The Disturbing Charm

by Berta Ruck

  CHAPTER II

  THE ACCEPTING OF THE CHARM

  "What I can do, can do no hurt to try."

  Shakespeare.

  That day, since the Professor chose (as he often did) to give lunch amiss while he wandered and pottered about in the Forest, he sent hisniece into _dejeuner_ alone. Her he never allowed to miss a meal; heheld that young people must eat plenty and often.

  Bareheaded, with a scarlet knitted coat over her frock, the girlthreaded her way through the little round iron-legged tables and pastthe tubs of flowering cactus outside the piazza of the hotel. She pushedopen a window and entered the big light _salle_. All one wall of itseemed to be windows from ceiling to floor, giving on to the _plage_ andto that stretch of lagoon, and sandhills, pointed by that lighthouse.The other high walls were panelled with mirrors that reflected a dozentimes the hanging chandeliers, the rococo gilded curves of carving, themoving heads of the visitors already at the tables.

  The reflections of little Olwen's own head and shoulders, black-and-redlike a lady-bird, appeared repeated in the picture; she did not see it.

  It was another image that she sought....

  Her bright glance, searching the thronged and buzzing place, fell on twoempty chairs at the long table that ran down the middle of the room.

  Ah! "They" weren't in for lunch, then? Nothing to be seen of "Them"until the _diner_, perhaps. With a sigh of resignation Olwen Howel-Jonesturned to the table for two near the end window where she was accustomedto sit with her Uncle.

  But before she sat down, the tall Englishwoman in brown, who was sittingat the little table next to hers, caught the girl's eyes, smiled,nodded, and with a swift leaning forward of a supple body that made herlook like the figurehead of a vessel, accosted her in a deep, ratherattractive voice.

  "I say! Are you alone today? So am I. Have your lunch at my table, won'tyou?"

  "Oh! thank you, Mrs. Cartwright; I'd like to," said the girl, pleased.She took the chair opposite.

  Mrs. Cartwright, who had been at the hotel for some days before theHowel-Joneses had arrived, was the widow of an Indian Army officer, themother of two boys now at school in England, and a journalist underseveral names.

  This was why, when she said she was as hungry as a hunter because shehad been working like a nigger all the morning, Olwen asked her, with ashy smile, "Were you being 'Miss Claudia Crane' or the 'Wanderer throughWestern France'?"

  "For a change, neither," returned Mrs. Cartwright cheerfully over theomelette which the frail little Italian waiter had brought to her. "Iactually went back to being 'Domestica' and I turned out two thousandwords of wisdom on ration-recipes--just for the pleasure of chargingthem eight times what my price used to be when I navvied for that paperregularly. What have you been doing--taking down sheaves of notes fromthat wonderful-looking old Welsh Nationalist, your uncle?"

  The Professor's niece, as she answered that she had done nothing buttidy up and answer letters, was still absorbed by the thought of thatepoch-making letter that she had read before she had even seen that ithad not been left there for her to copy with the others. Her whole beingwas so taken up by the memory of what the letter had claimed for thepowers of that hidden packet (now drawing warmth from the softness ofher breast where it lay) that she only had half an ear for the talk ofthe woman opposite to her.

  The Disturbing Charm.... Could it be anything but a fairy-tale? How manyof that heterogeneous collection of people gathered there in that verydining-room--the English visitors, the little knot of uniforms on leave,the French family parties--how many of them would laugh incredulously ifthey were told what she, the celebrity's niece, was treasuring at thatmoment inside the bosom of her frock?

  There she sat, demurely eating a plateful of those Edible Fungi of whoseforest lives her Uncle made such a study. Yes, she sat hiding somethingthat might change not only the current of her life, but of their livesas well. Perhaps it was true. What a thought!

  * * * * *

  "Some new people here today," chatted Mrs. Cartwright, who never seemedto look at anyone or anything in a room (Olwen had noticed that) butwhom few details escaped; just as her eyes did not seem to be glancingabout, so her lips hardly moved; but they had the habit of letting fallcomment after comment, softly, casually, on every one of those detailsthat the eyes above had noticed. "What a typical Hotel Spinster that isin the corner there! You can just see her over that young Frenchsoldier's head when he ducks to tuck in his napkin; yes, that survivalin the expensive tweeds and the hair-net. Stays so old-fashioned thatwhen she bends she comes away from the top of them as if it were overthe rim of a vase into which she's been poured. How fatal it is to allowoneself to crystallize into the mode of the year when one wastwenty-one! (But you, lucky child, don't even know what that mode isgoing to be.) English? Yes, of course. No wonder Prevost calls England'that positive reservoir of old maids'!"

  "Poor thing!" murmured Olwen, glancing at the new-comer, and of whom shenow caught a clearer glimpse. She saw a woman of perhaps thirty-four orfive, with uninteresting brown hair, elaborately dressed, an equallyuninteresting brown face with a large nose and timid eyes that wanderedfrom face to face.

