But the Pages had retired to dress, and Voucher was for motoring, and he had no use for his wife, and he was afraid of Plank’s game, and Siward, seated on the edge of the pool and sharing a pint of ginger-ale with Sylvia Landis, shook his head at the suggestion and resumed his division of the ginger-ale.
Plank and Leila Mortimer came down to congratulate them. Sylvia, always instinctively and particularly nice to people of Plank’s sort whom she occasionally encountered, was so faultlessly amiable, that Plank, who had never before permitted himself the privilege of monopolising her, found himself doing it so easily that it kept him in a state of persistent mental intoxication.
That slow, sweet, upward training inflection to a statement which instantly became a confided question was an unconscious trick which had been responsible, in Sylvia’s brief life, for more mistakes than anything else. Like others before him, Beverly Plank made the mistake that the sweetness of voice and the friendliness of eyes were particularly personal to him, in tribute to qualities he had foolishly enough hitherto not suspected in himself. Now he suspected them, and whatever of real qualities desirable had been latent in him also appeared at once, confirming his modest suspicions. Certainly he was a wit! Was not this perfectly charming girl’s responsive and delicious laughter proof enough? Certainly he was epigrammatic! Certainly he could be easy, polished, amusing, sympathetic, and vastly interesting all the while. Could he not divine it in her undivided attention, the quick, amused flicker of recognition animating her beautiful face when he had turned a particularly successful phrase or taken a verbal hurdle without a cropper? And above all, her kindness to him impressed him; her natural and friendly pleasure in being agreeable. Here he was already on an informal footing with one of the persons of whom he had been most shy and uncertain. If people were going to be as considerate of him as she had proved, why — why —
His dull, Dutch-blue eyes returned to her, fascinated. The conquest of what he desired and meant to have became merged in a vague plan which included such a marriage as he had dreamed of.
Somebody had once told him that a man who could afford to dress for dinner could go anywhere; meaning that, being a man, nature had fitted his feet with the paraphernalia for climbing as high as he cared to climb.
There was just enough truth in the statement to determine him to use his climbing irons; and he had done so, carrying his fortune with him, which had proved neither an impediment nor an aid so far. But now he had concluded that neither his god-sent climbing irons, his amiability, his obstinacy, his mild, tireless persistency, nor his money counted. It had come to a crisis where personal worth and sterling character must carry him through sheer merit to the inner temple — that inner temple of raw gold whose altars are served by a sexless skeleton in cap and bells!
Siward, inclined to be amused by the duration of the trance into which Plank had fallen, watched the progress of that bulky young man’s infatuation as he sat there on the pool’s marble edge, exchanging trivial views on trivial subjects with Mrs. Leroy Mortimer.
But her conversation, even when inconsequential, was never wearisome except when she made it so for her husband’s benefit. Features, person, personality, and temperament were warmly exotic; her dark eyes with their slight Japanese slant, the clear olive skin with its rose bloom, the temptation of mouth and slender neck, were always provocative of the audacity in men which she could so well meet with amusement or surprise, or at times with a fascinating audacity of her own wholly charming because of its setting.
Once, in their history, during her early married life, Siward had been very sentimental about her; but neither he nor she had approached the danger line closer than to make daring eyes at one another across the frontiers of good taste. And their youthful enchantment had faded so naturally, so pleasantly, that always there had remained to them both an agreeable after-taste — a sort of gay understanding which almost invariably led to mutual banter when they encountered. But now something appeared to be lacking in their rather listless badinage — something of the usual flavour which once had salted even a laughing silence with significance. Siward, too, had ceased to be amused at the spectacle of Plank’s calf-like infatuation; and Leila Mortimer’s bored smile had lasted so long that her olive-pink cheeks were stiff, and she relaxed her fixed features with a little shrug that was also something of a shiver. Then, looking prudently around, she encountered Siward’s eyes; and during a moment’s hesitation they considered one another with an increasing curiosity that slowly became tentative intelligence. And her eyes said very plainly and wickedly to Siward’s: “Oho, my friend! So it bores you to see Mr. Plank monopolising an engaged girl who belongs to Howard Quarrier!”
And his eyes, wincing, denying, pretending ignorance too late, suddenly narrowed in vexed retaliation: “Speak for yourself, my lady! You’re no more pleased than I am!”
The next moment they both regretted the pale flash of telepathy. There had been something wounded in his eyes; and she had not meant that. No; a new charity for the hapless had softened her wonderfully within a fortnight’s time, and a self-pity, not entirely ignoble, had subdued the brilliancy of her dark eyes, and made her tongue more gentle in dealing with all failings. Besides, she was not yet perfectly certain what ailed her, never having really cared for any one man before. No, she was not at all certain.... But in the meanwhile she was very sorry for herself, and for all those who drained the bitter cup that might yet pass from her shrinking lips. Who knows! “Stephen,” she said under her breath, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.... Don’t scowl. Listen. I have already entirely forgotten the nature of my offense. Pax, if you please.”
He refused to understand; and she understood that, too; and she gazed critically upon Sylvia Landis as a very young mother might inspect a rival infant with whom her matchless offspring was coquetting.
