He was deadly weary of Silverwood, but too lazy to leave; and it made him think of the laziest dog on record, who yelped all day because he had sat down on a tack and was too lazy to get up.
So it was not until the middle of Christmas week that Desboro summoned up sufficient energy to start for New York. And when at last he was on the train, he made up his mind that he wouldn’t return to Silverwood in a hurry.
But that plan was one of the mice-like plans men make so confidently under the eternal skies.
CHAPTER II
Desboro arrived in town on a late train. It was raining, so he drove to his rooms, exchanged his overcoat for a raincoat, and went out into the downpour again, undisturbed, disdaining an umbrella.
In a quarter of an hour’s vigorous walking he came to the celebrated antique shop of Louis Nevers, and entered, letting in a gust of wind and rain at his heels.
Everywhere in the semi-gloom of the place objects loomed mysteriously, their outlines lost in shadow except where, here and there, a gleam of wintry daylight touched a jewel or fell across some gilded god, lotus-throned, brooding alone.
When Desboro’s eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, he saw that there was armour there, complete suits, Spanish and Milanese, and an odd Morion or two; and there were jewels in old-time settings, tapestries, silver, ivories, Hispano-Moresque lustre, jades, crystals.
The subdued splendour of Chinese and Japanese armour, lacquered in turquoise, and scarlet and gold, glimmered on lay figures masked by grotesque helmets; an Ispahan rug, softly luminous, trailed across a table beside him, and on it lay a dead Sultan’s scimitar, curved like the new moon, its slim blade inset with magic characters, the hilt wrought as delicately as the folded frond of a fern, graceful, exquisite, gem-incrusted.
There were a few people about the shop, customers and clerks, moving shapes in the dull light. Presently a little old salesman wearing a skull cap approached him.
“Rainy weather for Christmas week, sir. Can I be of service?”
“Thanks,” said Desboro. “I came here by appointment on a matter of private business.”
“Certainly, sir. I think Miss Nevers is not engaged. Kindly give me your card and I will find out.”
“But I wish to see Mr. Nevers himself.”
“Mr. Nevers is dead, sir.”
“Oh! I didn’t know — —”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Nevers died two years ago.” And, as Desboro remained silent and thoughtful: “Perhaps you might wish to see Miss Nevers? She has charge of everything now, including all our confidential affairs.”
“No doubt,” said Desboro pleasantly, “but this is an affair requiring personal judgment and expert advice — —”
“I understand, sir. The gentlemen who came to see Mr. Nevers about matters requiring expert opinions now consult Miss Nevers personally.”
“Who is Miss Nevers?”
“His daughter, sir.” He added, with quaint pride: “The great jewelers of Fifth Avenue consult her; experts in our business often seek her advice. The Museum authorities have been pleased to speak highly of her monograph on Hurtado de Mendoza.”
Desboro hesitated for a moment, then gave his card to the old salesman, who trotted away with it down the unlighted vista of the shop.
The young man’s pleasantly indifferent glance rested on one object after another, not unintelligently, but without particular interest. Yet there were some very wonderful and very rare and beautiful things to be seen in the celebrated shop of the late Jean Louis Nevers.
So he stood, leaning on his walking stick, the upturned collar of his raincoat framing a face which was too colourless and worn for a man of his age; and presently the little old salesman came trotting back, the tassel on his neat silk cap bobbing with every step.
“Miss Nevers will be very glad to see you in her private office. This way, if you please, sir.”
Desboro followed to the rear of the long, dusky shop, turned to the left through two more rooms full of shadowy objects dimly discerned, then traversed a tiled passage to where electric lights burned over a doorway.
The old man opened the door; Desboro entered and found himself in a square picture gallery, lighted from above, and hung all around with dark velvet curtains to protect the pictures on sale. As he closed the door behind him a woman at a distant desk turned her head, but remained seated, pen poised, looking across the room at him as he advanced. Her black gown blended so deceptively with the hangings that at first he could distinguish only the white face and throat and hands against the shadows behind her.
“Will you kindly announce me to Miss Nevers?” he said, looking around for a chair.
“I am Miss Nevers.”
She closed the ledger in which she had been writing, laid aside her pen and rose. As she came forward he found himself looking at a tall girl, slim to thinness, except for the rounded oval of her face under a loose crown of yellow hair, from which a stray lock sagged untidily, curling across her cheek.
He thought: “A blue-stocking prodigy of learning, with her hair in a mess, and painted at that.” But he said politely, yet with that hint of idle amusement in his voice which often sounded through his speech with women:
“Are you the Miss Nevers who has taken over this antique business, and who writes monographs on Hurtado de Mendoza?”
“Yes.”
“You appear to be very young to succeed such a distinguished authority as your father, Miss Nevers.”
His observation did not seem to disturb her, nor did the faintest hint of mockery in his pleasant voice. She waited quietly for him to state his business.
He said: “I came here to ask somebody’s advice about engaging an expert to appraise and catalogue my collection.”
