II
The incident and the unpleasantness were forgotten. Mather's vast good nature had smoothed over the roughness within an hour. References to it fell with a dying cadence throughout several days—then ceased and tumbled into the limbo of oblivion. I say "limbo," for oblivion is, unfortunately, never quite oblivious. The subject was drowned out by the fact that Jaqueline with her customary spirit and coolness began the long, arduous, up-hill business of bearing a child. Her natural traits and prejudices became intensified and she was less inclined to let things pass.
It was April now, and as yet they had not bought a car. Mather had discovered that he was saving practically nothing and that in another half-year he would have a family on his hands. It worried him. A wrinkle—small, tentative, undisturbing—appeared for the first time as a shadow around his honest, friendly eyes. He worked far into the spring twilight now, and frequently brought home with him the overflow from his office day. The new car would have to be postponed for a while.
April afternoon, and all the city shopping on Washington Street. Jaqueline walked slowly past the shops, brooding without fear or depression on the shape into which her life was now being arbitrarily forced. Dry summer dust was in the wind; the sun bounded cheerily from the plate-glass windows and made radiant gasoline rainbows where automobile drippings had formed pools on the street.
Jaqueline stopped. Not six feet from her a bright new sport roadster was parked at the curb. Beside it stood two men in conversation, and at the moment when she identified one of them as young Bronson she heard him say to the other in a casual tone:
"What do you think of it? Just got it this morning."
Jaqueline turned abruptly and walked with quick tapping steps to her husband's office. With her usual curt nod to the stenographer she strode by her to the inner room. Mather looked up from his desk in surprise at her brusque entry.
"Jim," she began breathlessly, "did Bronson ever pay you that three hundred?"
"Why—no," he answered hesitantly, "not yet. He was in here last week and he explained that he was a little bit hard up."
Her eyes gleamed with angry triumph.
"Oh, he did?" she snapped. "Well, he's just bought a new sport roadster that must have cost anyhow twenty-five hundred dollars."
He shook his head, unbelieving.
"I saw it," she insisted. "I heard him say he'd just bought it."
"He told me he was hard up," repeated Mather helplessly.
Jaqueline audibly gave up by heaving a profound noise, a sort of groanish sigh.
"He was using you! He knew you were easy and he was using you. Can't you see? He wanted you to buy him the car and you did!" She laughed bitterly. "He's probably roaring his sides out to think how easily he worked you."
"Oh, no," protested Mather with a shocked expression, "you must have mistaken somebody for him——"
"We walk—and he rides on our money," she interrupted excitedly. "Oh, it's rich—it's rich. If it wasn't so maddening, it'd be just absurd. Look here—!" Her voice grew sharper, more restrained—there was a touch of contempt in it now. "You spend half your time doing things for people who don't give a damn about you or what becomes of you. You give up your seat on the street-car to hogs, and come home too dead tired to even move. You're on all sorts of committees that take at least an hour a day out of your business and you don't get a cent out of them. You're—eternally—being used! I won't stand it! I thought I married a man—not a professional Samaritan who's going to fetch and carry for the world!"
As she finished her invective Jaqueline reeled suddenly and sank into a chair—nervously exhausted.
"Just at this time," she went on brokenly, "I need you. I need your strength and your health and your arms around me. And if you—if you just give it to every one, it's spread so thin when it reaches me——"
He knelt by her side, moving her tired young head until it lay against his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Jaqueline," he said humbly, "I'll be more careful. I didn't realize what I was doing."
"You're the dearest person in the world," murmured Jaqueline huskily, "but I want all of you and the best of you for me."
He smoothed her hair over and over. For a few minutes they rested there silently, having attained a sort of Nirvana of peace and understanding. Then Jaqueline reluctantly raised her head as they were interrupted by the voice of Miss Clancy in the doorway.
"Oh, I beg your pardon."
"What is it?"
"A boy's here with some boxes. It's C.O.D."
Mather rose and followed Miss Clancy into the outer office.
"It's fifty dollars."
He searched his wallet—he had omitted to go to the bank that morning.
"Just a minute," he said abstractedly. His mind was on Jaqueline, Jaqueline who seemed forlorn in her trouble, waiting for him in the other room. He walked into the corridor, and opening the door of "Clayton and Drake, Brokers" across the way, swung wide a low gate and went up to a man seated at a desk.
"Morning, Fred," said Mather.
Drake, a little man of thirty with pince-nez and bald head, rose and shook hands.
"Morning, Jim. What can I do for you?"
"Why, a boy's in my office with some stuff C.O.D. and I haven't a cent. Can you let me have fifty till this afternoon?"
Drake looked closely at Mather. Then, slowly and startlingly, he shook his head—not up and down but from side to side.
"Sorry, Jim," he answered stiffly, "I've made a rule never to make a personal loan to anybody on any conditions. I've seen it break up too many friendships."
"What?"
Mather had come out of his abstraction now, and the monosyllable held an undisguised quality of shock. Then his natural tact acted automatically, springing to his aid and dictating his words though his brain was suddenly numb. His immediate instinct was to put Drake at ease in his refusal.
"Oh, I see." He nodded his head as if in full agreement, as if he himself had often considered adopting just such a rule. "Oh, I see how you feel. Well—I just—I wouldn't have you break a rule like that for anything. It's probably a good thing."
They talked for a minute longer. Drake justified his position easily; he had evidently rehearsed the part a great deal. He treated Mather to an exquisitely frank smile.
Mather went politely back to his office leaving Drake under the impression that the latter was the most tactful man in the city. Mather knew how to leave people with that impression. But when he entered his own office and saw his wife staring dismally out the window into the sunshine he clinched his hands, and his mouth moved in an unfamiliar shape.
"All right, Jack," he said slowly, "I guess you're right about most things, and I'm wrong as hell."