in a corner, thoroughly miserable.

“It’s no use,” he said to himself, over and over. “It’s no use.”

And did not know what he meant by that, or why he was so unhappy. As his own house came in sight he pulled himself together, tried to shake off his depression. It was really a fine house, Colonial style, big white pillars, well-kept grounds. …The housemaid smiled at him when she opened the door.

“Shawe!” called his wife’s voice, imperiously.

She was lying on a couch in the library, tall, looking very slight in a black lace tea gown, with long jade earrings, her olive face powdered, her lips scarlet, her black hair drawn straight back from her forehead. He had seen her before in this same costume, and in this same pose, and he had admired her. “Cleopatra,” he had called her.

He did not admire her now. In his mind, he envisaged her on the Luffs’ terrace, in the sunlight. He contrasted her low, thrilling voice with Mrs. Luff’s clear one; her heavy perfume made him think with nostalgia of the clean scent of cut grass. He thought of that girl Elsie, who was dark and slender, like Josephine, but who was really young. And he felt an overwhelming pity for Josephine.

“Well, Cleopatra!” he said, and crossed the room to kiss her.

“Shawe!” she said, curtly. “Where have you been?”

It would never do to mention the Luffs to her, especially when she was in this mood.

“The train was a little late—” he said.

“That’s a lie!”

“Now, see here, Josephine! That’s not—”

“It’s a lie!” she repeated. “Alice Hampton got the same train as you. She told me she saw you. And she stopped in here twenty minutes ago. You’ve been somewhere for that twenty minutes.”

“My dear girl, look here! I ran into a fellow I know, down at the station, and we talked for a while. Naturally, I didn’t keep track of the minutes—”

“No!” she said. “It’s that girl.”

“Good Lord! What girl?”

“I heard about it last week, but I tried not to believe it. Someone told me that that girl who’s staying at the Luffs’ was running after a married man in this neighborhood, and by the way she said it, I felt it was you she meant. …”

“Good Lord!” he said, again. “When you say things like that—what can I answer?”

“The truth—if you’re capable of it.”

“All right, then. Here’s the truth. I’ve never spoken ten words to Miss Sackett—”

“So you know her name!” cried Josephine, sitting up. “You admit then that you know her!”

“Luff happened to introduce us—at the station,” he said, for now, less than ever, could he mention his visit to the Luffs’ house.

“It must have been a regular little reception at the station,” she said, with a sneer.

“Now, see here, my dear girl…! You’re working yourself up over nothing. Absolutely nothing. Other women don’t interest me—none of ’em—”

“Do you think I’m blind, or a fool? Do you think I haven’t noticed the way you look at Annie, my own servant?”

He felt no anger against her, only an immense boredom. These scenes had happened before; she made herself ill by them, by her wildly unreasonable jealousy. He had never been unfaithful to her, or even contemplated such a thing, but he could not convince her of that. The only way to end these miserable episodes was by making love to her, flattering her, letting her “forgive” him—for what he had not done.

“Don’t you ever look in the mirror?” he said. “Well, then, do you imagine that a man with a wife like you—”

“You needn’t try that,” she interrupted. “I’ve listened to you once too often. You’ve seen the girl once to-day, and you planned to see her again. Your precious Robert Whitestone’s wife rang up. ‘You’ll both come to dinner to-night, won’t you? A little party—some friends of Robert’s…’ I could see through that without much trouble. Rosalind Whitestone knows perfectly well that I wouldn’t set foot in her house. She asked me because Robert bullied her into it. I wasn’t expected to come. It was just an excuse for you to get there. Robert’s trying to help you, in your nasty, underhand love affair. You were going to tell me you were dining with them, and you were really going to meet that girl somewhere.”

“Josephine, you’re—” he began, and stopped. It occurred to him that, in defending himself, he might incriminate Robert. He would have to be careful—and with the alarming insight women had, Josephine might very well discern that he was being careful. That would make it worse.

“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” he said, in a soothing, reasonable tone. “I saw Robert this morning, and he spoke of our both coming to dinner.”

“Well, I’m not going, and you’re not going either,” she said.

He was still not angry, and he was aware of the necessity for caution, on Robert’s account, yet he felt that this domineering spirit in her must not be encouraged.

