"Desboro stood staring down at the magic picture. Mrs. Clydesdale, too, had risen"
Desboro stood staring down at the magic picture. Mrs. Clydesdale, too, had risen. Below them the beauty of Farrar's matchless voice possessed the vast obscurity, searching the darkness like a ray of crystal light. One by one the stone crypts opened, disclosing their tinted waterfalls of jewels.
"I've got to go," he whispered. "Your people will be arriving."
They moved silently to the door.
"Jim?"
"Yes."
"Thereisno other woman; is there?"
"Not now."
"Oh!Wasthere?"
"There might have been."
"You mean—to—to marry?"
"No."
"Then—I suppose I can't helpthatsort. Men are—that way. Was it that girl at Silverwood?"
"No," he said, lying.
"Oh! Who was that girl at Silverwood?"
"A business acquaintance."
"I hear she is unusually pretty."
"Yes, very."
"You found it necessary to be at Silverwood when she was there?"
"Once or twice."
"It is no longer necessary?"
"No longer necessary."
"So you won't see her again?"
"No."
"I'm glad. It hurt, Jim. Some people I know at Willow Lake saw her. They saidshe was unusually beautiful."
"Elena," he said, "will you kindly come to your senses? I'm not going to marry anybody; but that doesn't concern you. I advise you to attend to your own life's business—which is to have children and bring them up more decently than the present generation are being brought up in this fool of a town! If nothing else will make your husband endurable, children will come nearest to it——"
"Jim—please——"
"For heaven's sake, don't cry!" he whispered.
"I—won't. Dear, don't you realise that you are all I have in the world——"
"We haven't got each other, I tell you, and we're not going to have each other——"
"Yes—but don't take anybody else—marry anyone——"
"I won't. Control yourself!"
"Promise me!"
"Yes, I do. Go forward into the box; those people will be arriving——"
"Do you promise?"
"Yes, if you want me to. Go forward; nobody can see you in the dark. Good-bye——"
"Good-bye, dear. And thank you——"
He coolly ignored the upturned face; she caught his hand in a flash of impatient passion, then, with a whispered word, turned and went forward, mistress of herself again, to sit there for an hour or two and witness a mystery that has haunted the human heart for aeons, unexpressed.
On the fifth day, Desboro remained indoors and wrote business letters until late in the afternoon.
Toward evening he telephoned to Mrs. Quant to find out whether everything was being done to render Miss Nevers's daily sojourn at Silverwood House agreeable.
He learned that everything was being done, that the young lady in question had just departed for New York, and, furthermore, that she had inquired of Mrs. Quant whether Mr. Desboro was not coming soon to Silverwood, desiring to be informed because she had one or two business matters on which to consult him.
"Hold the wire," he said, and left it for a few moments' swift pacing to and fro. Then he came again to the telephone.
"Ask Miss Nevers to be kind enough to write me about the matters she has in mind, because I can not leave town at present."
"Yes, Mr. James. Are you well, sir?"
"Perfectly."
"Thank you, sir. If you feel chilly like at night——"
"But I don't. Good-night!"
He dressed, dined at the club, and remained there reading the papers until he had enough of their complacent ignorance. Then he went home, still doggedly refusing to attempt to analyse the indirect message from Jacqueline.
If it had any significance other than its apparent purport, he grimly refused to consider even such a possibility. And, deadly weary at last, he fell asleep and slept until late in the morning.
It was snowing hard when he awoke. His ablutions ended, he rang for breakfast. On his tray was a note from the girl in blue; he read it and dropped it into his pocket, remembering the fireplace sacrifice of a few days ago at Silverwood, and realising that suchfrivolous souvenirs were beginning to accumulate again.
He breakfasted without interest, unfolded the morning paper, glanced over the headlines, and saw that there was a little more murder, divorce, and boot-licking than he cared for, laid it aside, and lighted a cigarette. As he dropped the burnt match on the tray, he noticed under it another letter which he had overlooked among the bills and advertisements composing the bulk of the morning mail.
