III
The next day was Sunday, and Blakie had promised to take the two girls into the country for a picnic; but at breakfast he suggested another plan.
“Suppose we go and see mother,” he said.
Renie’s sensitive face grew scarlet, but Martha frowned a queer little anxious frown. She couldn’t understand this.
“We’ll go early,” he went on, “so that she won’t be out.”
He sent them into the kitchen to talk to the cook, while he went into Martha’s room to repack their bag. They would not come back to these gay little pink and blue rooms![Pg 543]
Then he took the bag downstairs, put it under the seat in the car, and went up to fetch the children. He would not tell them they were not coming back. If he could help it, there should not be another cruel parting for them.
He drove the car himself, leaving them together in the back seat; and all the way he tried to find some consolation for his great bitterness.
In all the world there was nothing but Frances Deering.
“I’ll marry her,” he thought. “I’ll have a home of my own. She’s a dear little kid!”
He must have some one, and he saw clearly that he could build up a good life with Frances. He was fond of her; perhaps he could love her, in a way. He could have a good life, honorable and dignified and comfortable.
Katherine’s flat was in a very second-rate neighborhood. That was just like her!
“What do I care at all for the neighborhood,” he could imagine her saying, “if it’s a nice flat with plenty of air and room?”
He stopped the car before the door.
“You wait here for awhile,” he told the children.
Going into the ornate entrance hall, he asked the colored boy to telephone upstairs to Mrs. Blakie that a gentleman had come to see her on business.
“You’re to go up,” said the boy.
She opened the door for him herself. At the sight of him her face grew white as death.
“Oh, God!” she cried. “Something’s happened to them! Oh, God! I knew, if I let them go—”
“Don’t be silly!” he interrupted sharply. “They are both perfectly all right. I simply want to speak to you for a moment, if—”
He stopped short, shocked and dismayed that he had spoken in the old tone of irritation.
“Come in, Lew,” she said anxiously.
He followed her into the sitting room. It was untidy, with music scattered all about, and through the open doorway he could see the breakfast dishes still on the table.
“Madge has gone to mass,” she explained.
There was a strange sort of humility about her that he had never seen before. She was wearing a silk kimono, with her hair in a loose plait. Her face was pale and jaded and stained with tears.
“I’m sorry the place is so upset,” she said.
He knew what made her so apologetic. He had the upper hand now—he had her children.
“Sit down, Katherine,” he said, stung to a great pity. “I shan’t waste time beating about the bush. I’ve been thinking—most of the night.”
“So have I,” she replied. “All night!”
“It’s not right, Katherine. It’s not fair to them.”
“I know,” she said.
He was silent for a moment, looking about him. It was easy to see why her children loved her so, why she had so many friends. In all her carelessness there was something lavish and generous. She was never petty. She was like a child herself, reckless and impulsive—and lovely. Hadn’t Blakie loved her himself, and known how beautifully kind she could be? Never could his children suffer any great harm from her.
“I’ve brought them back,” he said.
“Lew!”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s too damned hard on them—this way. I’ve brought them back to you—to keep.”
“Lew!” she cried. “Oh, my poor Lew!”
Tears were running down her cheeks. He patted her shoulder.
“Buck up!” he said. “You’ve got to think of something to tell them, so that they won’t—be upset—about me.”
He turned away, but she followed him.
“Lew! They will be upset! They’ve missed you. They need you.”
He knew that.
“All the night long I’ve been thinking,” she went on. “Can’t we start again—for their sakes?”
They faced each other now, and all that they had lost. If they were to start again! There would be no gracious and dignified life for him, no careless freedom for her. They would exasperate and hurt each other, again and again.
He walked over to the window and looked down to Renie and Martha, sitting side by side in the car.
“We can try,” he said.[Pg 544]
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
MARCH, 1928
Vol. XCIII NUMBER 2
Derelict
TELLING WHAT CHARLES HACKETT DID WHEN HE HAD HIS CHOICE BETWEEN A LIFE OF COMFORT AT HOME AND ONE OF ADVENTURE AND HARDSHIP IN THE TROPICS
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
THE private office was dim in the gray light of a March dusk; through the open window a chilly wind came blowing, with a fine drizzle of rain. Wickham Hackett sat at his desk, in a circle of light from the shaded lamp that illumined sharply his fine, haggard face, and made the graying hair on his temples glisten like silver. He had the look of some worn and ascetic recluse, sitting there in the chill and shadowy room.
