Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  ‘Well,’ said Mr. Van Torp, ‘I suppose I could. I should be a little shy before you,’ he added, quite naturally. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go and stand before the window so that I can’t see you. Perhaps I can manage it that way.’

  Margaret, who was bored to the verge of collapse on the off-days, thought him much nicer than he had formerly been, and she liked his perfect simplicity.

  ‘Stand anywhere you like,’ she said, ‘but let me hear the tune.’

  Van Torp rose and went to the window and she looked quietly at his square figure and his massive, sandy head and his strong neck. Presently he began to whistle, very softly and perfectly in tune. Many a street-boy could do as well, no doubt, and Mrs. Rushmore would have called it a vulgar accomplishment, but the magnificent Primadonna was too true a musician, as well as a singer, not to take pleasure in a sweet sound, even if it were produced by a street-boy.

  But as Mr. Van Torp went on, she opened her eyes very wide and held her breath. There was no mistake about it; he was whistling long pieces from Parsifal, as far as it was possible to convey an idea of such music by such means. Margaret had studied it before coming to Bayreuth, in order to understand it better; she had now already heard it once, and had felt the greatest musical emotion of her life — one that had stirred other emotions, too, strange ones quite new to her.

  She held her breath and listened, and her eyes that had been wide open in astonishment, slowly closed again in pleasure, and presently, when he reached the ‘Good Friday’ music, her own matchless voice floated out with her unconscious breath, in such perfect octaves with his high whistling that at first he did not understand; but when he did, the rough hard man shivered suddenly and steadied himself against the window-sill, and Margaret’s voice went on alone, with faintly breathed words and then without them, following the instrumentation to the end of the scene, beyond what he had ever heard.

  Then there was silence in the room, and neither of the two moved for some moments, but at last Van Torp turned, and came back.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, in a low voice.

  Margaret smiled and passed her hand over her eyes quickly, as if to dispel a vision she had seen. Then she spoke.

  ‘Do you really not know what that music is?’ she asked. ‘Really, really?’

  ‘Oh, quite honestly I don’t!’

  ‘You’re not joking? You’re not laughing at me?’

  ‘I?’ He could not understand. ‘I shouldn’t dare!’ he said.

  ‘You’ve been whistling some of Parsifal, some of the most beautiful music that ever was written — and you whistle marvellously, for it’s anything but easy! Where in the world did you learn it? Don’t tell me that those are “old tunes” you picked up on a Californian ranch!’

  ‘It’s true, all the same,’ Van Torp answered.

  He told her of the two foreigners who used to whistle together in the evenings, and how one was supposed to have been shot and the other had disappeared, no one had known whither, nor had cared.

  ‘All sorts of young fellows used to drift out there,’ he said, ‘and one couldn’t tell where they came from, though I can give a guess at where some of them must have been, since I’ve seen the world. There were younger sons of English gentlemen, fellows whose fathers were genuine lords, maybe, who had not brains enough to get into the army or the Church. There were cashiered Prussian officers, and Frenchmen who had most likely killed women out of jealousy, and Sicilian bandits, and broken Society men from New York. There were all sorts. And there was me. And we all spoke different kinds of English and had different kinds of tastes, good and bad — mostly bad. There was only one thing we could all do alike, and that was to ride.’

  ‘I never thought of you as riding,’ Margaret said.

  ‘Well, why should you? But I can, because I was just a common cow-boy and had to, for a living.’

  ‘It’s intensely interesting — what a strange life you have had! Tell me more about yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘There’s not much to tell, it seems to me,’ said Van Torp. ‘From being a cow-boy I turned into a miner, and struck a little silver, and I sold that and got into nickel, and I made the Nickel Trust what it is, more by financing it than anything else, and I got almost all of it. And now I’ve sold the whole thing.’

  ‘Sold the Nickel Trust?’ Margaret was quite as much surprised as Lady Maud had been.

  ‘Yes. I wasn’t made to do one thing long, I suppose. If I were, I should still be a cow-boy. Just now, I’m here to go to Parsifal, and since you say those tunes are out of that opera, I daresay I’m going to like it very much.’

