IV
OLD DAVID STEWART
It was Miss Benham's custom, upon returning home at night fromdinner-parties or other entertainments, to look in for a few minutes onher grandfather before going to bed. The old gentleman, like mostelderly people, slept lightly, and often sat up in bed very late intothe night, reading or playing piquet with his valet. He sufferedhideously at times from the malady which was killing him by degrees, butwhen he was free from pain the enormous recuperative power, which he hadpreserved to his eighty-sixth year, left him almost as vigorous andclear-minded as if he had never been ill at all. Hartley's descriptionof him had not been altogether a bad one: "a quaint old beggar... agreat quantity of white hair and an enormous square white beard and thefiercest eyes I ever saw..." He was a rather "quaint old beggar,"indeed! He had let his thick, white hair grow long, and it hung downover his brows in unparted locks as the ancient Greeks wore their hair.He had very shaggy eyebrows, and the deep-set eyes under them gleamedfrom the shadow with a fierceness which was rather deceptive but nonethe less intimidating. He had a great beak of a nose, but the mouthbelow could not be seen. It was hidden by the mustache and the enormoussquare beard. His face was colorless, almost as white as hair and beard;there seemed to be no shadow or tint anywhere except the cavernousrecesses from which the man's eyes gleamed and sparkled. Altogether hewas certainly "a quaint old beggar."
He had, during the day and evening, a good many visitors, for the oldgentleman's mind was as alert as it ever had been, and important menthought him worth consulting. The names which the admirable valet Petersannounced from time to time were names which meant a great deal in theofficial and diplomatic world of the day. But if old David feltflattered over the unusual fashion in which the great of the earthcontinued to come to him, he never betrayed it. Indeed, it is quiteprobable that this view of the situation never once occurred to him. Hehad been thrown with the great of the earth for more than half acentury, and he had learned to take it as a matter of course.
On her return from the Marquise de Saulnes' dinner-party, Miss Benhamwent at once to her grandfather's wing of the house, which had its ownstreet entrance, and knocked lightly at his door. She asked theadmirable Peters, who opened to her, "Is he awake?" and being assuredthat he was, went into the vast chamber, dropping her cloak on a chairas she entered.
David Stewart was sitting up in his monumental bed behind a sort ofinvalid's table which stretched across his knees without touching them.He wore over his night-clothes a Chinese mandarin's jacket of old redsatin, wadded with down, and very gorgeously embroidered with the cloudand bat designs, and with large round panels of the imperial five-claweddragon in gold. He had a number of these jackets--they seemed to be hisone vanity in things external--and they were so made that they could beslipped about him without disturbing him in his bed, since they hungdown only to the waist or thereabouts. They kept the upper part of hisbody, which was not covered by the bedclothes, warm, and they certainlymade him a very impressive figure.
He said: "Ah, Helen! Come in! Come in! Sit down on the bed there andtell me what you have been doing!" He pushed aside the pack of cardswhich was spread out on the invalid's table before him, and with greatcare counted a sum of money in francs and half-francs and nickeltwenty-five centime pieces. "I've won seven francs fifty from Petersto-night," he said, chuckling gently. "That is a very good evening,indeed. Very good! Where have you been, and who were there?"
"A dinner-party at the De Saulnes'," said Miss Benham, making herselfcomfortable on the side of the great bed. "It's a very pleasant place.Marian is, of course, a dear, and they're quite English andunceremonious. You can talk to your neighbor at dinner instead ofaddressing the house from a platform, as it were. French dinner-partiesmake me nervous."
Old David gave a little growling laugh.
"French dinner-parties at least keep people up to the mark in the art ofconversation," said he. "But that is a lost art, anyhow, nowadays, so Isuppose one might as well be quite informal and have done with it. Whowere there?"
"Oh, well"--she considered, "no one, I should think, who would interestyou. Rather an indifferent set. Pleasant people, but not inspiring. TheMarquis had some young relative or connection who was quite odious andmade the most surprising noises over his food. I met a new man whom Ithink I am going to like very much, indeed. He wouldn't interest you,because he doesn't mean anything in particular, and of course heoughtn't to interest me for the same reason. He's just an idle, pleasantyoung man, but--he has great charm--very great charm. His name is Ste.Marie. Baron de Vries seems very fond of him, which surprised me,rather."
"Ste. Marie!" exclaimed the old gentleman, in obvious astonishment."Ste. Marie de Mont Perdu?"
"Yes," she said. "Yes, that is the name, I believe. You know him, then?I wonder he didn't mention it."
"I knew his father," said old David. "And his grandfather, for thatmatter. They're Gascon, I think, or Bearnais; but this boy's mother willhave been Irish, unless his father married again.