For a little while he held the envelope in his hand, not looking at it; then, with careless deliberation, he cut it open, using a paper knife, and drew out the letter. As he slowly opened it his hands shook in spite of him.
"My Dear Mr. Desboro: I telephoned Mrs. Quant last night and learned that she had given you my message over the wire only a few minutes before; and that you had sent word you could not come to Silverwood, but that I might communicate with you by letter."This is what I had to say to you: There is a suit of armour here which is in a very bad condition. It will be expensive to have it repaired by a good armourer. Did you wish to include it in the sale as it is, or have it repaired? It is No. 41 in the old list; No. 69 in my catalogue, now almost completed and ready for the printer. It is that rather unusual suit of black plate-mail, called 'Brigandine Armour,' a XV century suit from Aragon; and the quilted under-jacket has been ruined by moths and has gone completely to pieces. It is a very valuable suit."Would you tell me whatto do?
"My Dear Mr. Desboro: I telephoned Mrs. Quant last night and learned that she had given you my message over the wire only a few minutes before; and that you had sent word you could not come to Silverwood, but that I might communicate with you by letter.
"This is what I had to say to you: There is a suit of armour here which is in a very bad condition. It will be expensive to have it repaired by a good armourer. Did you wish to include it in the sale as it is, or have it repaired? It is No. 41 in the old list; No. 69 in my catalogue, now almost completed and ready for the printer. It is that rather unusual suit of black plate-mail, called 'Brigandine Armour,' a XV century suit from Aragon; and the quilted under-jacket has been ruined by moths and has gone completely to pieces. It is a very valuable suit.
"Would you tell me whatto do?
"Very sincerely yours,"Jacqueline Nevers."
An hour later he still sat there with the letter in his hand, gazing at nothing. And until the telephone beside him rang twice he had not stirred.
"Who is it?" he asked finally.
At the reply his face altered subtly, and he bowed his head to listen.
The distant voice spoke again, and:
"Silverwood?" he asked.
"Yes, here's your party."
An interval filled with a vague whirring, then:
"Mr. Desboro?"
"Yes. Good-morning, Miss Nevers."
"Good-morning. Have you a note from me?"
"Yes, thank you. It came this morning. I was just reading it—again."
"I thought I ought to consult you in such a matter."
"Certainly."
"Then—what are your wishes?"
"My wishes are yours."
"I cannot decide such a matter. It will be very expensive——"
"If it is worth the cost to you, it is worth it to me."
"I don't know what you mean. The burden of decision lies with you this time, doesn't it?"
"With us both. Unless you wish me to assume it."
"But itisyours to assume!"
"If you wish, then. But I may ask your opinion, may I not?"
There was a silence, then:
"Whatever you do I approve. I have no—opinion."
"You do not approveallI do."
The rejoinder came faintly: "How do you know?"
"I—wrote to you. Do you approve my writing to you?"
"Yes. Ifyoudo."
"And do you approve of what I wrote?"
"Not ofallthat you wrote."
"I wrote that I would not see you again."
"Yes."
"Do you think that is best?"
"I—do not think about it."
He said: "That, also, is best. Don't think of it at all. And about the armour, do exactly what you would do if you were in my place. Good-bye."
"Mr. Desboro——"
"Yes."
"Could you wait a moment? I am trying to think——"
"Don't try, Jacqueline!"
"Please wait—for me!"
There was a silence; a tiny spot of blood reddened his bitten lip before she spoke again; then:
"I wished to tell you something. I knew why you wrote. Is it right for me to tell you that I understood you? I wanted to write and say so, and—say something else—about how I felt—but it seems I can't. Only—we could be friends more easily now—if you wish."
"You have not understood!" he said.
"Yes, I have, Mr. Desboro. But wecanbe friends?"
"Could you bemine, after what I have written?"
"I thought I couldn't, at first. But that day was a—long one. And when a girl is much alone she becomes very honest with herself. And it all was entirely new to me. I didn't know what I ought to have done about it—only what I wished to do."
