by Basil King
CHAPTER XII
Nearly a week later, in the middle of a hot afternoon, I came back fromsome shopping to wait for Hugh at the hotel. Though it was a half-hourbefore I expected him, I was too tired to go up-stairs and so wentdirectly to the reception-room. It was not only cool and restful there,but after the glare of the streets outside, it was so dim that I tookthe place to be empty. Having gone to a mirror for a moment tostraighten my hat and smooth the wayward tendrils of my hair, so that Ishouldn't look disheveled when Hugh arrived, I threw myself into anarm-chair.
I remember that my attitude was anything but graceful, and that Isighed. I sighed more than once and somewhat loudly. I was depressed,and as usual when depressed I felt small and desolate. It would havebeen a relief to cry; but I couldn't cry when I was expecting Hugh. Icould only toss about in my big chair and give utterance to my pent-upheart a little too explosively.
It was five or six days since Larry Strangways's call, and no realdevelopment of my blind alley was in sight. He had not returned, nor hadI heard from him. On the previous evening Hugh had said, "I thoughtnothing would come of that," in a tone which carried conviction. Itwasn't that I was eager to be Stacy Grainger's librarian; it was onlythat I wanted something to happen, something that would justify mystaying in New York. August had passed, and with the coming in ofSeptember I saw the stirring of a new life in the streets; but there wasno new life for me.
Nor, for the matter of that, did I see any new life for Hugh. He hadentered now on that stage of waiting on the postman which a good manypeople have found sickening. Bankers and brokers having promised towrite when they knew of anything to suit him, he was expecting a summonsby every delivery of letters. On his dear face I began to read theevidence of hope deferred. He was cheery enough; he could find fiftyexplanations to account for the fact that he hadn't yet been called; butbrave words couldn't counteract the look of disquietude that wascreeping day by day into his kindly eyes. On the previous evening he hadinformed me, too, that he had left his club and installed himself in asmall hotel, not far from my own neighborhood. When I asked him why hehad done that he said it was "to get away from a lot of the fellows whowere always chewing the rag," but I suspected the motive of economy. Forthe motive of economy I should have had nothing but respect, if ithadn't been so incongruous with everything I had known of him.
It was probably because my eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom in thereception-room that I noticed, suddenly, two other eyes. They were in adistant corner and seemed to be looking at me with the detached andburning stare of motor-lamps at night. For a minute I could discern nopersonality, the eyes themselves were so lustrous.
I was about to be frightened when a man arose and restlessly movedtoward the chimneypiece, not because there was anything there he desiredto see, but because he couldn't continue to sit still. He was a strikingfigure, tall, spare, large-boned and powerful. The face was of the typewhich for want of a better word I can only speak of as masculine. It waslong and lean and strong; if it was handsome it was only because everyfeature and line was cut to the same large pattern as the frame.Sweeping mustaches, of the kind school-girls are commonly supposed tolove, concealed a mouth which I could have wagered would be hard, whilethe luminosity of the gaze suggested a rather hungry set of humanqualities and passions.
We were now two restless persons instead of one, and I was about toleave the room when a page came in.
"Sorry, sir," said the honest-faced little boy, with an amusinglyuncouth accent I find it impossible to transcribe, "but numberfour-twenty-three ain't in, so I guess she must be out."
Startled, I rose to my feet.
"But I'm number four-twenty-three."
The boy turned toward me nonchalantly.
"Didn't know you was here! That gentleman wants you."
With this introduction he dashed away, and I was once more conscious ofthe luminous eyes bent upon me. The tall figure, too, advanced a fewpaces in my direction.
"I asked for Miss Adare." The voice was deep and grave and harsh andmusical all at once.
"That's my name."
"Mine's Grainger."
I gasped silently, like a dying fish, before I could stammer thewords--
"Won't you sit down?"
As he seated himself near me and in a good light, I saw that his skinwas tanned, as if he lived on the sea or in the open air. I learnedlater from Larry Strangways that he had just come from a summer'syachting. His gaze studied me--not as a man studies a woman, but as aworkman inspects a tool.