He was making notes for his address to the board of directors. He knew very well that he could do this far better in the morning, that he was too tired now for any efficient work; but he was too tired to think of resting. The strain of his day had left him horribly tense, filled with an almost unbearable sense of exasperation and urgency.
His stenographer came to the open door.
“Will you want me any longer, Mr. Hackett?” she asked.
He was silent for a moment, struggling gallantly against his savage mood. He wanted to shout at her, to swear at her, to tell her that it was her business to stay as long as he did, and that she was a little fool, with her high heels and her powdered nose; but he held his tongue, turned away his head so that he need not see her, and answered mildly:
“No. You can go, Miss Johnson.”
After she had gone, he rose and went to the window. The pavement far below was glistening, the lights were blurred. The rain blew in on him, cold and fine. He liked the feel of it. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.
“By Heaven, I won’t quit!” he said to himself. “I won’t give in! I won’t go home until I’ve got this thing straight in my mind, if I stay here all night!”
A great exultation seized him, a sense of power and energy. It was often like this. He would reach what would seem to be the very limit of his endurance, but if he held on, and would not rest, would not yield, this curious new vigor would come to him, this feeling of triumph, as if he had passed the boundary of normal endeavor and had become superhuman. He would pay for this later, in a long night of sleeplessness, but it was worth it.
He saw before him now, with perfect clarity, just the words he would use in his address. He drew back from the window, in a hurry to set them down, and as he turned he saw a tall figure standing near his desk. The shock made him dizzy for a moment.
“What—” he began furiously, and stopped, staring. “Oh, it’s you, is it, Charley?” he said.
“It’s me,” replied the other cheerfully. “Knocked at the outer door and nobody answered, so I walked in. Sorry I startled you.”
“Nerves, I suppose,” murmured Wickham Hackett. “I’m very tired. Sit down, man. I have something to tell you.”
But the other remained standing. He was a tall man, lean and sunburned, with a handsome, arrogant face and a swaggering air. He seemed like a man from another age, who should have worn a sword at his side. An adventurer, surely, but down on his luck now, with a frayed and threadbare overcoat, a shabby hat, and deep lines about his gray eyes.
“Sit down, man!” Wickham Hackett repeated impatiently. “Here, have a[Pg 546] smoke. I have some news for you, Charley.”
“Can’t refuse!” said Charles Hackett, and he sat down, with one long leg over the arm of the chair. “That’s good!” he added, at the first puff of the cigar.
Wickham Hackett looked down at the papers on his desk, because the sight of this battered rover stirred him almost intolerably. He could remember such a different Charles, years and years ago—such a careless, joyous, and triumphant Charles; and to see him now, like this—
The returned wanderer had come into his brother’s office two weeks ago, in his old casual way, as if the twelve years of his absence were nothing at all.
“Touch of fever,” he had said. “The doctors tell me I can’t live in a tropical climate any more, so I’ve come home. Do you think you can find me some sort of a job, Wick? There’s not a damned thing I can do that’s any use; but you’re such a big fellow now, you might be able to find me something, eh?”
“I’ll find you a job,” Wickham Hackett had promised.
Then Charley had begun asking about old friends. This one was dead, that one gone away; all the inevitable vicissitudes of twelve years were starkly revealed. It had been horrible, as if Charles were a ghost come back to a world that had long forgotten him.
“Well, yes, of course—it’s natural,” he had said. “The life there, in the West Indies—quite different, you know. I like it.”
“That’s hard luck, Charley,” Wickham Hackett had said.
“No,” Charles had said. “No luck about it, Wick. I had it coming to me. I’ve lived hard, and now I’ve got to pay. I’m forty, my health is broken, and I haven’t a damned cent. That’s not bad luck, Wick—it’s bad management;” and he had smiled, his teeth very white against his sunburned face.