Then, without appearing to, she took Plank away from temptation; so skilfully that nobody except Siward understood that the young man had been incontinently removed. He, Plank, never doubting that he was a perfectly free agent, decided that the time had arrived for triumphant retirement. It had; but Leila Mortimer, not he, had rendered the decision, and so cleverly that it appeared even to Plank himself that he had dragged her off with him rather masterfully. Clearly he was becoming a devil of a fellow!
Sylvia turned to Siward, glanced up at him, hesitated, and began to laugh consciously:
“What do you think of my latest sentimental acquisition?”
“He’d be an ornament to a stock farm,” replied Siward, out of humour.
“How brutal you can be!” she mused, smiling.
“Nonsense! He’s a plain bounder, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know.... Is he? He struck me a trifle appealingly — even pathetically; they usually do, that sort.... As though the trouble they took could ever be worth the time they lose!... There are dozens of men I know who are far less presentable than this highly coloured and robust young human being; and yet they are part of the accomplished scheme of things — like degenerate horses, you know — always pathetic to me; but they’re still horses, for all that. Quid rides? Species of the same genus can cross, of course, but I had rather be a donkey than a mule. ...And if I were a donkey I’d sing and cavort with my own kind, and let horses flourish their own heels inside the accomplished scheme of things.... Now I have been brutal. But — I’m easily coloured by my environment.”
She sat, smiling maliciously down at the water, smoothing out the soaked skirt of her swimming suit, and swinging her legs reflectively.
“Are you reconciled?” she asked presently.
“To what?”
“To leaving Shotover. To-day is our last day, you know. To-morrow we all go; and next day these familiar walls will ring with other voices, my poor friend:
“‘Yon rising moon that looks for us again — How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter, rising, look for us Through this same mansion — and for one in vain!’”
“That i
s I — the one, you know. You may be here again; but I — I shall not be I if I ever come to Shotover again.”
Her stockinged heels beat the devil’s tattoo against the marble sides of the pool. She reached up above her head, drawing down a flowering branch of Japanese orange, and caressed her delicate nose with the white blossoms, dreamily, then, mischievously: “I’m accustoming myself to this most significant perfume,” she said, looking at him askance. And she deliberately hummed the wedding march, watching the colour rise in his sullen face.
“If you had the courage of a sparrow you’d make life worth something for us both,” he said.
“I know it; I haven’t; but I seem to possess the remainder of his lordship’s traits — inconsequence, self-centred selfishness, the instinct for Fifth Avenue nest-building — all the feathered vices, all the unlovely personality and futility and uselessness of my prototype.... Only, as you observe, I lack the quality of courage.”
“I don’t know how much courage it requires to do what you’re going to do,” he said sulkily.
“Don’t you? Sometimes, when you wear a scowl like that, I think that it may require no more courage than I am capable of.... And sometimes — I don’t know.”
She crossed her knees, one slender ankle imprisoned in her hand, leaning forward thoughtfully above the water.
“Our last day,” she mused; “for we shall never be just you and I again — never again, my friend, after we leave this rocky coast of Eden. ...I shall have hints of you in the sea-wind and the sound of the sea; in the perfume of autumn woods, in the whisper of stirring leaves when the white birches put on their gold crowns next year.” She smiled, turning to him, a little gravely: “When the Lesser Children return with April, I shall not forget you, Mr. Siward, nor forget your mercy of a day on them; nor your comradeship, nor your sweetness to me.... Nor your charity for me, nor all that you overlook so far in me, — under the glamour of a spell that seems to hold you still, and that still holds me.... I can answer for my constancy so far, until one more spring and summer have come and gone — until one more autumn comes, and while it lasts — as long as any semblance of the setting remains which had once framed you; I can answer for my constancy as long as that.... Afterwards, the snow! — symbol of our separation. I am to be married a year from November first.”
He looked up at her in dark surprise, for he had heard that their wedding date had been set for the coming winter.
“A year’s engagement?” he repeated, unconvinced.
“It was my wish. I think that is sufficient for everybody concerned.” Then, averting her face, which had suddenly lost a little of its colour: “A year is little enough,” she said impatiently. “I — what has happened to us requires an interval — a decent interval for its burial.... Death is respectable in any form. What dies between you and me can have no resurrection under the snow.... So I bring to the burial my tribute — a year of life, a year of constancy, my friend; symbol of an eternity I could have given you had I been worth it.” She looked up, flushed, the forced smile stamped on lips still trembling. “Sentiment in such a woman as I! ‘A spectacle for Gods and men,’ you are saying — are you not? And perhaps sentiment with me is only an ancient instinct, a latent ancestral quality for which I, ages later, have no use.” She was laughing easily. “No use for sentiment, as our bodies have no use for that fashionable little cul-de-sac, you know, though wise men say it once served its purpose, too.... Stephen Siward, what do you think of me now?”
“I am learning,” he replied simply.
“What, if you please?”
“Learning a little about what I am losing.”
“You mean — me?”
“Yes.”