“I want to go,” he said, amiable but firm. “And I want you to come too. Wear that new dress—the brown lace, y’know. Rosalind likes you, and if you knew her better—”

“Likes me, does she? Just about as much as I like her. I’m not going, and neither are you.”

Their eyes met, and now he felt anger rising in his heart.

“Hold on!” he said to himself. “Keep cool.”

He waited a moment; then he said, mildly, “All right; if you don’t want to go…I’ll call up Robert and tell him I’ll run over later in the evening for half an hour or so. Fact is, I’m worried about Robert. I don’t think he’s well.”

“You’re not going there this evening.”

The smoldering anger in him was growing, and he feared it. He was so seldom angry.

“I will not have a scene with her,” he thought. “We’ve never had a really serious row yet, and I don’t intend—”

“I told Robert you weren’t coming,” she went on. “What’s more, you’ve got to give up Robert entirely. He does you nothing but harm. Every time, after you’ve seen him—”

“You’re going entirely too far!” said Delancey hotly. “I’m not going to give up an old friend, for some whim of yours. I intend—”

“Then you’d better hear what I intend to do,” she said. “I’m going to tell Linney you’re not to use the car. I’m going to stop making any deposits to your account—”

“What the devil’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “You ought to be ashamed—”

“You’re not going to use my money, and my car, to carry on with girls! I’ve had enough! The affair is getting to be common gossip—you and that girl. And Robert helps you! He’s always hated me—”

Delancey turned on his heel, and walked out of the room, out of the house. And he walked as if the devil were after him. Anger goaded him, seemed to gnaw at the foundation of his amiable, easy-going nature.

“She was talking at the top of her lungs,” he thought. “The servants must have heard her. Accusing me of making eyes at the housemaid. …And running after that girl over at the Luffs’. …It’s enough to make me unfaithful, all this disgusting suspicion. …And if she hadn’t flown at me the way she did, I shouldn’t have needed to lie about stopping in at the Luffs’. We could have had them for friends. …But she won’t be friendly with anyone. She doesn’t know what loyalty and friendship mean. …Give up Robert entirely. …The hell I will!”

All the time he was aware of something else, some other cause for anger against Josephine, so bitter and savage that he could not face it.

“She said a lot of things she didn’t mean,” he told himself.

He felt that his anger was a menace, a danger, and he made a determined effort to banish it. After a mile or so, he grew calmer, and he grew hungry. He stopped at a roadhouse and had lunch, a good lunch, and a highball. After he had finished, and smoked a cigar, he was no longer angry.

“Don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a meal more,” he thought.

It was after three now, and he contemplated the rest of the afternoon with uneasiness. He had forgiven Josephine, but he did not want to go back to her.

“No,” he thought. “Better give her a chance to realize…”

In the three years of their married life, he had never yet stayed away without telling her where he was. Sometimes what he had told her had been a lie, when he had wanted to sit in a game of poker, or to spend an evening with Robert, but harmless lies like that did not weigh upon his conscience. This time he would tell her nothing.

“She really did go too far,” he thought. “I mean to say, a man can’t let himself be—well—trampled on. I’ll go—”

He would go to Robert’s, and he would tell her that he had gone there. That, after all, would be the best course, to tell her in a quiet, good-humored way that would make her realize he meant to keep his independence.

He took a taxi to Whitestone’s cottage, and kept the cab waiting. He was very reluctant to enter; he dreaded the prospect of facing Rosalind, after Whitestone’s deplorable outburst.

“Not that it really meant anything,” he said to himself. “Pretty nearly all married couples have a row, now and then. The thing has probably all blown over now, and they’re happy again.”

Nevertheless, he didn’t want to see Rosalind just now if he could help it.

“I’ll take Robert up to the Country Club,” he thought. “It’ll do him good. We’ll have a couple of drinks. …”

He was relieved to find Whitestone smoking a pipe on one of the wooden settles built into the narrow porch.

“Hello, Robert!” he said, genially. “Just taking life easy, eh?”

“Oh. …Planning…” answered Whitestone.

“Planning a picture? Well, come on, old man! I’ll run you up—”

“No,” said Whitestone. “You remember what I told you this morning? There are still a few little details to work out. Because I’m going to do it tomorrow, if the weather’s good.”

Rosalind’s voice came from inside the house, gay and light.

“What are you two doing out there?”

“Talking about you, my dear,” said Whitestone.