"You probably know my errand."
"Mr. Strangways--"
"Yes, I told him to sound you."
"But I'm afraid I wouldn't do."
"Why do you think so?"
"Because I don't know anything about the work."
"There's no work to know anything about. All you'd have to do would beto sit still. You'd never have more than two or three visitors in aday--and most days none at all."
"But what should I do when visitors came?"
"Show them what they asked to see. You'd find that in the catalogue.You'd soon get the hang of the place. It's small. There's not much in itwhen you come to sum it up. Miss Davis will show you the ropes beforeshe leaves on the first of October. I'll give you the same salary I'vebeen paying her."
He named a sum the munificence of which almost took my breath away.
"Oh, but I shouldn't be worth that."
"It's the salary," he said, briefly, as he rose. "You can arrange withmy secretary, Strangways, when you would like to begin. The sooner thebetter, as I understand that Miss Davis would like to get off."
He was on his way to the door when, thinking of the tomb-like aspect ofthe place, I asked, desperately:
"Should I be all alone?"
He turned.
"There's a man and his wife in the house. One of them would be alwayswithin call. The woman will bring you tea at half past four."
I could hardly believe my ears. I had never heard of such solicitude."But I shouldn't need tea!" I began to assure him.
He paused for a moment, looking at me searchingly.
"You'll have callers--"
"Oh no, I sha'n't."
"You'll have callers," he repeated, as if I hadn't spoken, "and there'llbe tea every day at four-thirty."
He was gone before I could protest further, or ask any more questions.
Hugh's explanation, when I laid the matter before him, was that Mr.Grainger was trying to play into the hands of that fellow, Strangways.
"But why?" I demanded.
"He thinks there's something between him and you."
"But there isn't."
"I should hope not; but, evidently, Strangways has made him think--"
"Oh no, he hasn't, Hugh. Mr. Strangways is not that kind of man. Mr.Grainger has some other reason for wanting me there, but I can't thinkwhat it is."
"Then I shouldn't go till I knew," Hugh counseled, moodily.
But I did. I went the next week. Larry Strangways made the arrangements,and, after a fortnight under Miss Davis's instructions, I found myselfalone.
It was not so trying as I feared, though it was monotonous. It wasmonotonous because there was so little to do. I was there each morningat half past nine. From one to two I had an hour for lunch. At six Icame away. On Saturdays I had the afternoon. It was a little like beinga prisoner, but a prisoner in a palace, a prisoner who is well paid.
The place consisted of one big, handsome room, some sixty feet bythirty, resembling the libraries of great houses I had seen abroad. Thatin this case it was detached from the dwelling was, I suppose, a matterof architectural convenience. Book-shelves lined the walls right up tothe cornice. The dull reds and browns and blues and greens of thebindings carried out the mellow effects of the Oriental rugs on thefloor. Under the shelves there were cupboards, some of them empty,others stocked with portfolios of prints, European and Japanese. Therewere no pictures, but a few large pieces of old porcelain and faience,Persian, Spanish
, and Chinese, stood on the mantelpiece and tables. Forthe rest, the furnishings consisted of a bust or two, a desk or two, andsome decorative tables and chairs.
My chief objection to the life was its seeming pointlessness. I was hardat work doing nothing. The number of visitors was negligible. Onceduring the autumn an old gentleman brought some engravings to comparewith similar examples in Mr. Grainger's collection; once a lady studentof Shakespeare came to examine his early editions; perhaps as often astwice a week some wandering tourist in New York would enter and starevacantly, and go as he arrived. To while away the time I read and wroteand did knitting and fancy-work, and at half past four every day, asregularly as the hands of the clock came round, I solemnly had my tea.It was very good tea, with cake and bread and butter in the orthodoxstyle, and was brought by Mrs. Daly, the motherly old Irish caretaker ofthe house, who stumped in and stumped out, giving me, while she stayed,a good deal of detail as to her "sky-attic" nerves and swollen"varikiss" veins.