She bent forward impulsively, balancing her body on the pool’s rim with both arms, dropping her knee until her ankles swung interlocked above the water. “Listen,” she said in a low, distinct voice: “What you lose is no other man’s gain! If I warm and expand in your presence — if I say clever things sometimes — if I am intelligent, sympathetic, and amusing — it is because of you. You inspire it in me. Normally I am the sort of girl you first met at the station. I tell you that I don’t know myself now — that I have not known myself since I knew you. Qualities of understanding, ability to appreciate, to express myself without employing the commonplaces, subtleties of intercourse — all, maybe, were latent in me, but sterile, until you came into my life.... And when you go, then, lacking impulse and incentive, the new facility, the new sensitive alertness, the unconscious self-confidence, all will smoulder and die out in me.... I know it; I realise that it was due to you — part of me that I should never have known, of which I should have remained totally ignorant, had it not blossomed suddenly, stimulated by you alone.”
Slowly the clouded seriousness of her blue eyes cleared, and the smile began to glimmer again. “That is your revenge; you recommit me to my commonplace self; you restore me to my tinsel career, practically a dolt. Shame on you, Stephen Siward, to treat a poor girl so!... But it’s just as well. Blunted perceptions, according to our needs, you know; and so life is tempered for us all, else we might not endure it long.... A pleasantly morbid suggestion for a day like this, is it not?... Shall we take a farewell plunge, and dress? You know we say good-bye to-morrow.”
“Where do you go from here?”
“To Lenox; the Claymores have asked us for a week; after that, Hot Springs for another two weeks or so; after that, to Oyster Bay.... Mr. Quarrier opens his house on Sedge Point,” she added demurely, “but I don’t think he expects to invite you to ‘The Sedges.’”
“How long do you stay there?” asked Siward irritably.
“Until we go to town in December.”
“What will you find to do all that time in Oyster Bay?” he asked more irritably.
“What a premature question! The yacht is there. Besides, there’s the usual neighbourhood hunting, with the usual packs and inevitable set; the usual steeple-chasing; the usual exchange of social amenities; the usual driving and riding; the usual, my poor friend, the usual, in all its uncompromising certainty.... And what are you to do?”
“When?”
“After you leave here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where you are going?”
“I’m going to town.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, but haven’t you been asked somewhere? You have, of course.”
“Yes, and I have declined.”
“Matters of business,” she inferred. “Too bad!”
“Oh, no.”
“Then,” she concluded, laughing, “you don’t care to tell me where you are going.”
“No,” he said thoughtfully, “I don’t care to tell you.”
She laughed again carelessly, and, placing one hand on the tiled pavement, sprang lightly to her feet.
“A last plunge?” she asked, as he rose at her side.
“Yes, one last plunge together. Deep! Are you ready?”
She raised her white arms above her head, finger-tips joined, poised an instant on the brink, swaying forward; then, at his brief word, they flashed downward together, cutting the crystalline sea-water, shooting like great fish over the glass-tiled bed, shoulder to shoulder under the water; and opening their eyes, they turned toward one another with a swift outstretch of hands, an uncontrollable touch of lips, the very shadow of contact; then cleaving upward, rising to the surface to lie breathlessly floating, arms extended, and the sun filtering down through the ground-glass roof above.
“We are perfectly crazy,” she breathed. “I’m quite mad; I see that. On land it’s bad enough for us to misbehave; but submarine sentiment! We’ll be growing scales and tails presently.... Did you ever hear of a Southern bird — a sort of hawk, I think — that almost never alights; that lives and eats and sleeps its whole life away on the wing? and even its courtship, and its honeymoon? Grace Ferrall pointed one out to me last winter, nea
r Palm Beach — a slender bird, part black, part snowy white, with long, pointed, delicate wings like an enormous swallow; and all day, all night, it floats and soars and drifts in the upper air, never resting, never alighting except during its brief nesting season.... Think of the exquisite bliss of drifting one’s life through in mid-air — to sleep, balanced on light wings, upborne by invisible currents flowing under the stars — to sail dreamily through the long sunshine, to float under the moon!... And at last, I suppose, when its time has come, down it whirls out of the sky, stone dead!... There is something thrilling in such a death — something magnificent.... And in the exquisitely spiritual honeymoon, vague as the shadow of a rainbow, is the very essence and aroma of that impalpable Paradise we women prophesy in dreams!... More sentiment! Heigho! My brother is the weeping crocodile, and the five winds are my wits.... Shall we dress? Even with a maid and the electric air-blast it will take time to dry my hair and dress it.”
When he came out of his dressing-room she was apparently still in the hands of the maid. So he sauntered through the house as far as the library, and drawing a cheque-book from one pocket, fished out a memorandum-book from another, and began to cast up totals with a view to learning something about the various debts contracted at Shotover.
He seemed to owe everybody. Fortune had smitten him hip and thigh; and, a trifle concerned, he began covering a pad with figures until he knew where he stood. Then he drew a considerable cheque to Major Belwether’s order, another to Alderdene. Others followed to other people for various amounts; and he was very busily at work when, aware of another presence near, he turned around in his chair. Sylvia Landis was writing at a desk in the corner, and she looked up, nodding the little greeting that she always reserved for him even after five minutes’ separation.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 295