"And—what is that, Jacqueline?"
"Make things as they were—before——"
"Before I wrote?"
"Yes."
"All up to that time you wish might be again as it was?All?"
No answer.
"All?" he repeated.
"Don't ask me. I don't know—I don't know what I think any more."
"How deeply do you suppose I feel about it?"
"I did not know you felt anything very deeply."
There was a long pause, then her voice again:
"You know—you need not be afraid. I did not know enough to be until you wrote. But I understand, now."
He said: "It will be all right, then. It will be quite all right, Jacqueline. I'll come up on the noon train."
His car met him at the station. The snow had melted and the wet macadam road glittered under a declining winter sun, as the car rolled smoothly away through the still valleys of Westchester.
Mrs. Quant, in best bib and tucker and lilac ribbons, welcomed him, and almost wept at his pallor; but he shrugged impatiently and sprang up the low steps. Here the necessity for self-control stopped him short on his way to the armoury. He turned to Mrs. Quant with an effort:
"Is everything all right?"
"No, Mr. James. Phibby broke a cup and saucer Saturday, and there is new kittens in the laundry—which makes nine cats——"
"Oh, all right! Miss Nevers is here?"
"Yes, sir—in the liberry—which ain't been dusted right by that Phibby minx——"
"Tell Phoebe to dust it!" he said sternly. "Do you suppose Miss Nevers cares to handle dirty books!" His restless glance fell on the clock: "Tell Farris I'm here and that Miss Nevers and I will lunch as soon as it's served. And say to Miss Nevers that I'll be down in a few minutes." He turned and mounted the stairs to his room, and found it full of white, clove-scented carnations.
Mrs. Quant came panting after him:
"Miss Nevers, she cut them in the greenhouse, and told me to put 'em in your room, sayin' as how clove pinks is sanitary. Would you—would you try a few m-m-magic drops, Mr. James, sir? Miss Nevers takes 'em regular."
"Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed, laughing in sheer exuberance of spirits. "I'll swallow anything you like, only hurry!"
She dosed him with great content, he, both hands in soap-suds, turning his head to receive the potion. And at last, ablutions finished, he ran down the stairs, checked himself, and managed to stroll leisurely through the hall and into the library.
She was writing; looked up, suddenly pale under her golden crown of hair; and the red lips quivered, but her eyes were steady.
She bent her head again, both hands abandoned to him, sitting in silence while his lips rested against her fingers.
"Is all well with you, Jacqueline?"
"Yes. And with you?"
"All is well with me. I missed you—if you know what that really means."
"Did you?"
"Yes. Won't you even look at me?"
"In a moment. Do you see all these piles of manuscript? All that is your new catalogue—and mine," she added, with a faint smile; but her head remained averted.
"You wonderful girl!" he said softly. "You wonderful girl!"
"Thank you. It was a labor of—pleasure." Colour stole to the tips of her ears. "I have worked—worked—every minute since——"
"Yes."
"Really, I have—every minute. But somehow, it didn't seem to tire me. To-day—now—I begin to feel a little tired." She rested her cheek on one hand, still looking away from him.
"I took a peep into the porcelain and jade rooms," she said, "just a glance over what lies before me. Mrs. Quant very kindly gave me the keys. Did you mind?"
"Do I mind anything that it pleases you to do? What did you find in the jade room?"
She smiled: "Jadeite, of course; and lapis and crystals—the usual."
"Any good ones?"
"Some are miracles. I don't really know, yet; I gave just one swift glance and fled—because you see I haven't finished in the armoury, and I ought not to permit myself the pleasures of curiosity."
"The pleasures of curiosity and of anticipation are the only real ones. Sages have said it."
She shook her head.
"Isn't it true?" he insisted.
She looked up at him at last, frank-eyed but flushed:
"'Which is the real pleasure?' she asked"
"Which is the real pleasure," she asked, "seeing each other, or anticipating the—the resumption of the entente cordial?"
