He glanced up, smiling; then, as the wet kerchief against his forehead reddened, he started to rise, but she took it from his fingers, hastened to the water’s edge, rinsed it, and brought it back cold and wet.
“Please sit perfectly still,” she said; “a girl likes to do this sort of thing for a man.”
“If I’d known that,” he laughed, “I’d have had it happen frequently.”
She only shook her head, watching him unsmiling. But the pulse in her had become very quiet again.
“It’s no end of fun in that canoe,” he observed. “Gladys Orchil and I work it beautifully.”
“I saw you did,” she nodded.
“Oh! Where were you? Why didn’t you come?”
“I don’t know. Gladys called you. I was waiting for you — expecting you. Then Gladys called you.”
“I didn’t see you,” he said.
“I didn’t call you,” she observed serenely. And, after a moment: “Do you see only those who hail you, Captain Selwyn?”
He laughed: “In this life’s cruise a good sailor always answers a friendly hail.”
“So do I,” she said. “Please hail me after this — because I don’t care to take the initiative. If you neglect to do it, don’t count on my hailing you . . . any more.”
The stain spread on the kerchief; once more she went to the water’s edge, rinsed it, and returned with it.
“I think it has almost stopped bleeding,” she remarked as he laid the cloth against his forehead. “You frightened me, Captain Selwyn. I am not easily frightened.”
“I know it.”
“Did you know I was frightened?”
“Of course I did.”
“Oh,” she said, vexed, “how could you know it? I didn’t do anything silly, did I?”
“No; you very sensibly called me Philip. That’s how I knew you were frightened.”
A slow bright colour stained face and neck.
“So I was silly, after all,” she said, biting at her under lip and trying to meet his humorous gray eyes with unconcern. But her face was burning now, and, aware of it, she turned her gaze resolutely on the sea. Also, to her further annoyance, her heart awoke, beating unwarrantably, absurdly, until the dreadful idea seized her that he could hear it. Disconcerted, she stood up — a straight youthful figure against the sea. The wind blowing her dishevelled hair across her cheeks and shoulders, fluttered her clinging skirts as she rested both hands on her hips and slowly walked toward the water’s edge.
“Shall we swim?” he asked her.
She half turned and looked around and down at him.
“I’m all right; it’s stopped bleeding. Shall we?” he inquired, looking up at her. “You’ve got to wash your hair again, anyhow.”
She said, feeling suddenly stupid and childish, and knowing she was speaking stupidly: “Would you not rather join Gladys again? I thought that — that—”
“Thought what?”
“Nothing,” she said, furious at herself; “I am going to the showers. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” he said, troubled— “unless we walk to the pavilion together—”
“But you are going in again; are you not?”
“Not unless you do.”
“W-what have I to do with it, Captain Selwyn?”
“It’s a big ocean — and rather lonely without you,” he said so seriously that she looked around again and laughed.
“It’s full of pretty girls just now. Plunge in, my melancholy friend. The whole ocean is a dream of fair women to-day.”
“‘If they be not fair to me, what care I how fair they be,’” he paraphrased, springing to his feet and keeping step beside her.
“Really, that won’t do,” she said; “much moonlight and Gladys and the Minster twins convict you. Do you remember that I told you one day in early summer — that Sheila and Dorothy and Gladys would mark you for their own? Oh, my inconstant courtier, they are yonder! — And I absolve you. Adieu!”
“Do you remember what I told you — one day in early summer?” he returned coolly.
Her heart began its absurd beating again — but now there was no trace of pain in it — nothing of apprehension in the echo of the pulse either.
“You protested so many things, Captain Selwyn—”
“Yes; and one thing in particular. You’ve forgotten it, I see.” And he looked her in the eye.
“No,” she said, “you are wrong. I have not forgotten.”
“Nor I.”
He halted, looking out over the shining breakers. “I’m glad you have not forgotten what I said; because, you see, I’m forbidden to repeat it. So I shall be quite helpless to aid you in case your memory fails.”