"So you've been meeting a Ste. Marie, have you?--and finding that he hasgreat charm?" The old gentleman broke into one of his growling laughs,and reached for a long black cigar, which he lighted, eying hisgranddaughter the while over the flaring match. "Well," he said, whenthe cigar was drawing, "they all have had charm. I should think therehas never been a Ste. Marie without it. They're a sort of embodiment ofromance, that family. This boy's great-grandfather lost his lifedefending a castle against a horde of peasants in 1799; his grandfatherwas killed in the French campaign in Mexico in '39--at Vera Cruz it was,I think; and his father died in a filibustering expedition ten yearsago. I wonder what will become of the last Ste. Marie?" Old David's eyessuddenly sharpened. "You're not going to fall in love with Ste. Marieand marry him, are you?" he demanded.
Miss Benham gave a little angry laugh, but her grandfather saw the colorrise in her cheeks for all that.
"Certainly not," she said, with great decision, "What an absurd idea!Because I meet a man at a dinner-party and say I like him, must I marryhim to-morrow? I meet a great many men at dinners and things, and a fewof them I like. Heavens!"
"'Methinks the lady doth protest too much,'" muttered old David into hishuge beard.
"I beg your pardon?" asked Miss Benham, politely.
But he shook his head, still growling inarticulately, and began to drawenormous clouds of smoke from the long black cigar. After a time he tookthe cigar once more from his lips and looked thoughtfully at hisgranddaughter, where she sat on the edge of the vast bed, upright andbeautiful, perfect in the most meticulous detail. Most women when theyreturn from a long evening out look more or less the worse forit--deadened eyes, pale cheeks, loosened coiffure tell their inevitabletale. Miss Benham looked as if she had just come from the hands of avery excellent maid. She looked as freshly soignee as she might havelooked at eight that evening instead of at one. Not a wave of herperfectly undulated hair was loosened or displaced, not a fold of thelace at her breast had departed from its perfect arrangement.
"It is odd," said old David Stewart, "your taking a fancy to young Ste.Marie. Of course, it's natural, too, in a way, because you are completeopposites, I should think--that is, if this lad is like the rest of hisrace. What I mean is that merely attractive young men don't, as a rule,attract you."
"Well, no," she admitted, "they don't usually. Men with brains attractme most, I think--men who are making civilization, men who are rulingthe world, or at least doing important things for it. That's your fault,you know. You taught me that."
The old gentleman laughed.
"Possibly," said he. "Possibly. Anyhow, that is the sort of men youlike, and they like you. You're by no means a fool, Helen; in fact,you're a woman with brains. You could wield great influence married tothe proper sort of man."
"But not to M. Ste. Marie," she suggested, smiling across at him.
"Well, no," he said. "No, not to Ste. Marie. It would be a mistake tomarry Ste. Marie--if he is what the rest of his house hav
e been. TheSte. Maries live a life compounded of romance and imagination andemotion. You're not emotional."
"No," said Miss Benham, slowly and thoughtfully. It was as if the ideawere new to her. "No, I'm not, I suppose. No. Certainly not."
"As a matter of fact," said old David, "you're by nature rather cold.I'm not sure it isn't a good thing. Emotional people, I observe, areusually in hot water of some sort. When you marry you're very likely tochoose with a great deal of care and some wisdom. And you're also likelyto have what is called a career. I repeat that you could wield greatinfluence in the proper environment."
The girl frowned across at her grandfather reflectively.
"Do you mean by that," she asked, after a little silence--"do you meanthat you think I am likely to be moved by sheer ambition and nothingelse in arranging my life? I've never thought of myself as a veryambitious person."
"Let us substitute for ambition common-sense," said old David. "I thinkyou have a great deal of common-sense for a woman--and so young a woman.How old are you by-the-way? Twenty-two? Yes, to be sure. I think youhave great common-sense and appreciation of values. And I think you'resingularly free of the emotionalism that so often plays hob with themall. People with common-sense fall in love in the right places."
"I don't quite like the sound of it," said Miss Benham. "Perhaps I amrather ambitious--I don't know. Yes, perhaps. I should like to play somepart in the world, I don't deny that. But--am I as cold as you say? Idoubt it very much. I doubt that."
"You're twenty-two," said her grandfather, "and you have seen a gooddeal of society in several capitals. Have you ever fallen in love?"
Oddly, the face of Ste. Marie came before Miss Benham's eyes as if shehad summoned it there. But she frowned a little and shook her head,saying:
"No, I can't say that I have. But that means nothing. There's plenty oftime for that. And you know," she said, after a pause--"you know I'mrather sure I could fall in love--pretty hard. I'm sure of that. PerhapsI have been waiting. Who knows?"
"Aye, who knows?" said David. He seemed all at once to lose interest inthe subject, as old people often do without apparent reason, for heremained silent for a long time, puffing at the long black cigar orrolling it absently between his fingers. After awhile he laid it down ina metal dish which stood at his elbow, and folded his lean hands beforehim over the invalid's table. He was still so long that at last hisgranddaughter thought he had fallen asleep, and she began to rise fromher seat, taking care to make no noise; but at that the old man stirredand put out his hand once more for the cigar. "Was young Richard Hartleyat your dinner-party?" he asked, and she said:
"Yes. Oh yes, he was there. He and M. Ste. Marie came together, Ibelieve. They are very close friends."