And even while he was speaking he was conscious that never before had he seen such a white skin and such red lips — if they were natural. And he began to think that they might be.
He said, noticing the bright lock astray on her cheek once more:
“I suppose that I may speak to you in confidence — just as I would have spoken to your father.”
She was still looking at him with the charm of youthful inquiry in her eyes.
“Certainly,” she said.
She glanced down at his card which still lay on her blotter, stood a moment with her hand resting on the desk, then indicated a chair at her elbow and seated herself.
He took the chair.
“I wrote you that I’d drop in sometime this week. The note was directed to your father. I did not know he was not living.”
“You are the Mr. Desboro who owns the collection of armour?” she asked.
“I am that James Philip Desboro who lives at Silverwood,” he said. “Evidently you have heard of the Desboro collection of arms and armour.”
“Everybody has, I think.”
He said, carelessly: “Museums, amateur collectors, and students know it, and I suppose most dealers in antiques have heard of it.”
“Yes, all of them, I believe.”
“My house,” he went on, “Silverwood, is in darkest Westchester, and my recent grandfather, who made the collection, built a wing to contain it. It’s there as he left it. My father made no additions to it. Nor,” he added, “have I. Now I want to ask you whether a lot of those things have not increased in value since my grandfather’s day?”
“No doubt.”
“And the collection is valuable?”
“I think it must be — very.”
“And to determine its value I ought to have an expert go there and catalogue it and appraise it?”
“Certainly.”
“Who? That’s what I’ve come here to find out.”
“Perhaps you might wish us to do it.”
“Is that still part of your business?”
“It is.”
“Well,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “I am going to sell the Desboro collection.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, under her breath; and loo
ked up to find him surprised and beginning to be amused again.
“Your attitude is not very professional — for a dealer in antiques,” he said quizzically.
“I am something else, too, Mr. Desboro.” She had flushed a little, not responding to his lighter tone.
“I am very sure you are,” he said. “Those who really know about and care for such collections must feel sorry to see them dispersed.”
“I had hoped that the Museum might have the Desboro collection some day,” she said, in a low voice.
He said: “I am sorry it is not to be so,” and had the grace to redden a trifle.
She played with her pen, waiting for him to continue; and she was so young, and fresh, and pretty that he was in no hurry to finish. Besides, there was something about her face that had been interesting him — an expression which made him think sometimes that she was smiling, or on the verge of it. But the slightly upcurled corners of her mouth had been fashioned so by her Maker, or perhaps had become so from some inborn gaiety of heart, leaving a faint, sweet imprint on her lips.
To watch her was becoming a pleasure. He wondered what her smile might be like — all the while pretending an absent-minded air which cloaked his idle curiosity.
She waited, undisturbed, for him to come to some conclusion. And all the while he was thinking that her lips were perhaps just a trifle too full — that there was more of Aphrodite in her face than of any saint he remembered; but her figure was thin enough for any saint. Perhaps a course of banquets — perhaps a régime under a diet list warranted to improve ——
“Did you ever see the Desboro collection, Miss Nevers?” he asked vaguely.
“No.”
“What expert will you send to catalogue and appraise it?”
“I could go.”
“You!” he said, surprised and smiling.
“That is my profession.”
“I knew, of course, that it was your father’s. But I never supposed that you — —”
“Did you wish to have an appraisement made, Mr. Desboro?” she interrupted dryly.
“Why, yes, I suppose so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know what to ask for anything.”
“Have you really decided to sell that superb collection?” she demanded.
“What else can I do?” he inquired gayly. “I suppose the Museum ought to have it, but I can’t afford to give it away or to keep it. In other words — and brutal ones — I need money.”
She said gravely: “I am sorry.”
And he knew she didn’t mean that she was sorry because he needed money, but because the Museum was not to have the arms, armour, jades, and ivories. Yet, somehow, her “I am sorry” sounded rather sweet to him.
For a while he sat silent, one knee crossed over the other, twisting the silver crook of his stick. From moment to moment she raised her eyes from the blotter to let them rest inquiringly on him, then went on tracing arabesques over her blotter with an inkless pen. One slender hand was bracketed on her hip, and he noticed the fingers, smooth and rounded as a child’s. Nor could he keep his eyes from her profile, with its delicate, short nose, ever so slightly arched, and its lips, just a trifle too sensuous — and that soft lock astray again against her cheek. No, her hair was not dyed, either. And it was as though she divined his thought, for she looked up suddenly from her blotter and he instantly gazed elsewhere, feeling guilty and impertinent — sentiments not often experienced by that young man.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Miss Nevers,” he concluded, “I’ll write you a letter to my housekeeper, Mrs. Quant. Shall I? And you’ll go up and look over the collection and let me know what you think of it!”
“Do you not expect to be there?”
“Ought I to be?”
“I really can’t answer you, but it seems to me rather important that the owner of a collection should be present when the appraiser begins work.”
