“Ricky,” she said, “I didn’t come here to quarrel with you over an Englishman who — of whom I — have my personal opinion.”
He laughed, leaned over and deliberately patted her fat wrist; and she glared at him somewhat as a tigress inspects a favourite but overgrown and presuming cub.
“I don’t know why you came,” he said, “but it was nice of you anyway and I am glad to see you.”
“If that’s true,” she said, “you’re one of mighty few. The joy which people feel in my presence is usually exhibited when I’m safely out of their houses, or they are out of mine.”
She laughed at that; and he did too; and she gulped her glass of water empty and refused more.
“Ricky,” she began abruptly, “you’ve been up to that Witch-Hollow place of Molly’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what the devil is going on there?”
“Aviation,” he said blandly.
“What else? Don’t evade an answer! I can’t get anything out of that little idiot, Molly; I can’t worm anything out of Sir Charles; I can’t learn anything from Strelsa Leeds; and as for Langly he won’t even answer my letters.
“Now I want to know what is going on there? I’ve been as short with Strelsa as I dare be — she’s got to be led with sugar. I’ve almost ordered her to come to me at Newport — but she doesn’t come.”
“She’s resting,” said Quarren coolly.
“Hasn’t she had time to rest in that dingy, dead-and-alive place? And what keeps Langly there? He has nothing to look at except a few brood-mares. Do you suppose he has the bad taste to hang around waiting for Chester Ledwith to get out and Mary Ledwith to return? Or is it something else that glues him there — with the Yulan in the North River?”
Quarren shrugged his lack of interest in the subject.
“If I thought,” muttered the old lady— “if I imagined for one moment that Langly was daring to try any of his low, cold-blooded tricks on Strelsa Leeds, I’d go up there myself — I’d take the next train and tell that girl plainly what kind of a citizen my charming nephew really is!”
Quarren was silent.
“Why the dickens don’t you say something?” she demanded. “I want to know whether I ought to go up there or not. Have you ever observed — have you ever suspected that there might be anything between Langly and Strelsa Leeds? — any tacit understanding — any interest on her part in him?... Why don’t you answer me?”
“You know,” he said, “that it’s none of your business what I believe.”
“Am I to take that impudence literally?”
“Exactly as I said it. You asked improper questions; I am obliged to remind you that you cannot expect me to answer them.”
“Why can’t you speak of Langly?”
“Because what concerns him does not concern me.”
“I thought you were in love with Strelsa,” she said bluntly.
“If I were, do you imagine I’d discuss it with you?”
“I’ll tell you what!” she shouted, purple with rage, “you might do a damn sight worse! I’d — I’d rather see her your wife than his! — and God knows what he wants of her at that — as Mary Ledwith has first call or the world will turn Langly out of doors!”
Quarren, slightly paler, looked at her in silence.
“I tell you the world will spit in his face,” she said between her teeth, “if he doesn’t make good with Mary Ledwith after what he’s done to her and her husband.”
“He has too much money,” said Quarren. “Besides there’s an ordinance against it.”
“You watch and see! Some things are too rotten to be endured — —”
“What? I haven’t noticed any either abroad or here. Anyway it doesn’t concern me.”
“Don’t you care for that girl?”
“We are friends.”
“Friends, eh!” she mimicked him wickedly, plying her fan like a madwoman; “well I fancy I know what sort of friendship has made you look ten years older in half a year. Oh, Ricky, Ricky!” — she added with an abrupt change of feeling— “I’m sorry for you. I like you even when you are impertinent to me — and you know I do! But I — my heart is set on her marrying Sir Charles. You know it is. Could anything on earth be more suitable? — happier for her as well as for him? Isn’t he a man where Langly is a — a toad, a cold-blooded worm! — a — a thing!
“I tell you my heart’s set on it; there is nothing else interests me; I think of nothing else, care for nothing else — —”
“Why?”
“What?” she said, suddenly on her guard.
“Why do you care for it so much?”
“Why? That is an absurd question.”
“Then answer it without taking time to search for any reason except the real one.”
“Ricky, you insolent — —”
“Never mind. Answer me; why are you so absorbed in this marriage?”
She said with a calmly contemptuous shrug: “Because Sir Charles is deeply in love with her, and I am fond of them both.”
“Is that sufficient reason for such strenuous and persistent efforts on your part?”
“That — and hatred for Langly,” she said stolidly.
“Just those three reasons?”
“Certainly. Just those three.”
He shook his head.
“Do you disbelieve me?” she demanded.
“I am compelled to — knowing that never in all your life have you made the slightest effort in behalf of friendship — never inconvenienced yourself in the least for the sake of anybody on earth.”
She stared at him, amazed, then angry, then burst into a loud laugh; but, even while laughing her fat features suddenly altered as though pain had cut mirth short.
“What is the matter?” he said.
“Nothing.... You are the matter.... I’ve always been fool enough to take you for a fool. You were the only one among us clever enough to read us and remain unread. God! If only some of us could see what we look like in the archives of your brain!... Let it go at that; I don’t care what I look like as long as it’s a friendly hand that draws my features.... I’m an old woman, remember.... And it is a friendly pencil you wield, isn’t it, Ricky?”