  ‘It’s all very uncanny,’ Margaret said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder who those two men were, and what became of the one who disappeared.’

  ‘I’ve a strong impression that I saw him in New York the other day,’ Van Torp answered. ‘If I’m right, he’s made money — doing quite well, I should think. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear he’d got together a million or so.’

  ‘Really? What is he doing? Your stories grow more and more interesting!’

  ‘If he’s the fellow we used to call Levi Longlegs on the ranch, he’s a Russian now. I’m not perfectly sure, for he had no hair on his face then, and now he has a beard like a French sapper. But the eyes and the nose and the voice and the accent are the same, and the age would about correspond. Handsome man, I suppose you’d call him. His name is Kralinsky just at present, and he’s found a whole mine of rubies somewhere.’

  ‘Really? I love rubies. They are my favourite stones.’

  ‘Are they? That’s funny. I’ve got an uncut one in my pocket now, if you’d like to see it. I believe it comes from Kralinsky’s mine, too, though I got it through a friend of yours, two or three days ago.’

  ‘A friend of mine?’

  He was poking his large fingers into one of the pockets of his waistcoat in search of the stone.

  ‘Mr. Logotheti,’ he said, just as he found it. ‘He’s discovered a handsome young woman from Tartary or somewhere, who has a few rubies to sell that look very much like Kralinsky’s. This is one of them.’

  He had unwrapped the stone now and he offered it to her, holding it out in the palm of his hand. She took it delicately and laid it in her own, which was so white that the gem shed a delicate pomegranate-coloured light on the skin all round it. She admired it, turned it over with one finger, held it up towards the window, and laid it in her palm again.

  But Van Torp had set her thinking about Logotheti and the Tartar girl. She put out her hand to give back the ruby.

  ‘I should like you to keep it, if you will,’ he said. ‘I shan’t forget the pleasure I’ve had in seeing you like this, but you’ll forget all about our meeting here — the stone may just make you remember it sometimes.’

  He spoke so quietly, so gently, that she was taken off her guard, and was touched, and very much surprised to feel that she was. She looked into his eyes rather cautiously, remembering well how she had formerly seen something terrifying in them if she looked an instant too long; but now they made her think of the eyes of a large affectionate bulldog.

  ‘You’re very kind to want to give it to me,’ she answered after a moment’s hesitation, ‘but I don’t like to accept anything so valuable, now that I’m engaged to be married. Konstantin might not like it. But you’re so kind; give me any little thing of no value that you have in your pocket, for I mean to remember this day, indeed I do!’

  ‘I gave nothing for the ruby,’ said Van Torp, still not taking it from her, ‘so it has no value for me. I wouldn’t offer you anything that cost me money, now, unless it was a theatre for your own. Perhaps the thing’s glass, after all; I’ve not shown it to any jeweller. The girl made me take it, because I helped her in a sort of way. When I wanted to pay for it she tried to throw it out of the window. So I had to accept it to calm her down, and she went off and left no address, and I thought I’d like you to have it, if you would.’

  ‘Are you quite, q
uite sure you did not pay for it?’ Margaret asked. ‘If we are going to be friends, you must please always be very accurate.’

  ‘I’ve told you exactly what happened,’ said Van Torp. ‘Won’t you take it now?’

  ‘Yes, I will, and thank you very much indeed. I love rubies, and this is a beauty, and not preposterously big. I think I shall have it set as it is, uncut, and only polished, so that it will always be itself, just as you gave it to me. I shall think of the “Good Friday” music and the Chimes, and this hideous little room, and your clever whistling, whenever I look at it.’

  ‘You’re kind to-day,’ said Mr. Van Torp, after a moment’s debate as to whether he should say anything at all.

  ‘Am I? You mean that I used to be very disagreeable, don’t you?’ She smiled as she glanced at him. ‘I must have been, I’m sure, for you used to frighten me ever so much. But I’m not in the least afraid of you now!’

  ‘Why should any one be afraid of me?’ asked Van Torp, whose mere smile had been known to terrify Wall Street when a ‘drop’ was expected.

