IV
She made up her mind not to count upon that week together. She felt sure that something would happen to prevent it, that Miss Clarke wouldn’t let her go, that Barty would be detained by some important work.
Hers was the wildly unreasonable pessimism of a woman’s love. She foresaw the direst misfortunes, and was almost resigned to them. She was tired, too, after a long summer of hard work, and Miss Clarke was increasingly disagreeable to her. She was worried about Barty, worried about all sorts of absurd little things, so that she did not sleep well, and could scarcely tolerate the meals in her hotel. A whole week away somewhere with Barty? Impossible!
But on Sunday morning he actually came. She went upstairs and got her bag, which, with such wretched misgivings, she had packed the night before. She got into the taxi with Barty. His bag was in there. They really were going!
“But where?” she asked, like a happy child. “Where are we going, Barty?”
“Long Beach!” he said proudly. “You told me you liked it.”
“I do!” she assured him earnestly.
After all, what if they did happen to run across Mr. Terrill?
“I’ve engaged a room,” he went on, “for Mr. and Mrs. Leadenhall. If we see any one we know, all right. I’m pretty sick of this hole-and-corner business, anyhow.”
It was then that she noticed there was something wrong with Barty—something very wrong. There was about him an air of grim recklessness, almost of desperation. He was trying to be jolly, but he achieved only a strained sort of hilarity utterly foreign to him, and beyond measure distressing to Jacqueline. She watched him with growing anxiety, pretending to believe in[Pg 210] his pretense, but positively sick at heart with apprehension.
They went all the way down by taxi.
“Hang the expense!” he said. “I’ve worked for it!”
And she pretended to enjoy the trip. She was even jollier than Barty. She spurred on her anxious heart to a hectic gayety. She talked and laughed, always with her eyes on Barty’s face.
He had engaged not a room, but a suite of parlor, bedroom, and bath. Mentally she computed the cost of this, and was appalled; but even then she said nothing. If this was what Barty wanted, very well, she was glad he had it. If it gave him any joy to waste what he had worked so hard to get, very well, she would not spoil his week by a single remonstrance.
He was walking up and down the parlor, with his hands in his pockets, and Jacqueline was in the bedroom, unpacking her bag. She had said all the things she could think of in praise of the suite. While she tried to think of some more praise, a blank little silence had fallen.
“Jacko,” he said, “you—you really do like this, don’t you? You really will be happy here, won’t you—for this week?”
He spoke like a doomed man, as if this week was to be their last. He didn’t even try to smile. Jacqueline could not bear it.
“Barty,” she said, “aren’t you well?”
“Well?” he repeated, in surprise. “Of course I’m well! I’m always well!”
She hesitated for a moment. Then she got up and went into the parlor, barring his path, so that he had to stop short in his pacing; and she asked him the question that had been in the back of her mind all the time.
“Didn’t Mr. Stafford like your going away, Barty?”
“Who cares?” said he.
She hadn’t much doubt now.
“I’d like to know, though, Barty,” she said quietly. “I’d rather know.”
“I can’t see that it makes any difference what Stafford says or thinks. After all—”
“I want to know, Barty!”
It seemed to her that this was the first time she had really felt like Barty’s wife, with a wife’s dignity, a wife’s right to know what concerned her husband. She saw that he felt this, too, for his high-handed air was conspicuously absent.
“Well,” he said, “if you must know, he made the devil of a row.”
“Oh, Barty! But how unkind and unreasonable of him!”
“Well, you see,” said Barty reluctantly, “he’s sick, and—”
“Sick?”
“Some trouble with his eyes. Can’t use them for a week or so. He wanted me to put off going away.”
“Oh, why didn’t you? Why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t want to. I had told you we’d have this week together.”
“I’d have understood, Barty!”
“I know it; but, don’t you see, Jacko, you’re my wife, and you come first.”
She began to cry foolish tears of tenderness and pride.
“That was very rash and imprudent,” she began.
“I’m not prudent where you’re concerned,” said Barty, “and I’m sick of trying to be. If it hadn’t been that I had promised you not to tell any one, I’d have told Stafford then that I was going away with my wife.”
“What did you tell him, Barty?”
“Nothing.”
“You must have said something!”
“I told him I had made arrangements for a week’s holiday with a friend of mine, and I couldn’t put it off.”
Her moment of pride and delight was over now. She realized what had happened. For her sake he had left the friend to whom he owed so much at the time when that friend most needed him. It was the supreme proof of his love for her, but it was a proof which she must not and could not accept.
She gently pushed Barty into a chair. Then she sat on the arm of it and drew his head down against her heart; and with all the wisdom, all the ingenuity, all the art born of her love, she talked to him, argued, pleaded, warned, cajoled. There was dismay in her heart, but she was unwaveringly resolute, and she vanquished him.
Once more she took ruthless advantage of his masculine instinct to yield to the beloved woman whatever she asked. For the second time she safeguarded him to her own cost. Their love must be a help to him, not a handicap. She was not a weak, silly creature to be indulged and protected. She was his friend, his pal. She understood.
“I’ll stay here by myself,” she said, “and it’ll be a splendid rest for me. Of course, I’ll miss you, Barty, but we’ll write[Pg 211] to each other every day; and it won’t be very long before we shall be together all the time.”
She managed to say this without a tremor, and even with a smile; but Barty could not respond. Almost unconsciously, she had used two terribly potent arguments. She had evoked the sacred name of honor, telling him that he was in honor bound not to desert Stafford; and she had warned him that, in hazarding his future prospects, he was endangering her happiness as well as his own. With these weapons she had defeated him.
They went down into the dining room for lunch, and it was dust and ashes to them. They sat facing each other across a small table. Their eyes met, they tried to speak, but what was there to say?
This was not an episode. It had the air of a final tragedy. Their week, their one beautiful week, was lost! And they were so young, so honestly and utterly in love! That day, neither of them believed that happiness would ever come again.
As they were leaving the dining room, a man rose from one of the tables and bowed to Jacqueline.
“Who’s that?” asked Barty.
“Oh, I met him at Miss Clarke’s,” said Jacqueline.
At that moment Mr. Terrill was not of sufficient importance to have a name. He was less than nothing.
They went up to their suite again, and Barty put into his bag the few things he had unpacked so short a time before. Jacqueline helped him. She brushed his hair with his military brushes, she straightened his tie. She kissed him and sent him off with a smile.
“Oh, Barty! Oh, Barty!” she cried, after he had gone.