"Another idler," growled old David. "The fellow's a man of parts--and aman of family. What's he idling about here for? Why isn't he inParliament, where he belongs?"
"Well," said the girl, "I should think it is because he is too much aman of family--as you put it. You see, he'll succeed his cousin, LordRisdale, before very long, and then all his work would have been fornothing, because he'll have to take his seat in the Lords. Lord Risdaleis unmarried, you know, and a hopeless invalid. He may die any day. Ithink I sympathize with poor Mr. Hartley. It would be a pity to build upa career for one's self in the lower House, and then suddenly, in themidst of it, have to give it all up. The situation is rather paralyzingto endeavor, isn't it?"
"Yes, I dare say," said old David, absently. He looked up sharply."Young Hartley doesn't come here as much as he used to do."
"No," said Miss Benham, "he doesn't." She gave a little laugh. "To avoidcross-examination," she said, "I may as well admit that he asked me tomarry him and I had to refuse. I'm sorry, because I like him very much,indeed."
Old David made an inarticulate sound which may have been meant toexpress surprise--or almost anything else. He had not a great range ofexpression.
"I don't want," said he, "to seem to have gone daft on the subject ofmarriage, and I see no reason why you should be in any haste about it.Certainly I should hate to lose you, my child, but--Hartley as the nextLord Risdale is undoubtedly a good match. And you say you like him."
The girl looked up with a sort of defiance, and her face was a littleflushed.
"I don't love him," she said. "I like him immensely, but I don't lovehim, and, after all--well, you say I'm cold, and I admit I'm more orless ambitious, but, after all--well, I just don't quite love him. Iwant to love the man I marry."
Old David Stewart held up his black cigar and gazed thoughtfully at thesmoke which streamed thin and blue and veil-like from its lighted end.
"Love!" he said, in a reflective tone. "Love!" He repeated the word twoor three times slowly, and he stirred a little in his bed. "I haveforgotten what it is," said he. "I expect I must be very old. I haveforgotten what love--that sort of love--is like. It seems very far awayto me and rather unimportant. But I remember that I thought it importantenough once, a century or two ago. Do you know, it strikes me as ratherodd that I have forgotten what love is like. It strikes me as ratherpathetic." He gave a sort of uncouth grimace and stuck the black cigaronce more into his mouth. "Egad!" said he, mumbling indistinctly overthe cigar, "how foolish love seems when you look back at it across fiftyor sixty years!"
Miss Benham rose to her feet smiling, and she came and stood near wherethe old man lay propped up against his pillows. She touched his cheekwith her cool hand, and old David put up one of his own hands and pattedit.
"I'm going to bed now," said she. "I've sat here talking too long. Youought to be asleep, and so ought I."
"Perhaps! Perhaps!" the old man said. "I don't feel sleepy, though. Idare say I shall read a little." He held her hand in his and looked upat her.
"I've been talking a great deal of nonsense about marriage," said he."Put it out of your head! It's all nonsense. I don't want you to marryfor a long time. I don't want to lose you." His face twisted a little,quite suddenly. "You're precious near all I have left, now," he said.
The girl did not answer at once, for it seemed to her that there wasnothing to say. She knew that her grandfather was thinking of the lostboy, and she knew what a bitter blow the thing had been to him. Sheoften thought that it would kill him before his old malady could run itscourse.
But after a moment she said, very gently: "We won't give up hope. We'llnever give up hope. Think! he might come home to-morrow! Who knows?"
"If he has stayed away of his own accord," cried out old David Stewart,in a loud voice, "I'll never forgive him--not if he comes to meto-morrow on his knees! Not even if he comes to me on his knees!"
The girl bent over her grandfather, saying: "Hush! hush! You mustn'texcite yourself." But old David's gray face was working, and his eyesgleamed from their cavernous shadows with a savage fire.
"If the boy is staying away out of spite," he repeated, "he need nevercome back to me. I won't forgive him." He beat his unemployed hand uponthe table before him, and the things which lay there jumped and danced."And if he waits until I'm dead and then comes back," said he, "he'llfind he has made a mistake--a great mistake. He'll find a surprise instore for him, I can tell you that. I won't tell you what I have done,but it will be a disagreeable surprise for Master Arthur, you may besure."
The old gentleman fell to frowning and muttering in his cholericfashion, but the fierce glitter began to go out of his eyes and hishands ceased to tremble and clutch at the things before him. The girlwas silent, because again there seemed to her to be nothing that shecould say. She longed very much to plead her brother's cause, but shewas sure that would only excite her grandfather, and he was growingquieter after his burst of anger. She bent down over him and kissed hischeek.
"Try to go to sleep," she said. "And don't torture yourself withthinking about all this. I'm as sure that poor Arthur is not stayingaway out of spite as if he were myself. He's foolish and headstrong, buthe's not spiteful, dear. Try to believe that. And now I'm really going.Good-night.
" She kissed him again and slipped out of the room. And asshe closed the door she heard her grandfather pull the bell-cord whichhung beside him and summoned the excellent Peters from the room beyond.
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Jason: A Romance Page 4