  Margaret laughed a little, without looking at him.

  ‘Tell me all about the Tartar girl,’ she said, instead of answering his question.

  She would not have been the thoroughly feminine woman she was — far more feminine, in the simple human sense, than Lady Maud — if she had not felt satisfaction in having tamed the formidable money-wolf so that he fawned at her feet; but perhaps she was even more pleased, or amused, than she thought she could be by any such success. The man was so very much stronger and rougher than any other man with whom she had ever been acquainted, and she had once believed him to be such a thorough brute, that this final conquest flattered her vanity. The more dangerous the character of the wild beast, the greater the merit of the lion-tamer who subdues him.

  ‘Tell me about this handsome Tartar girl,’ she said again.

  Van Torp told her Baraka’s history, as far as he knew it from Logotheti.

  ‘I never heard such an amusing set of stories as you are telling me to-day,’ she said.

  ‘That particular one is Logotheti’s,’ he answered, ‘and he can probably tell you much more about the girl.’

  ‘Is she really very pretty?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Van Torp, quoting a saying of his favourite great man, ‘for people who like that kind of thing, I should think that would be the kind of thing they’d like.’

  The Primadonna smiled.

  ‘Can you describe her?’ she asked.

  ‘Did you ever read a fairy story about a mouse that could turn into a tiger when it liked?’ inquired the American in a tone of profound meditation, as if he were contemplating a vision which Margaret could not see.

  ‘No,’ said she, ‘I never did.’

  ‘I don’t think I ever did, either. But there might be a fairy story about that, mightn’t there?’ Margaret nodded, with an expression of displeased interest, and he went on: ‘Well, it describes Miss Barrack to a T. Yes, that’s what I call her. She’s put “Barak” on her business card, whatever that means in a Christian language; but when I found out it was a girl, I christened her Miss Barrack. People have to have names of some kind if you’re going to talk about them. But that’s a digression. Pardon me. You’d like a description of the young person. I’m just thinking.’

  ‘How did you find out she was a girl?’ Margaret asked, and her tone was suddenly hard.

  Mr. Van Torp was not prepared for the question, and felt very uncomfortable for a moment. In his conversation with women he was almost morbidly prudish about everything which had the remotest connexion with sex. He wondered how he could convey to Margaret the information that when he had been obliged to carry the pretended boy across the room, he had been instantly and palpably convinced that he was carrying a girl.

  ‘It was a question of form, you see,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘Form? Formality? I don’t understand.’ Margaret was really puzzled.

  ‘No, no!’ Mr. Van Torp was actually blushing. ‘I mean his form — or her form — —’

  ‘Oh, her figure? You merely guessed it was a girl in boy’s clothes?’

  ‘Certainly. Yes. Only, you see, he had a kind of fit — the boy did — and I thought he was going to faint, so I picked him up and carried him to a sofa, and — well, you understand, Miss Donne. I knew I hadn’t got a boy in my arms, that’s all.’

  ‘I should think so!’ assented the Englishwoman— ‘I’m sure I should! When you found out she was a girl, how did she strike you?’

  ‘Very attractive, I should say; very attractive,’ he repeated with more emphasis. ‘People who admire brunettes might think her quite fascinating. She has really extraordinary eyes, to begin with, those long fruity Eastern eyes, you know, that can look so far to the right and left through their eyelashes. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Perfectly. You make it very clear. Go on, please.’

  ‘Her eyes — yes.’ Mr. Van Torp appeared to be thinking again. ‘Well, there was her complexion, too. It’s first-rate for a dark girl. Ever been in a first-class dairy? Do you know the colour of Alderney cream when it’s ready to be skimmed? Her complexion’s just like that, and when she’s angry, it’s as if you squeezed the juice of about one red currant into the whole pan of cream. Not more than one, I should think. See what I mean?’

  ‘Yes. She must be awfully pretty. Tell me more. Has she nice hair? Even teeth?’