“The fact is,” he said, “I’m booked for a silly shooting trip. I’m supposed to start to-morrow.”
“Then perhaps you had better write the letter. My full name is Jacqueline Nevers — if you require it. You may use my desk.”
She rose; he thanked her, seated himself, and began a letter to Mrs. Quant, charging her to admit, entertain, and otherwise particularly cherish one Miss Jacqueline Nevers, and give her the keys to the armoury.
While he was busy, Jacqueline Nevers paced the room backward and forward, her pretty head thoughtfully bent, hands clasped behind her, moving leisurely, absorbed in her cogitations.
Desboro ended his letter and sat for a moment watching her until, happening to glance at him, she discovered his idleness.
“Have you finished?” she asked.
A trifle out of countenance he rose and explained that he had, and laid the letter on her blotter. Realising that she was expecting him to take his leave, he also realised that he didn’t want to. And he began to spar with Destiny for time.
“I suppose this matter will require several visits from you,” he inquired.
“Yes, several.”
“It takes some time to catalogue and appraise such a collection, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She answered him very sweetly but impersonally, and there seemed to be in her brief replies no encouragement for him to linger. So he started to pick up his hat, thinking as fast as he could all the while; and his facile wits saved him at the last moment.
“Well, upon my word!” he exclaimed. “Do you know that you and I have not yet discussed terms?”
“We make our usual charges,” she said.
“And what are those?”
She explained briefly.
“That is for cataloguing and appraising only?”
“Yes.”
“And if you sell the collection?”
“We take our usual commission.”
“And you think you can sell it for me?”
“I’ll have to — won’t I?”
He laughed. “But can you?”
“Yes.”
As the curt affirmative fell from her lips, suddenly, under all her delicate, youthful charm, Desboro divined the note of hidden strength, the self-confidence of capability — oddly at variance with her allure of lovely immaturity. Yet he might have surmised it, for though her figure was that of a girl, her face, for all its soft, fresh beauty, was a woman’s, and already firmly moulded in noble lines which even the scarlet fulness of the lips could not deny. For if she had the mouth of Aphrodite, she had her brow, also.
He had not been able to make her smile, although the upcurled corners of her mouth seemed always to promise something. He wondered what her expression might be like when animated — even annoyed. And his idle curiosity led him on to the edges of impertinence.
“May I say something that I have in mind and not offend you?” he asked.
“Yes — if you wish.” She lifted her eyes.
“Do you think you are old enough and experienced enough to catalogue and appraise such an important collection as this one? I thought perhaps you might prefer not to take such a responsibility upon yourself, but would rather choose to employ some veteran expert.”
She was silent.
“Have I offended you?”
She walked slowly to the end of the room, turned, and, passing him a third time, looked up at him and laughed — a most enchanting little laugh — a revelation as delightful as it was unexpected.
“I believe you really want to do it yourself!” he exclaimed.
“Want to? I’m dying to! I don’t think there is anything in the world I had rather try!” she said, with a sudden flush and sparkle of recklessness that transfigured her. “Do you suppose anybody in my business would willingly miss the chance of personally handling such a transaction? Of course I want to. Not only because it would be a most creditable transaction for this house — not only because it would be a profitable business undertaking, but” — and the swift, engaging smile parted her lips once more— “in a way I feel as
though my own ability had been questioned — —”
“By me?” he protested. “Did I actually dare question your ability?”
“Something very like it. So, naturally, I would seize an opportunity to vindicate myself — if you offer it — —”
“I do offer it,” he said.
“I accept.”
There was a moment’s indecisive silence. He picked up his hat and stick, lingering still; then:
“Good-bye, Miss Nevers. When are you going up to Silverwood?”
“To-morrow, if it is quite convenient.”
“Entirely. I may be there. Perhaps I can fix it — put off that shooting party for a day or two.”
“I hope so.”
“I hope so, too.”
He walked reluctantly toward the door, turned and came all the way back.
“Perhaps you had rather I remained away from Silverwood.”
“Why?”
“But, of course,” he said, “there is a nice old housekeeper there, and a lot of servants — —”
She laughed. “Thank you very much, Mr. Desboro. It is very nice of you, but I had not considered that at all. Business women must disregard such conventions, if they’re to compete with men. I’d like you to be there, because I may have questions to ask.”
“Certainly — it’s very good of you. I — I’ll try to be there — —”
“Because I might have some very important questions to ask you,” she repeated.
“Of course. I’ve got to be there. Haven’t I?”
“It might be better for your interests.”
“Then I’ll be there. Well, good-bye, Miss Nevers.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Desboro.”
“And thank you for undertaking it,” he said cordially.
“Thank you for asking me.”
“Oh, I’m — I’m really delighted. It’s most kind of you. Good-bye, Miss Nevers.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Desboro.”
He had to go that time; and he went still retaining a confused vision of blue eyes and vivid lips, and of a single lock of hair astray once more across a smooth, white cheek.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 634