I am bound to admit that the tea ceremony oppressed me--not that Ididn't enjoy it in its way but because its generosity seemed overdone.It was not in the necessities of the case; it was, above all, notAmerican. On both the occasions when Mr. Grainger honored the librarywith a call I tried to screw up my courage to ask him to let me off thishospitality, but I couldn't reach the point. I was not so much afraid ofhim as I was overawed. He was perfectly civil; he never treated me asthe dust beneath his feet, like Howard Brokenshire; but any one couldsee that he was immensely and perhaps tragically preoccupied.
I was having tea all alone on a cold afternoon in November, when thesound of the opening of the outer door attracted my attention. At firstone came into a vestibule from which there was no entrance, till on myside I touched the spring of a closed wrought-iron grille. I had goneforward to see who was there and, if necessary, give the furtheradmission, when to my astonishment I saw Mrs. Brokenshire.
She was in a walking-dress with furs. The color in her cheeks might havebeen due to the cold wind, but the light in her eyes was that ofexcitement.
"I heard you were here," she whispered, as she fluttered in, "and I'vecome to see you."
My sense of the imprudence of this step was such that I could hardlywelcome her. That feeling of protection which I had once before on herbehalf came back to me.
"Who told you?" I asked, as soon as she was seated and I was pouring herout a cup of tea. For the first time since taking the position I wasglad the ceremony had not been suppressed.
She answered, while glancing into the shadows about her.
"Mildred told me. Hugh wrote it to her. He does write to her, you know.She's the only one with whom he is still in communication. She seems tothink the poor boy is in trouble. I came to--to see if there wasanything I could do."
I told her I was living at the Hotel Mary Chilton and that, if necessaryat any time, she could see me there.
She repeated the address, but I knew it took no hold on her memory.
"Ah yes; the Hotel Mary Chilton. I think I've heard of it. But I haven'tmany minutes, and you must tell me all you can about dear Hugh."
As my anxiety on Hugh's account was deepening, I was the more eager todo as I was bid. I said he had found no employment as yet, and that inmy opinion employment would be hard to secure. If he was willing to workfor a year or two for next to nothing, as he would consider the salary,he might eventually learn the financial trade; but to expect that hisname would be a key to open the door of any bank at which he mightpresent himself was preposterous. I hadn't been able to convince him ofthat, however, and he was still hoping. But he was hoping with a sad,worried face that almost broke my heart.
"And how is he off for money?"
I said I thought his bank-account was running low. He made no complaintof that to me, but I noticed that he rarely now went to any of hisclubs, and that he took his meals at the more inexpensive places. Intaxis, too, he was careful, and in tickets for the theater. These werethe signs by which I judged.
Her eyes had the sweet mistiness I remembered from our last meeting.
"I can let him have money--as much as he needs."
I considered this.
"But it would be Mr. Brokenshire's money, wouldn't it?"
"It would be money Mr. Brokenshire gives me."
"In that case I don't think Hugh could accept it. You see, he's tryingto make himself independent of his father, so as to do what his fatherdoesn't like."
"But he can't starve."
"He must either starve, or earn a living, or go back to his fatherand--give up."
"Does that mean that you won't marry him unless he has money of hisown?"
"It means what I've said more than once before--that I can't marry himif he has no money of his own, unless his family come and ask me to doit."
There was a little furrow between her brows.
"Oh, well, they won't do that. I would," she hastened to add,"because--" she smiled, like an angel--"because I believe in love; butthey wouldn't."
"I think Mrs. Rossiter would," I argued, "if she was left free."
"She might; and, of course, there's Mildred. She'd do anything for Hugh,though she thinks . . . but neither Jack nor Pauline would give in; andas for Mr. Brokenshire--I believe it would break his heart."
"Why should he feel toward me like that?" I demanded, bitterly. "How amI inferior to Pauline Gray, except that I have no money?"
"Well, I suppose in a way that's it. It's what Mr. Brokenshire calls thesolidarity of aristocracies. They have to hold together."