"You've smashed the sages and their philosophy," he nodded, studying the exquisite, upturned features unsmilingly. "To be with you is the greater—content. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
She nodded thoughtfully: "Five days and a half."
"You—counted them, too?"
"Yes."
This wouldn't do. He rose and walked over to the fire, which needed a log or two; she turned and looked after him with little expression in her face except that the blue of her eyes had deepened to a lilac tint, and the flush on her cheeks still remained.
"You know," she said, "I didn't mean to take you from any business in New York—or pleasures——"
He shuddered slightly.
"Did I?" she asked.
"No."
"I only wished you to come—when you had time——"
"I know, Jacqueline. Don't show me your soul in every word you utter."
"What?"
He turned on his heel and came back to her, and she shrank a little, not knowing why; but he came no nearer than her desk.
"'The thing to do,' he said ... 'is for us both to keep very busy'"
"The thing to do," he said, speaking with forced animation and at random, "is for us both to keep very busy. I think I'll go into farming—raise some dinky thing or other—that's what I'll do. I'll go in for the country squire business—that's what I'll do. And I'll have my neighbours in. I'm never here long enough to ask 'em. They're a funny lot; they're all right, though—deadly respectable. I'll give a few parties—ask some people from town, too. Betty Barkley could run the conventional end of it. And you'd come floating in with other unattached girls——"
"You wantme!"
He said, astonished: "Well, why on earth do you suppose I'm taking the trouble to ask the others?"
"You wantme—to come—where your friends——"
"Don't you care to?"
"I—don't know." The surprise of it still widened her eyes and parted her lips a little. She looked up at him, perplexed, encountered something in his eyes which made her cheeks redden again.
"What would they think?" she asked.
"Is there anything to think?"
"N-no. But they don't know who I am. And I have nobody to vouch for me."
"You ought to have a companion."
"I don't want any——"
"Of course; but you ought to have one. Can you afford one?"
"I don't know. I don't know what they—they cost——"
"Let me fix that up," he said, with animation. "Let me think it out. I know a lot of people—I know some indigent and respectable old terrors who ought to fill the bill and hold their tongues as long as their salary is paid——"
"Oh, please don't, Mr. Desboro!"
He seated himself on the arm of her chair:
"Jacqueline, dear, it's only for your sake——"
"But Ididunderstand your letter!"
"I know—I know. I just want to see you with other people. I just want to have them see you——"
"But I don't need a chaperon. Business women are understood, aren't they? Even women whom you know go in for house decoration, and cigarette manufacturing, and tea rooms, and hats and gowns."
"But they were socially known before they went in for these things. It's the way of the world, Jacqueline—nothing but suspicion when intelligence and beauty step forward from the ranks. And what do you suppose would happen if a man of my sort attempts to vouch for any woman?"
"Then don't—please don't try! I don't care for it—truly I don't. It was nice of you to wish it, Mr. Desboro, but—I'd rather be just what I am and—your friend."
"It can't be," he said, under his breath. But she heard him, looked up dismayed, and remained mute, crimsoning to the temples.
"This oughtn't to go on," he said, doggedly.
She said: "You have not understood me. I am different from you. You are not to blame for thinking that we are alike at heart; but, nevertheless, it is a mistake. I can be what I will—not what I once seemed to be—for a moment—with you—" Her head sank lower and remained bowed; and he saw her slender hands tightening on the arm of the chair.
"I—I've got to be honest," she said under her breath. "I've got to be—in every way. I know it perfectly well, Mr. Desboro. Men seem to be different—I don't know why. But they seem to be, usually. And all I want is to remain friends with you—and to remember that we are friends when I am at work somewhere. I just want to be what I am, a business woman with sufficient character and intelligence to be your friend quietly—not even for one evening in competition with women belonging to a different life—women with wit and beauty and charm and savoir faire——"
"Jacqueline!" he broke out impulsively. "I want you to be my guest here. Won't you let me arrange with some old gorgon to chaperon you? I can do it! And with the gorgon's head on your moral shield you can silence anybody!"