“I don’t think it will fail,” she said, looking at the flashing sea. A curious tingling sensation of fright had seized her — something entirely unknown to her heretofore. She spoke again because frightened; the heavy, hard pulse in breast and throat played tricks with her voice and she swallowed and attempted to steady it: “I — if — if I ever forget, you will know it as soon as I do—”
Her throat seemed to close in a quick, unsteady breath; she halted, both small hands clinched:
“Don’t talk this way!” she said, exasperated under a rush of sensations utterly incomprehensible — stinging, confused emotions that beat chaotic time to the clamour of her pulses. “Why d-do you speak of such things?” she repeated with a fierce little indrawn breath— “why do you? — when you know — when I said — explained everything?” She looked at him fearfully: “You are somehow spoiling our friendship,” she said; “and I don’t exactly know how you are doing it, but something of the comfort of it is being taken away from me — and don’t! don’t! don’t do it!”
She covered her eyes with her clinched hands, stood a moment, motionless; then her arms dropped, and she turned sharply with a gesture which left him standing there and walked rapidly across the beach to the pavilion.
After a little while he followed, pursuing his way very leisurely to his own quarters. Half an hour later when she emerged with her maid, Selwyn was not waiting for her as usual; and, scarcely understanding that she was finding an excuse for lingering, she stood for ten minutes on the step of the Orchils’ touring-car, talking to Gladys about the lantern fête and dance to be given that night at Hitherwood House.
Evidently Selwyn had already gone home. Gerald came lagging up with Sheila Minster; but his sister did not ask him whether Selwyn had gone. Yesterday she would have done so; but to-day had brought to her the strangest sensation of her young life — a sudden and overpowering fear of a friend; and yet, strangest of all, the very friend she feared she was waiting for — contriving to find excuses to wait for. Surely he could not have finished dressing and have gone. He had never before done that. Why did he not come? It was late; people were leaving the pavilion; victorias and beach-phaetons were trundling off loaded to the water-line with fat dowagers; gay groups passed, hailing her or waving adieux; Drina drove up in her village-cart, calling out: “Are you coming, Eileen, or are you going to walk over? Hurry up! I’m hungry.”
“I’ll go with you,” she said, nodding adieu to Gladys; and she swung off the step and crossed the shell road.
“Jump in,” urged the child; “I’m in a dreadful hurry, and Odin can’t trot very fast.”
“I’d prefer to drive slowly,” said Miss Erroll in a colourless voice; and seated herself in the village-cart.
“Why must I drive slowly?” demanded the child. “I’m hungry; besides, I haven’t seen Boots this morning. I don’t want to drive slowly; must I?”
“Which are you most in a hurry for?” asked Eileen curiously; “luncheon or Boots?”
“Both — I don’t know. What a silly question. Boots of course! But I’m starving, too.”
“Boots? Of course?”
“Certainly. He always comes first — just like Captain Selwyn with you.”
“Like Captain Selwyn with me,” she repeated absently; “certa
inly; Captain Selwyn should be first, everything else second. But how did you find out that, Drina?”
“Why, anybody can see that,” said the child contemptuously; “you are as fast friends with Uncle Philip as I am with Boots. And why you don’t marry him I can’t see — unless you’re not old enough. Are you?”
“Yes. . . . I am old enough, dear.”
“Then why don’t you? If I was old enough to marry Boots I’d do it. Why don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” said Miss Erroll, as though speaking to herself.
Drina glanced at her, then flourished her be-ribboned whip, which whistling threat had no perceptible effect on the fat, red, Norwegian pony.
“I’ll tell you what,” said the child, “if you don’t ask Uncle Philip pretty soon somebody will ask him first, and you’ll be too late. As soon as I saw Boots I knew that I wanted him for myself, and I told him so. He said he was very glad I had spoken, because he was expecting a proposal by wireless from the young Sultana-elect of Leyte. Now,” added the child with satisfaction, “she can’t have him. It’s better to be in time, you see.”