  Olwen thought, "No; I can't imagine anybody liking her--in _that_ way!"Then she thought with a little start, "But if it were true--if all womenwere allowed even a tiny grain of that Charm, there would be no suchthing as an 'Hotel Spinster.' No old maids in the world! How lovely!"

  "Enter several characters from a French novel by Abel Hermant," pursuedMrs. Cartwright, as the door of the _salle_ nearest to their table swungopen and admitted two ladies in deepest mourning, an old gentleman witha red speck in his button-hole, and a boy of four. "The son of those oldpeople has just 'fallen on the field of honour'; the lovely youngMadonna is his widow; that's his little boy. What a splendid child!"

  The little French boy that followed his grown-ups so sedately down theroom was as dark as a damson and clad in a white tunic that showed hisdimpled arms and his strong brown legs. He left a wake of smiles. TheHotel Spinster put out a finger and touched him as he went by.

  "There. I knew she'd do that," commented Mrs. Cartwright; that deep softvoice of hers running out in the sort of monologue that scarcely movedher lips. "That woman's fonder of children than anyone here, and abetter hand with them, I bet. Did you see the little boy smile back ather? Only at _her_. Yet Fate has decreed that she's never to have achick or child (though what point 'a chick' would have I never couldfathom). Private means. Stodgy connections in Debrett. Left with a houseof her own, probably, crammed with mahogany and Coalport--and no man'sever looked at her in her life."

  "Dreadful!" murmured little Olwen; and her hand went up involuntarily toher breast.

  (If that letter was true, what a gift she had it in her power to bestowupon that woman; upon any woman!)

  "The latest in British officers, I see," ran on Mrs. Cartwright,pursuing the nonchalant soft stream of comment as she pursued her lunch."Staying here on his pay. Giving as much for one _dejeuner_ here aswould keep him for half a week at some little pension in the town, wherehe ought to be. _Very_ new; _very_ temporary commission. He had a talkwith me in the lounge just now. A nice frank little Cockney. Told me hewas a shop-assistant before he joined. '_And the next, Madame?_' Poorlad! The next is that he's learned what it is to be considered IT, andwhat the insides of the best hotels are like, and the chief seats atrevues. He's learned Bubbly-tastes on Beer-pay. Overdrawn everywhere.What _will_ he go back to in civil life, if he goes back? Anothertragedy of the war. Dozens of them!... Pleasant little pink face,too.... His only hope would be to get some profiteer's heiress to marryhim----"

  "Yes, he might do that," agreed little Olwen, again conscious of thatpacket at her breast. She looked down the tables at the rosy,undistinguished young face of the Second Lieutenant of whom Mrs.Cartwright had been murmuring. One of the waiters was deferentiallyendeavouring to understand this British officer's French. The boy lookedself-conscious;
at sea. Even a man might be glad enough of some magicthat could bring him Love and Fortune, thought Olwen. Some men werewithout charm, just as some other men--ah, yes!--were all Charm.

  Here Mrs. Cartwright, still seeming to look another way, followed theyoung girl's glance as it turned again to the objective that it firsthad sought--to the two empty places at the long table.

  "Captain Ross and Mr. Awdas have gone into Bordeaux for the day,"commented Mrs. Cartwright. "I hope they'll bring me back thefountain-pen ink and the 'Vie Parisienne,' and the brown darning silkthat I commissioned them to get----" and here, quickly, she turned awayas if to gaze out of the window at the little motor-boat that was makingits way up the lagoon, where the tide was high, to the wooden pier.Actually, her movement was to avoid seeming to stare at the face of thegirl before her, where Consciousness had again flamed out into a liveand lovely red.

  "So _that's_ it ..." she thought.

  "I _wish_ I didn't blush!" Olwen Howel-Jones was scolding herselfangrily. "I _am_ a little idiot to blush at the sound of the man's name!Nobody in the whole world thinks of doing such a thing nowadays; it'slike wearing your hat on the back of your head! Yet here I am, going onlike this as if it were _Eighteen_ Seventeen! I _do_ wish to goodness Ihad another sort of skin. Mrs. Cartwright might easily have_thought_----!"

  But Mrs. Cartwright was talking pleasantly on about the journey toBordeaux; about the forest of Les Pins, the air of it....

  "Such a becoming place, too," she laughed. "Makes you feel well; lookwell. May I make a personal remark, Miss Howel-Jones? You yourself aregetting twice as pretty as when you came here."

  "Oh, no," protested the enraptured girl. "No one could--no one has evercalled me pretty!"

  "No? But they will. Perhaps you are only just growing up to it," saidMrs. Cartwright with a very kind glance into the face opposite to her."So many people make a virtue of blurting out unpleasant truths; whyshouldn't one tell the truths that aren't unpleasant? Today (I saw itwhen you came in) you are quite lovely. You look as if a charm hadtouched you."

  Little Olwen's whole heart went suddenly out in emotion and gratitudetowards the woman who had said this thing.