“Yes.”
“I believe it. I never knew you to do or say a deliberately unkind thing. I never knew you to abuse a confidence, either.... And you were the receptacle for many — Heaven only knows how many trivial, petty, miserable little intrigues you were made aware of, or how many secret kindnesses you have done.... Let that go, too. I want to tell you something.”
She motioned him nearer; she was too stout to lean far forward: and he placed his chair beside hers.
“Do you know where and when Sir Charles first saw Strelsa Leeds?”
“Yes.”
“In Egypt. She was the wife of the charming and accomplished Reggie at the time.”
“I know.”
“Did you know that Sir Charles fell in love with her then? That he never forgot her? That when Reggie finally took his last header into the ditch he had been riding for, Sir Charles came to me in America and asked what was best to do? That on my advice he waited until I managed to draw the girl out of her retirement? That then, on my advice, he returned to America to offer himself when the proper time arrived? Did you know these things, Rix?”
“No,” he said.
“Then you know them now.”
“Yes, I—” he hesitated, looking straight at her in silence. And after a while a slight colour not due to the heat deepened the florid hue of her features.
“I knew Sir Charles’s father,” she said in a voice so modulated — a voice so unexpected and almost pretty, that he could scarcely believe it was she who had spoken.
“You said,” she went on under her breath, “that in all my life friendship has never inspired in me a kindly action. You are wrong, Rix. In the matter of this marriage my only inspiration is friendship — the friendship I had for a man who is dead...
. Sir Charles is his only son.”
Quarren looked at her in silence.
“I was young once, Ricky. I suppose you can scarcely believe that. Life and youth began early for me — and lasted a little more than a year — and then they both burnt out in my heart — leaving the rest of me alive — this dross!—” She touched herself on her bosom, then lowered her eyes, and sat thinking for a while.
Daisy walked into the room and seated herself in a bar of sunlight, pleasantly blinking her yellow eyes. Mrs. Sprowl glanced at her absently, and they eyed each other in silence.
Then the larger of the pair drew a thick, uneasy breath, looked up at Quarren, all the cunning and hardness gone from her heavy features.
“I’ve only been trying to do for a dead man’s son what might have pleased that man were he alive,” she said. “Sir Charles was a little lad when he died. But he left a letter for him to read when he was grown up. I never saw the letter, but Sir Charles has told me that, in it, his father spoke — amiably — of me and said that in me his son would always find a friend.... That is all, Rix. Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“Then — should I go to Witch-Hollow?”
“I can’t answer you.”
“Why?”
“Because — because I care for her too much. And I can do absolutely nothing for her. I could not swerve her or direct her. She alone knows what is in her heart and mind to do. I cannot alter it. She will act according to her strength; none can do otherwise.... And she is tired to the very soul.... You tell me that life and youth in you died within a year’s space. I believe it.... But with her it took two years to die. And then it died.... Let her alone, in God’s name! The child is weary of pursuit, deathly weary of importunity — tired, sad, frightened at the disaster to her fortune. Let her alone. If she marries it will be because of physical strength lacking — strength of character, of mind — perhaps moral, perhaps spiritual strength — I don’t know. All I know is that no man or woman can help her, because the world has bruised her too long and she’s afraid of it.”
For a long while Mrs. Sprowl sat there in silence; then:
“It is strange,” she mused, “that Strelsa should be afraid of Sir Charles.”
“I don’t think she is.”
“Then why on earth won’t she marry him? He is richer than Langly!”
Quarren looked at her oddly:
“But Sir Charles is her friend, you see. And so am I.... Friends do not make a convenience of one another.”
“She could learn to love him. He is a lovable fellow.”
“I think,” said Quarren, “that she has given to him and to me all that there is in her to give to any man. And so, perhaps, she could not make the convenience of a husband out of either of us.”
“What a twisted, ridiculous, morbid — —”
“Let her alone,” he said gently.
“Very well.... But I’ll be hanged if I let Langly alone! He’s still got me to deal with, thank God! — whatever he dares do to Mary Ledwith — whatever he has done to that wretched creature Chester Ledwith — he’s still got a perfectly vigorous aunt to reckon with. And we’ll see,” she added— “we’ll see what can be done — —”
The front door opened noisily.
“That’s Dankmere,” he said. “If you are not going to be civil to him hadn’t you better go?”
“I’ll be civil to him,” she snorted, “but I’m going anyway. Good-bye, Ricky. I’ll buy a picture of you when the weather’s cooler.... How-de-do!” — as his lordship entered looking rather hot and mussy— “Hope your venture into the realms of art will prove successful, Lord Dankmere. Really, Rix, I must be going — if you’ll call my man — —”
“I’ll take you down,” he said, smilingly offering his support.