Eileen nodded: “Yes, it is better to be in plenty of time. You can’t tell what Sultana may forestall you.”
“So you’ll tell him, won’t you?” inquired Drina with business-like briskness.
Miss Erroll looked absently at her: “Tell who what?”
“Uncle Philip — that you’re going to marry him when you’re old enough.”
“Yes — when I’m old enough — I’ll tell him, Drina.”
“Oh, no; I mean you’ll marry him when you’re old enough, but you’d better tell him right away.”
“I see; I’d better speak immediately. Thank you, dear, for suggesting it.”
“You’re quite welcome,” said the child seriously; “and I hope you’ll be as happy as I am.”
“I hope so,” said Eileen as the pony-cart drew up by the veranda and a groom took the pony’s head.
Luncheon being the children’s hour, Miss Erroll’s silence remained unnoticed in the jolly uproar; besides, Gerald and Boots were discussing the huge house-party, lantern fête, and dance which the Orchils were giving that night for the younger sets; and Selwyn, too, seemed to take unusual interest in the discussion, though Eileen’s part in the conference was limited to an occasional nod or monosyllable.
Drina was wild to go and furious at not having been asked, but when Boots offered to stay home, she resolutely refused to accept the sacrifice.
“No,” she said; “they are pigs not to ask girls of my age, but you may go, Boots, and I’ll promise not to be unhappy.” And she leaned over and added in a whisper to Eileen: “You see how sensible it is to make arrangements beforehand! Because somebody, grown-up, might take him away at this very party. That’s the reason why it is best to speak promptly. Please pass me another peach, Eileen.”
“What are you two children whispering about?” inquired Selwyn, glancing at Eileen.
“Oho!” exclaimed Drina; “you may know before long! May he not, Eileen? It’s about you,” she said; “something splendid that somebody is going to do to you! Isn’t it, Eileen?”
Miss Erroll looked smilingly at Selwyn, a gay jest on her lips; but the sudden clamour of pulses in her throat closed her lips, cutting the phrase in two, and the same strange fright seized her — an utterly unreasoning fear of him.
At the same moment Mrs. Gerard gave the rising signal, and Selwyn was swept away in the rushing herd of children, out on to the veranda, where for a while he smoked and drew pictures for the younger Gerards. Later, some of the children were packed off for a nap; Billy with his assorted puppies went away with Drina and Boots, ever hopeful of a fox or rabbit; Nina Gerard curled herself up in a hammock, and Selwyn seated himself beside her, an uncut magazine on his knees. Eileen had disappeared.
For a while Nina swung there in silence, her pretty eyes fixed on her brother. He had nearly finished cutting the leaves of the magazine before she spoke, mentioning the fact of Rosamund Fane’s arrival at the Minsters’ house, Brookminster.
The slightest frown gathered and passed from her brother’s sun-bronzed forehead, but he made no comment.
“Mr. Neergard is a guest, too,” she observed.
“What?” exclaimed Selwyn, in disgust.
“Yes; he came ashore with the Fanes.”
Selwyn flushed a little but went on cutting the pages of the magazine. When he had finished he flattened the pages between both covers, and said, without raising his eyes:
“I’m sorry that crowd is to be in evidence.”
“They always are and always will be,” smiled his sister.
He looked up at her: “Do you mean that anybody else is a guest at Brookminster?”
“Yes, Phil.”
“Alixe?”
“Yes.”
He looked down at the book on his knees and began to furrow the pages absently.
“Phil,” she said, “have you heard anything this summer — lately — about the Ruthvens?”
“No.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Not a word.”
“You knew they were at Newport as usual.”
“I took it for granted.”
“And you have heard no rumours? — no gossip concerning them? Nothing about a yacht?”
“Where was I to hear it? What gossip? What yacht?”
His sister said very seriously: “Alixe has been very careless.”
“Everybody is. What of it?”
“It is understood that she and Jack Ruthven have separated.”
He looked up quickly: “Who told you that?”