  ‘I should think she had!’ answered Mr. Van Torp, with even more enthusiasm than he had shown yet. ‘They’re as small and even and white as if somebody had gone to work and carved them all around half a new billiard ball, not separate, you understand, but all in one piece. Very pretty mouth they make, with those rather broiled-salmon-coloured lips she has, and a little chin that points up, as if she could hold her own. She can, too. Her hair? Well, you see, she’s cut it short, to be a boy, but it’s as thick as a beaver’s fur, I should say, and pretty black. It’s a silky kind of hair, that looks alive. You know what I mean, I daresay. Some brunettes’ hair looks coarse and dusky, like horsehair, but hers isn’t that kind, and it makes a sort of reflection in the sun, the way a young raven’s wing-feathers do, if you understand.’

  ‘You’re describing a raving beauty, it seems to me.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said the American innocently. ‘Now if our friend Griggs, the novelist, were here, he’d find all the right words and things, but I can only tell you just what I saw.’

  ‘You tell it uncommonly well!’ Margaret’s face expressed anything but pleasure. ‘Is she tall?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell, in men’s clothes. Three inches shorter than I am, maybe. I’m a middle-sized man, I suppose. I used to be five feet ten in my shoes. She may be five feet seven, not more.’

  ‘But that’s tall for a woman!’

  ‘Is it?’ Mr. Van Torp’s tone expressed an innocent indifference.

  ‘Yes. Has she nice hands?’

  ‘I didn’t notice her hands. Oh, yes, I remember!’ he exclaimed, suddenly correcting himself. ‘I did notice them. She held up that ruby to the light and I happened to look at her fingers. Small, well-shaped fingers, tapering nicely, but with a sort of firm look about them that you don’t often see in a woman’s hands. You’ve got it, too.’

  ‘Have I?’ Margaret looked down at her right hand. ‘But, of course, hers are smaller than mine,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you see, Orientals almost all have very small hands and feet — too small, I call them — little tiny feet like mice.’

  Margaret’s own were well-shaped, but by no means small.

  ‘The girl is in London, you say?’ Her tone made a question of the statement.

  ‘She was there two days ago, when I left. At least, she had been to see me that very morning. Almost as soon as she was gone I went out, and in the first shop I looked into I met Logotheti. It was Pinney’s, the jeweller’s, I remember, for I bought a collar stud. We came away together and walked some time, and he t
old me the Tartar girl’s story. I asked him to dine to-day, but I was obliged to leave town suddenly, and so I had to put him off with a note. I daresay he’s still in London.’

  ‘I daresay he is,’ Margaret repeated, and rising suddenly she went to the window.

  Mr. Van Torp rose too, and thought of what he should say in taking his leave of her, for he felt that he had stayed long enough. Strange to say, too, he was examining his not very sensitive conscience to ascertain whether he had said anything not strictly true, but he easily satisfied himself that he had not. If all was fair in love and war, as the proverb said, it was certainly permissible to make use of the plain truth.

  The Primadonna was still looking out of the window when the door opened and her English maid appeared on the threshold. Margaret turned at the sound.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘There’s Mr. Van Torp’s man, ma’am,’ answered Potts. ‘He wants to speak to his master at once.’

  ‘You had better tell him to come up,’ Margaret answered. ‘You may just as well see him here without going all the way downstairs,’ she said, speaking to Van Torp.

  ‘You’re very kind, I’m sure,’ he replied; ‘but I think I’d better be going anyway.’

  ‘No, don’t go yet, please! There’s something else I want to say. See your man here while I go and speak to Mrs. Rushmore. Send Mr. Van Torp’s man up, Potts,’ she added, and left the room.

  The American walked up and down alone for a few moments. Then the impassive Stemp was ushered in by the maid, and the door was shut again.

  ‘Well?’ inquired Mr. Van Torp. ‘Has anything happened?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Stemp answered. ‘They have turned us out of the house, sir, and your luggage is in the street. Where shall I have it taken, sir?’

  ‘Oh, they’ve turned us out, have they? Why?’

  ‘Well, sir, I’m afraid it’s partly my fault, but there must be some misunderstanding, for I’m quite sure I didn’t whistle in your room, sir.’