So Mrs. Sprowl rolled away in her motor, and Quarren came back, wearied with the perplexities and strain of life, to face once more the lesser problems of the immediate present: one of them was an ancient panel in the basement, and he went downstairs to solve it, leaving Dankmere sorting out old prints and Jessie Vining, who had just returned, writing business letters on her machine.
There were not many business letters to write — one to the Metropolitan Museum people declining to present them with a charming little picture by Netscher which they wanted but did not wish to pay for; one to the Worcester Museum advising that progressive institution that, at the request of their director, four canvases had been shipped to them for inspection; several letters enclosing photographs of pictures desired by foreign experts; and a notification to one or two local millionaires that the Dankmere Galleries never shaded prices or exchanged canvases.
Having accomplished the last of the day’s work remaining up to that particular minute, Jessie Vining leaned back in her chair, rubbed her pretty eyes, glanced partly around toward Lord Dankmere but checked herself, and, with her lips the slightest shade pursed up into a hint of primness, picked up the library novel which she had been reading during intervals of leisure.
It was mainly about a British Peer. The Peer did not resemble Dankmere in any particular; she had already noticed that. And now, as she read on, and, naturally enough, compared the ideal peer with the real one, the difference became painfully plain to her.
Could that short young man in rather mussy summer clothes, sorting prints over there, be a peer of the British realm? Was this young man, whom she had seen turning handsprings on the grass in the backyard, a belted Earl?
In spite of herself her short upper lip curled slightly as she turned from her book to glance at him. He looked up at the same moment, and smiled on meeting her eye — such a kindly yet diffident smile that she blushed a trifle.
“I say, Miss Vining, I’ve gone over all these prints and I can’t find one that resembles the Hogarth portrait — if it is a Hogarth.”
“Mr. Quarren thinks it is.”
“I daresay he’s quite right, but there’s nothing here to prove it”; and he slapped the huge portfolio shut, laid his hands on the table, vaulted to the top of it, and sat down. Miss Vining resumed her reading.
“Miss Vining?”
“Yes?” very leisurely.
“How old do you think I am?”
“I beg your pardon — —”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Really I hadn’t thought about it, Lord Dankmere.”
“Oh.”
Miss Vining resumed her reading.
When the Earl had sat on top of the table long enough he got down and dropped into the depths of an armchair.
“Miss Vining,” he said.
“Yes?” incuriously.
“Have you thought it out yet?”
“Thought out what, Lord Dankmere?”
“How old I am.”
“Really,” she retorted, half laughing, half vexed, “do you suppose that my mind is occupied in wondering what your age might be?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Of course not.”
“Don’t you want to know?”
She began to laugh again:
“Why, if you wish to tell me of course it will interest me most profoundly.” And she made him a graceful little bow.
“I’m thirty-three,” he said.
“Thank you so much for telling me.”
“You are welcome,” he returned gravely. “Do you think I’m too old?”
“Too old for what?”
“Oh, for anything interesting.”
“What do you mean by ‘interesting’?”
But Lord Dankmere apparently did not know what he did mean for he made no answer.
After a little while he said: “Wouldn’t it be odd if I ever have income enough to pay off my debts?”
“What?”
He repeated the observation.
“I don’t know what you mean. You naturally expect to pay them, don’t you?”
“I saw no chance of doing so before Mr. Quarren took hold of these pictures.”
&
nbsp; She was sorry for him:
“Are you very deeply in debt?”
He named the total of his liabilities and she straightened her young shoulders, horrified.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said. “I know plenty of chaps in England who are far worse off.”
“But — that is terrible!” she faltered.
Dankmere waved his hand:
“It’s not so bad. That show business let me in for a lot.”
“Why did you ever do it?”
“I like it,” he explained simply.
She flushed: “It seems strange for a — a man of your kind to sing comic songs and dance before an audience.”
“Not at all. I’ve a friend, Exford by name — who goes about grinding a barrel-organ.”
“Why?”
“He likes to do it.... I’ve another pal of sorts who chucked the Guards to become a milliner. He always did like to crochet and trim hats. Why not? — if he likes it!”
“It is not,” said Jessie Vining, “my idea of a British peer.”
“But for Heaven’s sake, consider the peer! Now and then they have an idea of what they’d like to do. Why not let them do it and be happy?”
“Then they ought not to have been born to the peerage,” she said firmly.
“Many of them wouldn’t have been had anybody consulted them.”
“You?”
“It’s brought me nothing but debt, ridicule, abuse, and summonses.”
“You couldn’t resign, could you?” she said, smiling.
“I am resigned. Oh, well, I’d rather be what I am than anything else, I fancy.... If the Topeka Museum trustees purchase that Gainsborough I’ll be out of debt fast enough.”
“And then?” she inquired, still smiling.
“I don’t know. I’d like to start another show.”
“And leave Mr. Quarren?”
“What use am I? We’d share alike; he’d manage the business and I’d manage a musical comedy I’m writing after hours — —”
He jumped up and went to the piano where for the next ten minutes he rattled off some lively and very commonplace music which to Jessie Vining sounded like everything she had ever before heard.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 606