He began to laugh; she sat twisting her fingers on her lap and looking up at him in a lovely, distressed sort of way, so adorably perplexed and yet so pliable, so soft and so apprehensive, that his laughter died on his lips, and he sat looking down at her in silence.
After a while he spoke again, almost mechanically:
"I'm trying to think how we can best be on equal terms, Jacqueline. That is all. After your work is done here, I want to see you here and elsewhere—I want you to come back at intervals, as my guest. Other people will ask you. Other people must be here, too, when you are. I know some who will accept you on your merits—if you are properly chaperoned. That is all I am thinking about. It's fairer to you."
But even to himself his motive was not clear—only the rather confused idea persisted that women in his own world knew how to take care of themselves, whatever they chose to do about it—that Jacqueline would stand a fairer chance with herself, and with him, whatever his intentions might really be. It would be a squarer deal, that was all.
She sat thinking, one slim forefinger crook'd under her chin; and he saw her blue eyes deep in thought, and the errant lock curling against her cheek. Then she raised her head and looked at him:
"Do you think it best?"
"Yes—you adorable little thing!"
She managed to sustain his gaze:
"Could you find a lady gorgon?"
"I'm sure I can. Shall I?"
"Yes."
A moment later Farris announced luncheon. A swarm of cats greeted them at the door, purring and waiving multi-coloured tails, and escorted them to the table, from whence they knew came the delectable things calculated to satisfy the inner cat.
The countryside adjacent to Silverwood was eminently and self-consciously respectable. The fat, substantial estates still belonged to families whose forefathers had first taken title to them. There were, of course, a number of "colonial" houses, also a "colonial" inn, The Desboro Arms, built to look as genuine as possible, although only two years old, steam heated, and electric lighted.
But things "colonial" were the traditional capital of Silverwood, and its thrifty and respectable inhabitants meant to maintain the "atmosphere." To that end they had solemnly subscribed a very small sum for an inn sign to swing in front of The Desboro Arms; the wheelwright painted it; somebody fired a shotgunful of antiquity into it, and American weather was rapidly doing the rest, with a gratifying result which no degenerate European weather could have accomplished in half a century of rain and sunshine.
The majority of the mansions in Silverwood township were as inoffensively commonplace as the Desboro house. Few pre-Revolutionary structures survived; the British had burned the countryside from Major Lockwood's mansion at Pound Ridge all the way to Bedford Village and across to the Connecticut line. With few exceptions, Silverwood houses had shared the common fate when Tarleton and DeLancy galloped amuck among the Westchester hills; but here and there some sad old mansion still remained and was reverently cherished, as was also the graveyard, straggling up the hill, set with odd old headstones, upon which most remarkable cherubim smirked under a gladly permitted accumulation of lichen.
Age, thrift, substance, respectability—these were the ideals of Silverwood; and Desboro and his doings would never have been tolerated there had it not been that a forbear of his, a certain dissolute half-pay captain, had founded the community in 1680. This sacred colonial fact had been Desboro's social salvation, for which, however, he did not seem to care very much. Good women continued to be acidly civil to him on this account, and also because Silverwood House and its estates could no more be dropped from the revered galaxy of the county than could a star be cast out of their country's flag for frivolous behavior.
So worthy men endured him, and irreproachable women grieved for him, although it was rumoured that he gave parties now and then which real actresses had actually attended. Also, though he always maintained the Desboro pew in church, he never decorated it with his person. Nor could the countryside count on him socially, except at eccentric intervals when his careless, graceful presence made the Westchester gaiety seem rather stiff and pallid, and gave the thin, sour claret an unwonted edge. And another and radical incompatibility; the Desboros were the only family of Cavalier descent in the township. And deep in the hearts of Silverwood folk the Desboros had ever seemed a godless race.
