CHAPTER VIII
PEACOCKS AND IVORY
"Sophy, do you remember the night we talked it over, and decided tocome here, and you were afraid of the new soil's effect uponyourself?"
"Of course. Why?"
"Oh, because."
"Because why?"
"Just because.--I wish to gracious you had a little saving vanity,Sophy Smith!"
"And what, then, is _this_?" I asked ironically, and rustled myskirts. For the Westmacotes were to arrive that night, in time fordinner, and I, standing before the mirror in my room, was whatAlicia called "really dressed" for the first time in my life.
"From your point of view, this is a business necessity. From mine,it is applied morality. Why, Sophy, you're _stunning_! Here, sitdown: I have to loosen up that hair a bit."
"Now!" said she, when she had critically surveyed her finished workand found it good, "Now, Sophy Smith, you are no longer efficientand utilitarian; you are effective and decorative, thank heaven!"
Really, clothes do make a tremendous difference, after all. Why,I--Well, I no longer looked root-bound.
"I said you'd put out new leaves and begin to bloom!" Aliciaexulted. We bowed to the Sophy in the glass, a small and slenderperson with quantities of fair hair, a round white chin, and steadyblue eyes. For the rest, she had a short nose and the rather widemouth of a boy. She wasn't what you'd call a beautiful person, butshe wasn't displeasing to the eye.
"_Vale_, plain Sophy Smith!" cried Alicia, "_Ave_, dear Lady ofHynds House! We who about to live salute you!"
The Westmacotes were delighted with Alicia. The Head had noticed herjust about as much as a Head notices a pale file-clerk in a whiteshirt-waist and a black skirt. This radiant rose-maiden--"littleDawn-rose," old Riedriech called her--was new to him; and so, Ifancy, was a Miss Smith in such a frock as I was wearing. He, aswell as his wife and Miss Phelps-Parsons, accepted us at ourface-value, with the background of Hynds House outlining us.
Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons was a lady with a soul. She said shehad psychic consciousness and a clear green aura, and that she hadbeen an Egyptian priestess in Thebes, in the time of Sesostris. Inproof of this she showed us a fine little bronze Osiris holding awhip in one hand and the ankh in the other. ("My dear, the moment Isaw him, I knew I had once prayed to him!") and she always wore ascarab ring. She had bought both in an antique-shop just offWashington Street. I thought this rather a far cry from Thebes,myself, but The Author insisted that if a Theban vestal of the timeof Sesostris _had_ to reincarnate, she would naturally andinevitably come to life a Boston one.
The Author hadn't taken any too kindly to the notion of other peoplecoming to Hynds House. He grumbled that he had hoped he had at lastfound a quiet haven, a place that fitted him like a glove; heprotested piercingly against having it "cluttered up withuninteresting, gobbling, gabbling, ordinary people."
"You came too late. You should have been here with Great-AuntSophronisba," Alicia told him, tartly. "You'd have been idealcompanions, both of you beware-of-the-doggy, hair-trigger-tempery,all-to-your-selfish."
The Author gasped, and rubbed his eyes. Never, never, in all hispampered life, had one so spoken to him.
"Why, of all the cheek!" exploded The Author. "Am I to be floutedthus by a piece of pink-and-whiteness just escaped from the nurserypap-spoon?"
"Out of the mouths of babes--" insinuated Alicia.
The Author grinned. And his grin is redeeming.
"Sweet-and near-twenty," he explained. "I am not exactlyall-to-myselfish, but I demand plenty of elbow-room in my existence.Generally speaking, my own society bores me less than the society ofthe mutable many. I like Hynds House. And I like you two women. Youare not tiresome to the ear, wearisome to the mind, nor displeasingto the eye. I am even sensible of a distinct feeling of satisfactionin knowing that you are somewhere around the house. You belong. ButI'm hanged if I want to see strangers come in. I object tostrangers. Why are strangers necessary?"
"For the same reason that you were."
"I?" The Author's eyebrows were almost lost in his hair. "My dear,deluded child, I knew this house, and you, and Sophy Smith, beforeyou were born! I knew you," The Author declared unblushingly,"before _I_ was born! Now, am I a stranger?"
"Then you ought to know why Sophy and I have just got to havepeople, the sort of people who are coming." She paused. "_We_haven't best-seller royalties piled up to the roof!"
"No," said The Author, bitterly, "but I have. That's why I amforever plagued with strangers. That's why, when I discover a placeand people that suit me to perfection, I can't keep 'em to myself!Oh, da--drat it all, anyhow!"