  Only the very young can realize how much they mean--the very firstcompliments to the very young girl! Especially to the very young girl inLove; she who feels the special need of beauty, the special need ofencouragement to think herself beautiful.

  And now here was a clever woman (who knew what men admired, and who hadseen so many lovely people) pronouncing her, Olwen, to be "quitelovely."

  Oh, Event!

  * * * * *

  As she went up after luncheon to her room--the replica of her Uncle'sstudy, with its parquet floor and high balconied window--she felt therewas nothing she could not have done for this Mrs. Cartwright.

  To do something for other people; that was the wish that filled thechild's heart in its overflowing mood.

  Throwing a look to her hair and eyes in the glass, she thought of thewoman whom Mrs. Cartwright had classified so promptly as the HotelSpinster. She thought of that woman's meaningless but "good" clothes, ofthe hungry eyes which she fastened upon that little French boy seated attable with his mother. How the Spinster had watched that mother bendingover her child, turning his chair, showing him how to hold his littlesilver spoon shaped like a wine-taster, folding his napkin for him; ah,how she'd watched!

  "Poor, poor thing!" thought the soft-hearted Olwen. "Anyone could seehow she would love a little child of her own----"

  And then she thought of the other rather "out of it" guest at thathotel; the very young New Army subaltern whom Mrs. Cartwright had saidwas living a life to which he hadn't been brought up and which he mustleave again unless he could find a rich wife. Not an attractive type,thought Olwen (forgetting that for her at the moment there existed onlyone masculine type that showed any attraction whatsoever). It wasn'tlikely, she considered, that he would find anyone to care about _him_.

  "Poor boy!" She felt quite motherly. For she was the type of girl whompersonal emotion drives outwards to include the world in her thoughts,rather than the commoner type of lover who is driven inwards, uponconcentrated narrowed sympathies. Ever since she had come to that hoteland had fallen in love, Juliet-fashion, with the first glance at agood-looking male face seen across a dinner-table, the little creaturehad longed for everyone, not only herself, to be lucky in Love.

  She found it horrible that in this supreme matter everything must beleft to Fate, to Chance, to the merest Toss-up.

  No woman could lift a finger to help either her own love-affair oranybody else's. The pity of it!

  But wait----Again the delighted thought thrilled her----If that discoverywere true?... The Disturbing Charm! If that could really help. _If_ ...after all?

  What was it that Mrs. Cartwright had said to her?

  "_You look as if a charm had touched you._"

  Could that have meant more than her friend had known?

  Olwen threw another wondering, searching look into her glass.... Was ither imagination, or did she look prettier already than she had everbefore seen herself? _Oh...._

  She stood there, reflected; an image of Uncertainty hovering betweenbelief and doubt. "Uncle wouldn't believe a word of it, I'm sure," shetold herself. "I'm sure he thought he'd thrown the letter away. He maybe quite right, of course. It sounds nonsense. Yet----"

  ("_As if a charm had touched you_," Mrs. Cartwright said, knowingnothing.)

  "The writer of the letter said it was the result of years of research,"pondered Olwen. "If he could give years, surely I can give just--just a_try_?"

  She paused, hands clasped upon her breast.

  "Shall I? Shall I?... Supposing I tried the effect of the Charm uponsomebody else, first? Somebody here? There are at least two peoplebesides myself in this hotel whom it could help...."

  Then she thought defiantly, "The inventor said he shirkedresponsibility. Well, _I_ wouldn't! If it doesn't do any good--well!There's no _harm_ done! I----"

  Another second's pause. Then the decision.

  "I will. Yes! I _will_ try it!"

  Half believing, half longing to believe, and wholly excited by thething, the girl began busying herself as if in answer to some mysteriousCommand.

  She opened a drawer of her toilette-table, taking out a squarework-basket in which reels, scissors, thimble, and darning skeins werepacked into the smallest possible compass; Olwen being as neat in herhabits as her uncle was chaotic. From another corner of the drawer shetook a carefully rolled-up length of the mauve satin ribbon she usedfor slotting through her underclothes. From this she cut enough to sewup into a tiny sachet.

  Then she sat by the window and stitched, the young Welsh girl into whosebusy, dimpled hands there had fallen this maybe tremendous Power. Whilethe autumn sun glowed redly on the bodies of those pines without, whilethe border of far-off Biscay rollers tossed their cloud-like columns ofwhite against the sky-line, she sat at her needle like a Fate with aface of a grave-eyed child, the mouth of a flower.

  In a few minutes she had the square of satin ready for filling. She drewthe packet from her bosom; opened it with a hundred precautions; pouredinto the sachet a little--a very little!--of the musky scented powder.

  The packet itself she bestowed at the bottom of her work-basket, lockingthat carefully away. Yes; some of that was for _her_ to wear again, butnot now. Later on.

  The curious fact persisted that she would wish to see first the effectof that Charm upon another wearer.

  She had stitched up the sachet before she had answered her own question,"Whom shall I give it to first?"