That was the worst of it, to Wickham Hackett’s thinking—that incurable carelessness and swagger of his brother’s. He was not sobered or steadied by whatever misfortunes had befallen him. He still laughed, as a man of another day might have laughed, with his back to the wall and nothing left him but the sword in his hand. In a way, it was admirable, but it was hard to witness that flashing smile, that debonair manner—with the threadbare overcoat and the shabby hat!
Wickham had taken his brother home with him.
“But you’re married now,” Charles had protested. “Perhaps your wife—”
“She’ll be glad to see you,” Wickham had answered.
He had not felt at all sure of that, but one thing he did know—whether Madeline was glad or sorry to see Charles, she would receive him kindly and graciously.
“I can always count on her,” Wickham had thought.
That was the best thing in his life, the feeling he had about Madeline. It was not the thing people usually speak of as “being in love.” In his early youth he had known what that was. He had been in love, miserably, bitterly, hotly in love, and he had come out of it, not unscarred; but this, his feeling for Madeline, was different. This was a love of dignity and utter trust. He honored her above all women on earth, and he profoundly admired her reserved beauty. He gave her everything freely, and put his very soul into her keeping.
He never told her things like that. In the course of his first disastrous love affair he had done plenty of talking, and he wished never to use those words again. He had proved to Madeline, in their five years of life together, what he thought of her, how he valued her, and of course she would understand.
She had been quite as kind and gracious to Charley as her husband had expected. She had looked after the poor fellow’s comfort, had made him feel at ease and happy. It had been good to see him so happy.
“And now,” thought Wickham, “his troubles are pretty well over. He’ll be all right.” Aloud he said: “Yes, I have news for you, Charley. I’ve—”
“Hold on a minute!” said Charles Hackett. “I have some news myself, Wick. Wait! Where is it? Here!”
He drew an envelope from his breast pocket, took out the letter inside, and spread it out on his knee.
“From a fellow I knew down in Nicaragua,” he observed. “He’s got a deal on there. Wants me to come in with him. Where is it? Here! ‘Your experience will be better than capital,’ he says. ‘I’ll put up the money and you’ll do the work.’ He says—”
“What are you talking about?” Wick[Pg 547]ham interrupted impatiently. “You can’t go down there. Now look here, Charley! I saw Carrick again to-day, and he’s willing to take you in there. It’s a remarkable opportunity.”
“Yes, but I—”
“Don’t belittle yourself!” said Wickham. “You’ve got certain qualities that ’ll be mighty useful to him. You’ve got brains, Charley—although you don’t like to use ’em. I’ve been after Carrick for the last ten days, and at last I’ve made him see the point. He wants to meet you to-morrow, and then we’ll make a definite arrangement.”
“Yes, but—” objected Charley. “I see; but—I think this Nicaragua job would suit me better, Wick.”
“Don’t be such a fool!” cried Wickham. “You know damned well that that climate would kill you in a year; and here I’m offering you a chance any other man would give his ears for!”
“Yes, I know,” said Charles. “Very good of you, Wick. I appreciate it; but—”
Wickham sprang to his feet, shaken with a terrible anger.
“You fool!” he shouted. “After I’ve—” He stopped suddenly, and stood there visibly making a tremendous effort at self-control; and he won it. “Sorry!” he said. “The truth is, I’m a bit tired. We won’t talk any more about it now, eh? We’ll go along home, and after dinner—”
“Yes,” said Charles; “but the thing is, Wick, I was thinking of having dinner in town to-night. You see, there’s a boat to-morrow—”
“No, you don’t!” said Wickham. “You’re not going to do any such foolish and suicidal thing as that until we’ve had a talk.”
“Yes, but—”
“Charley,” said the other, “look here—I’m pretty tired. I can’t talk to you properly now, and I want to. I’m not demonstrative, and never was. Perhaps I haven’t let you see how much”—he paused, looking down at his desk—“how much I have your welfare at heart,” he ended stiffly.
“Wick, of course I’ve seen,” replied Charles, profoundly touched. “I’ve appreciated everything; only you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. I’m a born tramp, Wick. I’d really better go.”
“For the Lord’s sake, shut up!” said Wickham, half laughing. “I can’t talk to you until after dinner. Come along now and we’ll just make the five forty.”