"But they aren't coming to see you. They're coming to see HyndsHouse," Alicia reminded him soothingly. "Besides, I don't thinkthey're the sort of folks that care much for authors," she finished,encouragingly.
"They'll care about _me_" grumbled The Author glumly. "But let 'emcome and be hanged to them! I shall take--"
"Soothing syrup?"
"Long walks!" snarled The Author. "I shall work all night and beinvisible all day."
The Westmacotes, as Alicia said, didn't greatly care for authors,though they sat up and took polite notice of this one. (One owedthat to one's self-respect.) Only Miss Emmeline paid more thanpassing attention to him, though her interest really centered in Mr.Nicholas Jelnik, who was dining with us that night, as was DoctorRichard Geddes.
Mr. Jelnik's presence had the effect of lightening The Author'sgloom. His eyes brightened, his dejection changed into alertness,and there began that subtle game of under-the-surface thrust andparry that seemed inevitable when the two met. Mr. Westmacotelistened with quiet enjoyment. His dinner was to his taste, HyndsHouse more than came up to his expectations, Alicia was Cinderellaafter the fairy's wand had passed over her, _I_ had ceased to be amere person and become a personage; and he found here such men asDoctor Geddes, The Author, and Nicholas Jelnik. The Head smiled athis wife, and was at peace with the world.
Miss Emmeline had already discovered the Lowestoft and Spode piecesin our built-in cupboards; that there were two perfect apostle jugsin the cabinet in the hall: that our Chelsea figures were lovelierthan any she had heretofore seen; and that Hynds House, in whicheverything was genuine, had an atmosphere that appealed to her soul,or maybe matched her clear-green aura. Anyhow, the house reached outfor Miss Emmeline as with hands and laid its spell upon herenduringly.
She sat beside me, with Alicia's pet album of Confederate generalson her knees.
"I never thought I'd have a sentimental regard for rebels," sheconfessed. "But, oh, they were gallant and romantic figures, whenone looks at their old photographs here in Hynds House. I amMassachusetts to the bone, but I don't want to hear 'Marchingthrough Georgia' while I'm here!"
Mr. Jelnik, overhearing her, laughed. "Perhaps I may find for yousomething more in keeping with Hynds House," he said, and saunteredover to the old piano. Unexpectedly it came to life. And he began tosing:
It was the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet, In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud: And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held her sable shroud.
The Author shaded his eyes with his hand, his gaze riveted upon thesinger. Alicia leaned forward, lips parted, face like an upliftedflower, eyes large with wonder and delight. The Confederate generalsslid from Miss Emmeline's lap and lay face downward, forgotten.Westmacote's faded little wife, who had no children, crept closer toher big husband; and gently, unobtrusively, he reached out and tookher hand in his warm grasp.
Why did you promise love to me And not that promise keep? Why did you swear mine eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep? Why did you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break?
I am sure ther
e is no lovelier and more touching ballad in all ourEnglish treasury than that sad, simple, and most beautiful old song.And he had set it to an air as simple and as perfect as its ownwords, an old-world air that suited it and his rich and flexiblevoice.
"Why, Jelnik!" exclaimed Doctor Geddes, in a voice of pureastonishment, "I knew you could tinkle out a tune on a piano, but,man, I didn't dream it was in you to sing like this!" And he staredat his cousin.
"I'd make bold to swear that Mr. Jelnik has a dozen more surprisesup his sleeve, if he chose to let us see them," The Author saidpleasantly.
"My father's system of education included music. For which I praisehim in the gates," Mr. Jelnik replied casually.
"'Tinkle out a tune on a piano'!" breathed Alicia, and cast a lookof deep disdain upon the blundering doctor. "Why, I've never in allmy life heard anybody sing like that!"
But I saw him through a mist, and felt my heart ache and burn in mybreast, and wondered what he was doing here in my house that mighthave been his house, and how I was going to walk through my lifeafter he had gone out of it.
I had a wild desire to run outside into the dark night and thehushed garden, away from everybody and weep and weep, despairingly.Because a veil had been torn from my eyes this night, and I knewthat the cruellest thing that can happen to a woman had happened tome. There could be but one thing more bitter--that he or anybodyelse in the world should know it.
So I sat there, dumb, while everybody else said pleasant things tohim, their voices sounding afar, far off.
After a while we went into the living-room where our new piano is,and he played for us--Hungarian things, I think. Then he driftedinto Chopin, and Alicia stood by and turned his music for him.
"Those two," whispered Miss Emmeline, "are the most idyllic figuresI have ever seen." I think she sighed as she said it. "Youth is themost beautiful thing in the world," she added.
