The Death Wish. Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
just now, and that’s a fact. If I can unload those Craddock shares for Josephine, she’ll give me a commission, and that’ll be something. …Thing is, Whitestone lets things get on top of him. Granted he’s short of money—and that’s no joke. But he’s got Rosalind, an ideal home life, sympathy, comradeship, all that. And talent.”
He caught up with his friend, and taking his arm, forced him to a more reasonable pace. They went on for a time in silence, the burly, ruddy, handsome Delancey, and his haggard and temperamental friend.
“See here, old man!” said Delancey, presently, troubled by the other’s blank aloofness. “What you want to do is, take things a little easier. You upset yourself, and you upset Rosalind—”
“Rosalind?” said Whitestone, turning on him suddenly. “Upset Rosalind? I was just thinking—I wish to God I could kill her.”
CHAPTER II
Delancey Accused
Delancey stopped short in the road, shocked.
“Robert…” he said, “you’re…You shouldn’t say things like that, even if you are a bit overwrought.”
“Not say it?” said Whitestone, with a smile.
And the smile frightened Delancey. Here on a public road, in the bright Spring morning, he felt a chill run down his spine.
“Is it possible…?” he thought. “I mean, these artists…High-strung, and all that…I mean, is it possible his mind’s affected?”
He glanced cautiously at his friend, but Whitestone was looking at him, still with that strange, mirthless smile.
“Look here, Robert,” he said, firmly, “you’ve got to get away—for a rest. A little trip.”
“I’m not going away,” said Whitestone. “Not when the only thing that makes life worth living is here.”
“What do you mean, Robert?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Whitestone. “I’ve got to tell you. All of it. I’ll go mad, if I don’t. I’m in love.”
“Lord!” murmured Delancey, immeasurably distressed, “That’s…Poor Rosalind. …”
“Oh, shut up!” shouted Whitestone, so loudly that Delancey glanced back, alarmed lest someone had heard him. “I know—” Whitestone went on, “that you manage pretty well not to see what you don’t want to see, but even you must have noticed. …You must have realized what a hell my life has been with that—”
He used a word that made Delancey wince.
“Robert,” he said, “you’re going to regret this. The fact that you’re temporarily infatuated with some other woman—”
“It’s not a woman,” said Whitestone. “She’s only a girl—a kid. She’s the loveliest…God! And at this moment, she’s not half a mile from me!”
“Robert, see here! She’s not by any chance the girl who’s visiting the Luffs?”
“So you did know, did you?” said Whitestone, with a short laugh. “I suppose it’s all over the place. And what the hell do I care? The first time I set eyes on her, two weeks ago, everybody could see how it was with me. And I tell you I don’t care!”
“You’ve got to care. Whether you like it or not, you’ve got to consider…your wife.”
“Come here!” said Whitestone, and taking his arm, drew him into a little glade of birches beside the road. “You’re in for it now, Shawe. You’re going to hear—everything. I’ve got to talk—and you’re the best friend I’ve got.”
Delancey would much have preferred not to hear any more, ever.
“This’ll blow over,” he thought. “I mean to say—if I can get him to go off somewhere for a while. Nerves, that’s all. …”
Things did blow over. He had learned that much from his own experience. So many things. Josephine’s tears and tempers, his own rare moods of puzzled misery—all blew over, and left the sky clear.
“I might be able to borrow enough money to send him away,” he thought. “On one of these cruises.”
Whitestone had fit a cigarette, and was smoking with deep inhalations. If he hadn’t been an artist, thought Delancey, he would have looked like a tramp, in his shirtsleeves, with that low collar. …Hadn’t shaved, either, this morning. …
“I was trapped,” Whitestone began. “I never wanted to marry her. She knew it, too. But she ‘just felt she could help me so much’…That’s the way she put it. …She led me on. …I didn’t realize where I was heading until it was too late. She managed so that everyone took it for granted we were going to be married. …I imagined myself that I must have said something—must somehow have given her to understand that I cared for her. …I was ashamed to back out of it. …She was such a damned good woman. …I felt like a brute. …So I went through with it. And as soon as the trap was sprung, I began to see.”
“But Robert…See here! You’re prejudiced now. You’re forgetting all she’s done for you.”
“No,” said Whitestone. “I haven’t forgotten anything she’s done for me—or to me. I remember it all. I lie awake at night, going over it. The first thing she did was to destroy my faith in myself. ‘You’re such a funny old boy, Robert. …Of course you forgot to stop at the Electric Light Company’s office’…Of course I forgot everything important—like darning cotton and stopping at the dry-cleaner’s. I was just a big boy, a poor, helpless boy, hopelessly unpractical. …Wonder I managed to keep alive, before I married her. To keep alive, and sell some of my drawings. …Then she destroyed my work. ‘But you funny old boy, we’ve got to eat,’ she said. So I got this damned job. I was to do my poor, pathetic painting on Sundays and holidays—after I’d mowed the lawn and carried out the ashes, and put up” the screens. …Oh, I didn’t have to do a thing. Rosalind would work so hard, and faint, because it was so hot and she was so tired.”
“But, Robert—”
“That fainting didn’t fool me for long. But even when I knew it was a sham, what could I do?…All those burns and cuts…You’ve seen her often enough with her hand bandaged. …I knew, long ago, that there wasn’t a dam’ thing under those bandages. But, oh God, that brave, bright smile…!”
A profound uneasiness possessed Delancey. He had seen Rosalind often with a bandaged hand. He had seen the brave, bright smile. What if there really were some truth in Whitestone’s passionate grievance? He could scarcely endure to think so; for over a year he had taken a benevolent pleasure in the spectacle of their happiness. …
“She made me take this job,” Whitestone went on. “And then she wasted the money I made. The blood money. The price of my soul. You must have realized that what I made was enough for us, for the mean way we live.”
“Well, I—”
“You didn’t want to see,” said Whitestone. “When I told you I was in trouble, you’d put your hand in your pocket. But you wouldn’t think. I made enough. We could even have saved a little. My tastes are simple. But she has to go to the Beauty Salon every week. She has to buy special shoes—her foot is so narrow. …She has to spend more for painting her face than I can afford for my canvases. If I don’t give it to her, she runs up bills. Which I’m legally obliged to pay.”
His mouth twitched; he stopped a moment.
“She’s taken away my money, and my work, and my faith,” he said. “She’s drained me, she’s ruined me. Inch by inch. And now—she’s so amused about Elsie. …Poor old Robert, without a penny to his name, with his hair getting gray—the pathetic failure—dreaming that a girl like Elsie, could ever take him seriously. …This morning at breakfast, she told me, in