“A woman wrote me from Newport. . . . And Alixe is here and Jack Ruthven is in New York. Several people have — I have heard about it from several sources. I’m afraid it’s true, Phil.”
They looked into each other’s troubled eyes; and he said: “If she has done this it is the worse of two evils she has chosen. To live with him was bad enough, but this is the limit.”
“I know it. She cannot afford to do such a thing again. . . . Phil, what is the matter with her? She simply cannot be sane and do such a thing — can she?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Well, I do. She is not sane. She has made herself horridly conspicuous among conspicuous people; she has been indiscreet to the outer edge of effrontery. Even that set won’t stand it always — especially as their men folk are quite crazy about her, and she leads a train of them about wherever she goes — the little fool!
“And now, if it’s true, that there’s to be a separation — what on earth will become of her? I ask you, Phil, for I don’t know. But men know what becomes eventually of women who slap the world across the face with over-ringed fingers.
“If — if there’s any talk about it — if there’s newspaper talk — if there’s a divorce — who will ask her to their houses? Who will condone this thing? Who will tolerate it, or her? Men — and men only — the odious sort that fawn on her now and follow her about half-sneeringly. They’ll tolerate it; but their wives won’t; and the kind of women who will receive and tolerate her are not included in my personal experience. What a fool she has been! — good heavens, what a fool!”
A trifle paler than usual, he said: “There is no real harm in her. I know there is not.”
“You are very generous, Phil—”
“No, I am trying to be truthful. And I say there is no harm in her. I have made up my mind on that score.” He leaned nearer his sister and laid one hand on hers where it lay across the hammock’s edge:
“Nina; no woman could have done what she has done, and continue to do what she does, and be mentally sound. This, at last, is my conclusion.”
“It has long been my conclusion,” she said under her breath.
He stared at the floor out of gray eyes grown dull and hopeless.
“Phil,” whispered his sister, “suppose — suppose — what happened to her father—”
�
�I know.”
She said again: “It was slow at first, a brilliant eccentricity — that gradually became — something else less pleasant. Oh, Phil! Phil!”
“It was softening of the brain,” he said, “was it not?”
“Yes — he entertained a delusion of conspiracy against him — also a complacent conviction of the mental instability of others. Yet, at intervals he remained clever and witty and charming.”
“And then?”
“Phil — he became violent at times.”
“Yes. And the end?” he asked quietly.
“A little child again — quite happy and content — playing with toys — very gentle, very pitiable—” The hot tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Phil!” she sobbed and hid her face on his shoulder.
Over the soft, faintly fragrant hair he stared stupidly, lips apart, chin loose.
A little later, Nina sat up in the hammock, daintily effacing the traces of tears. Selwyn was saying: “If this is so, that Ruthven man has got to stand by her. Where could she go — if such trouble is to come upon her? To whom can she turn if not to him? He is responsible for her — doubly so, if her condition is to be — that! By every law of manhood he is bound to stand by her now; by every law of decency and humanity he cannot desert her now. If she does these — these indiscreet things — and if he knows she is not altogether mentally responsible — he cannot fail to stand by her! How can he, in God’s name!”
“Phil,” she said, “you speak like a man, but she has no man to stand loyally by her in the direst need a human soul may know. He is only a thing — no man at all — only a loathsome accident of animated decadence.”
He looked up quickly, amazed at her sudden bitterness; and she looked back at him almost fiercely.
“I may as well tell you what I’ve heard,” she said; “I was not going to, at first; but it will be all around town sooner or later. Rosamund told me. She learned — as she manages to learn everything a little before anybody else hears of it — that Jack Ruthven found out that Alixe was behaving very carelessly with some man — some silly, callow, and probably harmless youth. But there was a disgraceful scene on Mr. Neergard’s yacht, the Niobrara. I don’t know who the people were, but Ruthven acted abominably. . . . The Niobrara anchored in Widgeon Bay yesterday; and Alixe is aboard, and her husband is in New York, and Rosamund says he means to divorce her in one way or another! Ugh! the horrible little man with his rings and bangles!”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 351