The Westmacotes, weary after a long journey, retired early. Mr.Jelnik and Doctor Geddes had gone off together. The secretary had tofinish a chapter. The Author lingered to ask, oddly enough, if I hadthe original plan of Hynds House. Did I know who designed it?
"Why don't you interview Judge Gatchell?"
"I did. He was polite and friendly enough, but knows no more thanis strictly legal. He told me he found Hynds House here when hearrived and expected to leave it here when he departed. And Geddesknows no more. Geddes isn't interested in Hynds House by itself,"finished The Author, with a crooked smile.
"Perhaps Mr. Jelnik may have some family papers."
"Perhaps he may. I'd give something for a whack at those papers,Miss Smith."
"Why not ask him to let you see them, then?"
"Tut, tut!" said The Author, crossly, and took himself off.
When I was kimonoed, braided, and slippered, Alicia in like raimentcame in from her room next to mine, sat down on the floor, andleaned her head against my knees, with her cheek against my hand.
For a while, as women do, we discussed the events of the evening.Both of us had deep cause for gratification; yet both of us werestrangely subdued.
"Sophy, Peacocks and Ivory is a very wonderful person, isn't he?"hesitated Alicia, after a long pause. She didn't lift her head; andthe cheek against my hand was warmer than usual.
"Yes," I agreed, quietly, "so wonderful that something never to bereplaced will have gone out of our lives when he goes away, anddoesn't come back any more. For that is what the Nicholas Jelniksdo, my dear."
"Is it?" Again she spoke after a pause. "I wonder! Somehow,I--Sophy, he belongs here. He's--why, Sophy, he's a part of theglamour."
"I'm afraid glamour hasn't part nor place in plain folks' lives."
"But we aren't plain folks any more, either, Sophy," she insisted."Why--why--_we're_ part of the glamour, too!"
"That is just about half true."
Alicia ignored this. She asked, instead:
"Did you hear what that great blundering doctor said about tinklingout a tune on a piano?"
I could hear Mr. Jelnik praised by her or doubted by The Author. Butsomehow I could not bear any criticism of Doctor Geddes just then. Isaid stiffly:
"I have learned to appreciate Doctor Geddes."
"You are far too fair-minded not to." Presently: "Sophy?"
"Uh-huh."
"We aren't ever going to be sorry we came here--together--are we,Sophy? And we won't ever let anybody come between us. Not anybody.Not The Author--nor his secretary--nor whatever guests come--nor Mr.Nicholas Jelnik--nor--nor Doctor Richard Geddes." Her head pressedcloser to my knees.
"We came first, you and I," said Alicia, in a muffled whisper. "Weare more to each other than any of them can be to us. You'llremember that, won't you?"
"I will remember, you absurd Alicia!" But I did not ask my dear girlwhat her incoherent words might mean. I did not ask why the softcheek against my hand was wet.
As I have said before, Hynds House is but two stories high, withdeep cellars under it, and an immense attic overhead; an attic allcut up into nooks and corners, and twists and turns, and slopingroofs and dormer windows, and two or three shallow steps going uphere, and two or three more going down there, and passages and doorswhere you'd never look for them. We had never been able fully toexplore our attic. It was Ali Baba's cave to us, with half itstreasures unguessed and every trunk and box whispering, "Say 'Open,Sesame,' to me, and see what you'll find!"
While I was sitting with Alicia's head against my knee, a light,swift footstep sounded overhead in the attic, followed by a sort ofstumble, as if somebody had slipped on one of those unexpectedsteps. Alicia rose quickly.
"Sophy," she breathed, "I have thought, once or twice, that I heardsomebody walking in the attic."
"We will soon find out who it is, then," said I. Noiselessly westole out into the hall, past the sleeping Westmacotes, and MissEmmeline Phelps-Parsons who so longed to come in closer contact withthe occult and unknown. We moved like ghosts, ourselves, ourfelt-soled mules making no sound.
The Author opened his door just as we approached it, and held up animperious finger.
"Did you hear it, too?" he whispered. And walking ahead of us, hestole up the cork-screw stairway at the end of the side hall, liftedthe latch of the attic door, and stepped inside.
It was frightfully dark up there. If you peered through theuncurtained windows you could see tree-tops tossing like black wavesagainst the dark sky, and in between them rolling clouds, and littlebright patchwork spaces of stars. And it was so quiet you could hearyour heart beat, and your breathing seemed to rattle in your ears.We strained our eyes, seeking to pierce the gloom, stealing forwardstep by step. A board creaked, noisily; and then--I could have swornit--then something seemed to move across one of the dormer windows.It was so vague, so shadowy, that one could not distinguish itsoutline; one could only think that something moved.