Now, there had been already some gossip among the Westchester hills concerning recent doings at Silverwood House. Even when it became known that the pretty girl who sped to and fro in Desboro's limousine, between house and station, was a celebrated art expert, and was engaged in cataloguing the famous Desboro collection, God-fearing people asked each other why Desboro should find it necessary to meet her at the station in the morning, and escort her back in the evening; and whether it were actually obligatory for him to be present while the cataloguing was in progress.
Westchester womanhood was beginning to look wan and worried; substantial gentlemen gazed inquiringly at each other over the evening chess-board; several flippant young men almost winked at each other. But these latter had been accustomed to New York, and were always under suspicion in their own families.
Therefore, it was with relief and surprise that Silverwood began to observe Desboro in furs, driving a rakish runabout, and careering about Westchester with Vail, his head farmer, seated beside him, evidently intent on committing future agriculture—palpably planning for two grass-blades where only one, or a mullein, had hitherto flourished within the memory of living man.
Fertiliser in large loads was driven into the fallow fields of the Desboros; brush and hedges and fences were being put in order. People beheld these radical preliminaries during afternoon drives in their automobiles; local tradesmen reported purchases of chemicals for soil enriching, and the sale of all sorts of farm utensils to Desboro's agent.
At the Country Club all this was gravely discussed; patriarchs mentioned it over their checkers; maidens at bowls or squash or billiards listened to the exciting tale, wide-eyed; hockey, ski, or skating parties gossiped recklessly about it. The conclusion was that Desboro had already sowed his wilder oats; and the worthy community stood watching for the prodigal's return, intending to meet him while yet he was far off.
He dropped in at the Country Club one day, causing a little less flutter than a hawk in a hen-yard. Within a week he had drifted casually into the drawing-rooms of almost all his father's old friends for a cup of tea or an informal chat—or for nothing in particular except to saunter into his proper place among them with all of the Desboro grace and amiable insouciance which they had learned to tolerate but never entirely to approve or understand.
It was not quite so casually that he stopped at the Hammerton's. And he was given tea and buns by Mrs. Hammerton, perfectly unsuspicious of his motives. Her husband came rambling in from the hothouses, presently, where he spent most of his serious life in pinching back roses and chrysanthemums; and he extended to Desboro a large, flat and placid hand.
"Aunt Hannah and Daisy are out—somewhere—" he explained vaguely. "You must have passed them on the way."
"Yes, I saw Daisy in the distance, exercising an old lady," said Desboro carelessly. He did not add that the sight of Aunt Hannah marching across the Westchester horizon had inspired him with an idea.
From her lair in town, she had come hither, for no love of her nephew and his family, nor yet for Westchester, but solely for economy's bitter sake. She made such pilgrimages at intervals every year, upsetting the Hammerton household with her sarcasms, her harsh, high-keyed laughter, her hardened ways of defining the word "spade"—for Aunt Hannah was a terror that Westchester dreaded but never dreamed of ignoring, she being a wayward daughter of the sacred soil, strangely and weirdly warped from long transplanting among the gay and godless of Gotham town. And though her means, after her husband's scared soul had taken flight, were painfully attenuated, the high priests and captains among the gay and godless feared her, and she bullied them; and she and they continued to foregather from sheer tradition, but with mutual and sincere dislike. For Aunt Hannah's name would always figure among the names of certain metropolitan dowagers, dragons, gorgons, and holy harridans; always be connected with certain traditional social events as long as the old lady lived. And she meant to survive indefinitely, if she had anything to say about it.
She came in presently with Daisy Hammerton. The latter gave her hand frankly to her childhood's comrade; the former said:
"Hah! James Desboro!" very disagreeably, and started to nourish herself at once with tea and muffins.