"But aristocracy and money aren't one."
As she rose she smiled again, distantly and dreamily. "If you were anAmerican, dear Miss Adare, you'd know."
Before she said good-by she looked deliberately about the room. It wasnot the hasty inspection I should have expected; it was tranquil, and Icould even say that it was thorough. She made no mention of Mr.Grainger, but I couldn't help thinking he was in her mind.
At the door to which I accompanied her, however, her manner changed.Before trusting herself to the few paces of walk running from theentrance to the wrought-iron gate, she glanced up and down the street.It was dark by this time, and the lamps were lit, but not till thepavement was tolerably clear did she venture out. Even then she didn'tturn toward Fifth Avenue, which would have been her natural direction;but rapidly and, as I imagined, furtively, she walked the other way.
I mentioned to no one that she had come to see me. Her kind thought ofHugh I was sorry to keep to myself; but I knew of no purpose to beserved in divulging it. With my maxim to guide me it was not difficultto be sure that in this case right lay in silence.
A few days later I got Hugh's doings from a new point of view. As I wasgoing back to my lunch at the hotel, Mrs. Rossiter called to me from hermotor and made me get in. The distance I had to cover being slight, shedrove me up to Central Park and back again to have the time to talk.
"My dear, he's crazy. He's going round to all the offices thatpractically turned him out six or eight weeks ago and begging them tofind a place for him. Two or three of papa's old friends have written toask what they could really do for him--for papa, that is--and he's sentthem word that he'd take it as a favor if they'd show Hugh to the door."
"Of course, if his father makes himself his enemy--"
"He only makes himself his enemy in order to be his friend, dear MissAdare. He's your friend, too, papa is, if you only saw it."
"I'm afraid I don't," I said, dryly.
"Oh, you will some day, and do him justice. He's the kindest man whenyou let him have his own way."
"Which would be to separate Hugh and me."
"But you'd both get over that; and I know he'd do the handsome thing byyou, as well as by him."
"So long as we do the handsome thing by each other--"
"Oh, well, you can see where that leads to. Hugh'll never be in aposition to marry you, dear Miss Adare."
"He will when your father comes round."
"Nonsense,
my dear! You know you're not looking forward to that, not anymore than I am."
Later, as I was getting out at my door, she said, as if it was anafterthought:
"Oh, by the way, you know papa has made me write to Lady CissieBoscobel?"
I looked up at her from the pavement.
"What for?"
"To ask her to come over and spend a month or two in New York. She saysshe will if she can. She's a good deal of a girl, Cissie is. If you'regoing to keep your hold on Hugh-- Well, all I can say is that Cissiewill give you a run for your money. Of course, it's nothing to me. Ionly thought I'd tell you."
This, too, I kept from Hugh; but I seized an early opportunity to paintthe portrait of the imaginary charming girl he could have for a wife,with plenty of money to support himself and her, if he would only giveme up. This was as we walked home one night from the theater--I wasobliged from time to time to let him take me so that we might have apretext for being together--and we strolled in the shadows of the narrowcross-streets.
"Little Alix," he declared, fervently, "I could no more give you up thanI could give up my breath or my blood. You're part of me. You're themost vital part of me. If you were to fail me I should die. If I were tofail you--But that's not worth thinking of. Look here!" He paused in adark spot beside a great silent warehouse. "Look here. I'm having apretty tough time. I'll confess it. I didn't mean to tell you, but Iwill. When I go to see certain people now--men I've met dozens of timesat my father's table--what do you think happens? They have me shown tothe door, and not too politely. These are the chaps who two months agowere squirming for joy at the thought of getting me. What do you thinkof that? How do you suppose it makes me feel?" I was about to break inwith some indignant response when he continued, placidly: "Well, it allturns to music the minute I think of you. It's as if I'd drunk someglowing cordial. I'm kicked out, let us say--and it's not too much tosay--and I'm ready to curse for all I'm worth, but I think of you. Iremember I'm doing it for you and bearing it for you, so that one day Imay strike the right thing and we may be together and happy foreverafterward, and I swear to you it's as if angels were singing in thesky."
