The Business of Life

"Oh, Jacqueline! Do you tempt me?"

"No," she said hastily. "I suppose you ought to be there in the office, whether there's anything to do or not. Listen, Jim. I've invited Cynthia and Jack Cairns for the week-end. Was it all right?"

"Of course."

"You don't really mind, do you?"

"Not a bit, dear."

"We can be by ourselves if we wish. They're going to read a play together," she explained naïvely, "and they won't bother us – "

She checked herself, blushing furiously. He, at his end of the wire, could scarcely speak for the quick tumult of his heart, but he managed to say calmly enough:

"We've got the entire estate to roam over if they bore us."

"Will you take me for a walk on Sunday?"

"Yes, if you would care to go."

"Haven't I invited you to take me?"

"Have you really, Jacqueline?"

"Yes. Good-bye. I will be waiting for you at five."

She returned to her desk, the flush slowly cooling in her cheeks; and she was just resuming her seat when a clerk brought Clydesdale's card.

"I could see Mr. Clydesdale now," she said, glancing over the appointment list on her desk. Her smile had died out with the colour in her cheeks, and her beautiful eyes grew serious and stern. For the name that this man bore was associated in her mind with terrible and unspeakable things. Never again could she hear that name with equanimity; never recall it unmoved. Yet, now, she made an effort to put from her all that menaced her composure at the mere mention of that name – strove to think only of the client and kindly amateur who had treated her always with unvarying courtesy and consideration.

He came in grinning, as usual, and she took his extended and highly-coloured paw, smiling her greeting.

"Is it a little social visit, Mr. Clydesdale, or have you discovered some miracle of ancient Cathay which you covet?"

"It's – my wife."

Her smile fled and her features altered to an expressionless and colourless mask. For a second there was a gleam of fear in her eyes, then they grew cold and clear and blue as arctic ice.

He remained standing, the grin stamped on his sanguine features. Presently he said, heavily:

"I have come to you to make what reparation I can – in my wife's name – in her behalf. Our deep humiliation, deeper contrition, are the only reparation we can offer you. It is hard for me to speak. My wife is at home, ill. And she can not rest until she has told you, through me, that – that what she said to you the last time she saw you – here, in this office – was an untruth."

Jacqueline, dazed, merely stared at him. He bent his head and seemed to be searching in his mind for words. He found them after a while.

"Yes," he said in a low voice, "what my wife said, and what she permitted you to infer – concerning herself and – Mr. Desboro – was utterly untrue. God alone knows why she said it. But she did. I could plead extenuation for her – if your patience permits. She is naturally very nervous; she did care a great deal for Mr. Desboro; she did, at that time, really dislike me," he added with a quiet dignity which made every word he uttered ring out clear as a shot. And Jacqueline seemed to feel their impact on her very heart.

He said: "There are other circumstances – painful ones. She had been for months – even years – in fear of blackmail – terrorised by it until she became morbid. I did not know this. I was not aware that an indiscreet but wholly innocent escapade of her youth had furnished this blackmailer with a weapon. I understand now, why, caring as she did for Mr. Desboro, and excited, harassed, terrified, exasperated, she was willing to make an end of it with him rather than face possible disgrace with me for whom she did not care. It is no excuse. She offers none. I offer none for her. Nothing – no mental, no physical state could excuse what she has done. Only – I wish – and she wishes you to know that she has been guilty of permitting you to believe a monstrous untruth which would have consigned her to infamy had it been true, and absolutely damned the man you have married."

She strove to comprehend this thing that he was saying – tried to realise that he was absolutely clearing her husband of the terrible and nameless shadow which, she knew now, never could have entirely fled away, except for the mercy of God and the words of humiliation now sounding in her ears.

She stared at him. And the terrible thing was that he was grinning still – grinning through all the agony of his shame and dreadful abasement. And she longed to turn away – to shut out his face from her sight. But dared not.

"That is all," he said heavily. "Perhaps there is a little more to say – but it will leave you indifferent, very naturally. Yet, may I say that this – this heart-breaking crisis in her life, and – in mine – has – brought us together? And – a little more. My wife is to become a mother. Which is why I venture to hope that you will be merciful to us both in your thoughts. I do not ask for your pardon, which you could never give – "

"Mr. Clydesdale!" She had risen, trembling, both little hands flat on the desk top to steady her, and was looking straight at him.

"I – my thoughts – " she stammered "are not cruel. Say so to your wife. I – I have never thought mercilessly. Every instinct within me is otherwise. And I know what suffering is. And I do not wish it for anybody. Say so to your wife, and that I wish her – happiness – with her baby."

She was trembling so that he could scarcely control between his two huge fists the little hand that he saluted in wordless gratitude and grief.

Then, without looking at her again, or speaking, he went his way. And she dropped back into her chair, the tears of sheer happiness and excitement flowing unchecked.

But she was permitted no time to collect her thoughts, no solitude for happy tears, and, at the clerk's sharp knocking, she dried her eyes hastily and bade him enter.

The card he laid on her desk seemed to amaze her.

"That man!" she said slowly. "Is he here, Mr. Mirk?"

"Yes, madam. He asks for one minute only, saying that it is a matter of most desperate importance to you – "

"To me?"

"Yes, madam."

Again she looked at Mr. Waudle's card.

"Bring him," she said crisply. And the blue lightning flashed in her eyes.

When Mr. Waudle came in and the clerk had gone and closed the door, Jacqueline said quietly:

"I'll give you one minute, Mr. Waudle. Proceed."

"I think," he said, looking at her out of his inflamed eyes, "that you'll feel inclined to give me more than that when you understand what I've got in this packet." And he drew from his overcoat pocket a roll of galley proofs.

"What is it?" she asked, looking calmly into his dangerous red eyes.

"It's a story, set up and in type – as you see. And it's about your husband and Mrs. Clydesdale – if you want to know."

A shaft of fear struck straight through her. Then, in an instant the blanched cheeks flushed and the blue eyes cleared and sparkled.

"What is it you wish?" she asked in a curiously still voice.

"I'll tell you; don't worry. I want you to stop this man Clydesdale, and stop him short. I don't care how you do it; do it, that's all. He's bought and paid for certain goods delivered to him by me. Now he's squealing. He wants his money back. And – if he gets it back this story goes in. Want me to read it to you?"

"No. What is it you wish me to do – deceive Mr. Clydesdale? Make him believe that the remainder of the jades and rose-quartz carvings are genuine?"

"It looks good to me," said Mr. Waudle more cheerfully. "It sounds all right. You threw us down; it's up to you to pick us up."

"I see," she said pleasantly. "And unless I do you are intending to publish that – story?"