The Author gave an exclamation and switched on his electric torch,trying to focus the circle of light upon that particular window.There was nothing there. Only, it seemed to me that something,incredibly swift and silent, flashed down one of the bewilderingturns to which our attic is addicted. But when we ran forward, thepassage was empty. We brought up at the red brick square of one ofthe chimney stacks.
Almost savagely The Author flashed his light over every inch of walland floor. Nothing. But on the close and musty air stole, not asound, but a scent.
The Author swung around and trotted back. The window across which wethought we had seen something move was fastened from the inside, andthere were one or two wooden boxes and a leather-covered trunk inthe dormer recess. He sniffed hound-like around these, and with anexclamation leaned over. Behind the trunk crouched--Potty Black,with a mouse clamped in her jaws.
"For heaven's sake!" cried Alicia. "The cat! Sophy, what we heardwas the cat!"
"Let us go," said The Author. And feeling rather silly, we trailedafter him.
"You see," said I, "there is nothing. There never is anything."
"Come in my room
for a minute," The Author whispered, and there wasthat in his voice which made us obey.
Inside his door, he opened his hand. In his palm was a soiled andcrumpled scrap of tough, parchment-like paper about the size of anordinary playing-card, so frayed and creased that one had difficultyin deciphering the writing on it. There clung to it a faint andunforgetable scent.
"It was behind the trunk, partly under the cat's black paw. Ismelled it when I leaned over, and I thought we might as well have alook at it." said The Author.
And on the following page is what The Author had found.
'"Shades of E.A. Poe, and Robert Louis the Beloved! What have wehere?" cried The Author, joyously, and stood on one leg like astork. "Was there a Hynds woman named Helen? 'Turn Hellen's Keythree tens and three?' Some keyhole! I say, Miss Smith, let me keepthis for a while, will you?"
"Do, Sophy, let him keep it!" pleaded Alicia.
{~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~} { _Turne Hellens Keye_ } { _Three Tennes & Three_ } { _Ye Watcher in ye Darke Thoult See_ } { } { (*B*) } { } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { . . . . . } { } { _As Neede Shall Rise_ } { _So Mote It Bee_ } { } '~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~'
"I'll take the best care of it, Miss Smith; indeed I will!" TheAuthor promised. "Look here: I'll lock it in the clothes-closet, inthe breast pocket of my coat." As he spoke, he opened thecedar-lined closet, that was almost as big as a modern hall bedroom,and put the paper in the breast pocket of his coat. Locking thedoor, he placed the key under his pillow, and beside it a new andbusinesslike Colt automatic.
"There!" said The Author, confidently. "Nobody can get into thatcloset without first tackling _me_. Now you girls go to bed.To-morrow we'll tackle the unraveling."
And we, remembering of a sudden that we were pig-tailed andkimonoed, and that The Author himself resembled a step-ladder with ashawl draped around it, departed hurriedly.
He was late at the breakfast-table next morning. Gloom andabstraction sat visibly upon him. He left his secretary to bear thebrunt of conversation with the Westmacotes and Miss Emmeline. Foronce he failed to do justice to Mary Magdalen's hot biscuit, andignored Fernolia's astonished and concerned stare; even a whispered,"Honey, is you-all got a misery anywheres?" failed to rouse him. Ifound him, after a while, waiting for me in the library.
"Miss Smith,"--The Author strode restlessly up and down--"this househas a peculiar effect upon people; a very peculiar effect. Since Icame here, I have learned to walk in my sleep." And seeing my lookof astonishment, "I walked in my sleep last night. And I took thatbit of doggerel out of my coat pocket, locked the closet door, andreplaced the key under my pillow."
"How strange! And where did you put it?" I wondered.
"Exactly: where did I put it?" repeated The Author, rumpling hishair with both hands. "That's what I want to know, myself. I'velooked everywhere in my room, and in Johnson's, and I can't findthe thing. It's gone," and he stalked out, with his shouldershunched to his ears.
I sat still, staring out at the window. There was a thing I hadn'ttold The Author, or even Alicia. I had no idea what the "bit ofdoggerel" meant, if, indeed, it meant anything. But when I had heldFreeman Hynds's old diary in my hands, between the two pagesfollowing the last entry had been a creased and soiled piece ofpaper. I had seen it out of the tail of my eye, as the saying is. Itwas only a glimpse, but one trained to handle many papers, as I hadbeen, has a quick and an accurate eye. And I knew that the paperfound by The Author in the attic, and now lost again, was the paperI had seen in Freeman Hynds's diary.
A Woman Named Smith Page 9