"James Desboro," she repeated scornfully, darting a wicked glance at him where he stood smiling at her, "James Desboro, turning plow-boy in Westchester! What's the real motive? That's what interests me. I'm a bad old woman—I know it! All over paint and powder, and with too small a foot and too trim a figger to be anything except wicked. Lindley knows it; it makes his fingers tremble when he pinches crysanthemums; Susan knows it; so does Daisy. And I admit it. And that's why I'm suspicious of you, James; I'm so wicked myself. Come, now; why play the honest yokel? Eh? You good-looking good-for-nothing!"
"My motive," he said amiably, "is to make a living and learn what it feels like."
"Been stock-gambling again?"
"Yes, dear lady."
"Lose much?" she sniffed.
"Not a very great deal."
"Hah! And now you've got to raise the wind, somehow?"
He repeated, good-humouredly: "I want to make a living."
The trim little old lady darted another glance at him.
"Ha—ha!" she laughed, without giving any reason for the disagreeable burst of mirth; and started in on another muffin.
"I think," said Mr. Hammerton, vaguely, "that James will make an excellent agriculturist——"
"Excellent fiddlesticks!" observed Aunt Hannah. "He'd make a good three-card man."
Daisy Hammerton said aside to Desboro:
"Isn't she a terror!"
"Oh, she likes me!" he said, amused.
"I know she does, immensely. She makes me take her for an hour's walk every day—and I'm so tired of exercising her and listening to her—unconventional stories—about you."
"She's a bad old thing," said Desboro affectionately, and, in his natural voice: "Aren't you, Aunt Hannah? But there isn't a smarter foot, or a prettier hand, or a trimmer waist in all Gotham, is there?"
"Philanderer!" she retorted, in a high-pitched voice. "What about that Van Alstyne supper at the Santa Regina?"
"Which one?" he asked coolly. "Stuyve is always giving 'em."
"Read theTattler!" said the old lady, seizing more muffins.
Mrs. Hammerton closed her tight lips and glanced uneasily at her daughter. Daisy sipped her tea demurely. She had read all about it, and burned the paper in her bedroom grate.
Desboro gracefully ignored the subject; the old lady laughed shrilly once or twice, and the conversation drifted toward the more decorous themes of pinching back roses and mixing plant-food, and preparing nourishment for various precocious horticultural prodigies now developing in Lindley Hammerton's hothouses.
Daisy Hammerton, a dark young girl, with superb eyes and figure, chatted unconcernedly with Desboro, making a charming winter picture in her scarlet felt hat and jacket, from which the black furs had fallen back. She went in for things violent and vigorous, and no nonsense; rode as hard as she could in such a country, played every game that demanded quick eye and flexible muscle—and, in secret, alas, wrote verses and short stories unanimously rejected by even the stodgier periodicals. But nobody suspected her of such weakness—not even her own mother.
Desboro swallowed his tea and took leave of his rose-pinching host and hostess, and their sole and lovely progeny, also, perhaps, the result of scientific concentration. Aunt Hannah retained his hand:
"Where are you going now, James?"
"Nowhere—home," he said, pretending embarrassment, which was enough to interest Aunt Hannah in the trap.
"Oh! Nowhere—home!" she mimicked him. "Where is 'nowhere home'? Somewhere out? I've a mind to go with you. What do you say to that, young man?"
"Come along," he said, a shade too promptly; and the little, bright, mink-like eyes sparkled with malice. The trap was sprung, and Aunt Hannah was in it. But she didn't yet suspect it.
"Slip on my fur coat for me," she said. "I'll take a spin with you in your runabout."
"You overwhelm me," he protested, holding up the fur coat.
"I may do that yet, my clever friend! Come on! No shilly-shallying! Susan! Tell your maid to lay out that Paquin gown which broke my financial backbone last month! I'll bring James back to dinner—or know the reason why!"
"I'll tell you why not, now," said Desboro. "I'm going to town early this evening."
"Home, nowhere, and then to town," commented Aunt Hannah loudly. "A multi-nefarious destination. James, if you run into theEwigkeitby way of a wire fence or a tree, I'll come every night and haunt you! But don't poke along as Lindley pokes, or I'll take the wheel myself."