I had to let him kiss me there in the shadow of the street, as if wewere a footman and a housemaid. I had to let him kiss away my tears andsoothe me and console me. I told him I wasn't worthy of such love, andthat, if he would consider the fitness of things, he would go away andleave me, but he only kissed me the more.
Again I was having my tea. It had been a lifeless day, and I waswondering how long I could endure the lifelessness. Not a soul had comenear the place since morning, and my only approach to human intercoursehad been in discussing Mrs. Daly's "varikiss" veins. Even that interludewas over, for the lady would not return for the tea things till after mydeparture. I was so lonely--I felt the uselessness of what I was doingso acutely--that in spite of the easy work and generous pay I wasthinking of sending my resignation in to Mr. Grainger and looking forsomething else.
The outer door opened swiftly and silently, and I knew some one wasinside. I knew, too, before rising from my place, that it was Mrs.Brokenshire. Subconsciously I had been expecting her, though I couldn'thave said why. Her lovely face was all asparkle.
"I've come to see you again," she whispered, as I let her in. "I hopeyou're alone."
I replied that I was and, choosing my words carefully, I said it waskind of her to keep me in mind.
"Oh yes, I keep you in mind, and I keep Hugh. What I've really come foris to beg you to hand him the money of which I spoke the other day."
She seated herself, but not before glancing about the room, eitherexpectantly or fearfully. As I poured out her tea I repeated what I hadsaid already on the subject of the money. She wasn't listening, however.When she made replies they were not to the point. All the while shesipped her tea and nibbled her cake her eyes had the shifting alertnessof a watchful little bird's.
"Oh, but what does it all matter when it's a question of love?" shesaid, somewhat at a venture. "Love is the only thing, don't you think?It must make its opportunities as it can."
"You mean that love can be--unscrupulous?"
"Oh, I shouldn't use that word."
"It isn't the word I'm thinking of. It's the act."
"Love is like war, isn't it? All's fair!"
"But is it?"
Her eyes rested on mine, not boldly, but with a certain daring.
"Why--yes."
"You believe that?"
She still kept her eyes on mine. Her tone was that of a challenge.
"Why--yes." She added, perhaps defiantly, "Don't you?"
I said, decidedly:
"No, I don't."
"Then you don't love. You can't love. Love is reckless. Love--" Therewas a long pause before she dropped the two concluding words, spacingthem apart as if to emphasize her deliberation. "Love--risks--all."
"If it risks all it may lose all."
The challenge was renewed.
"Well? Isn't that better than--?"
"It's not better than doing right," I hastened to say, "however hard itmay be."
"Ah, but what is right? A thing can't be right if--if--" she sought fora word--"if it's killing you."
As she said this there was a sound along the corridor leading from thehouse. I thought Mrs. Daly had forgotten something and was coming back.But the tread was different from her slow stump, and my sense of adanger at hand was such as the good woman never inspired.
Mrs. Brokenshire made no attempt to play a part or to put me off thescent. She acted as if I understood what was happening. Her teacupresting in her lap, she sat with eyes aglow and lips slightly apart ina look of heavenly expectation. I could hardly believe her to be thedazed, stricken little creature I had seen three months ago. As thefootsteps approached she murmured, "He's coming!" or, "Who's coming?" Icouldn't be sure which.
Mr. Grainger entered like a man who is on his own ground and knows whathe is about to find. There was no uncertainty in his manner and noapparent sense of secrecy. His head was high and his walk firm as hepushed his way amid tables and chairs to where we were sitting in theglow of a shaded light.
I stood up as he approached, but I had time to appraise my situation. Isaw all its little mysteries illumined as by a flash. I saw why StacyGrainger had kept track of me; I saw why, in spite of my deficiencies,he had taken me on as his librarian; but I saw, too, that the Lord haddelivered J. Howard Brokenshire into my hands, as Sisera into those ofJael, the wife of Heber the Kenite.