The deaf head-farmer, Vail, who had kept the engine going for fear of freezing, left the wheel and crawled resignedly into the tonneau.
Aunt Hannah and Desboro stowed themselves aboard; the swift car went off like a firecracker, then sped away into the darkness at such a pace that presently Aunt Hannah put her marmot-like face close to Desboro's ear and swore at him.
"Didn't you want speed?" he asked, slowing down.
"Where are you going, James—home, or nowhere?"
"Nowhere."
"Well, we arrived there long ago. Now, go home—yourhome."
"Sure, but I've got to catch that train——"
"Oh, you'll catch it—or something else. James?"
"Madame?"
"Some day I want to take a look at that young woman who is cataloguing your collection."
"That's just what I want you to do now," he said cheerfully. "I'm taking her to New York this evening."
Aunt Hannah, astonished and out of countenance, remained mute, her sharp nose buried in her furs. She had been trapped, and she knew it. Then her eyes glittered:
"You're being talked about," she said with satisfaction. "So is she! Ha!"
"Much?" he asked coolly.
"No. The good folk are only asking each other why you meet her at the station with your car. They think she carries antique gems in her satchel. Later they'll suspect who the real jewel is. Ha!"
"I like her; that's why I meet her," he said coolly.
"Youlikeher?"
"I sure do. She is some girl, dear lady."
"Do you think your pretense of guileless candour is disarming me, young man?"
"I haven't the slightest hope of disarming you or of concealing anything fromyou."
"Follows," she rejoined ironically, "that there's nothing to conceal. Bah!"
"Quite right; there is nothing to conceal."
"What do you want with her, then?"
"Initially, I want her to catalogue my collection; subsequently, I wish to remain friends with her. The latter wish is becoming a problem. I've an idea that you might solve it."
"Friendswith her," repeated Aunt Hannah. "Oh, my!
"'And angels whisperLo! the pretty pair!'
"I suppose! Is that the hymn-tune, James?"
"Precisely."
"What does she resemble—Venus, or Rosa Bonheur?"
"Look at her and make up your mind."
"Is sheverypretty?"
"Ithink so. She's thin."
"Then what do you see unusual about her?"
"Everything, I think."
"Everything—he thinks! Oh, my sense of humour!"
"That," said Desboro, "is partly what I count on."
"Have you any remote and asinine notions of educating her and marrying her, and foisting her on your friends? There are a few fools still alive on earth, you know."
"So I've heard. I haven't the remotest idea of marrying her; she is better fitted to educate me than I am her. Not guilty on these two counts. But I had thought of foisting some of my friends on her. You, for example."
Aunt Hannah glared at him—that is, her tiny eyes became almost luminous, like the eyes of small animals at night, surprised by a sudden light.
"I know what you're meditating!" she snapped.
"I suppose you do, by this time."
"You're very impudent. Do you know it?"
"Lord, Aunt Hannah, so are you!" he drawled. "But it takes genius to get away with it."
The old lady was highly delighted, but she concealed it and began such a rapid-fire tirade against him that he was almost afraid it might bewilder him enough to affect his steering.
"Talk tomeof disinterested friendship between you and a girl of that sort!" she ended. "Not that I'd care, if I found material in her to amuse me, and a monthly insult drawn to my order against a solvent bank balance! What is she, James; a pretty blue-stocking whom nobody 'understands' except you?"
"Make up your own mind," he repeated, as he brought around the car and stopped before his own doorstep. "I'm not trying to tellyouanything. She is here. Look at her. If you like her, be her friend—and mine."
Jacqueline had waited tea for him; the table was in the library, kettle simmering over the silver lamp; and the girl was standing before the fire, one foot on the fender, her hands loosely linked behind her back.
She glanced up with unfeigned pleasure as his step sounded outside along the stone hallway; and the smile still remained, curving her lips, but died out in her eyes, as Mrs. Hammerton marched in, halted, and stared at her unwinkingly.
Desboro presented them; Jacqueline came forward, offering a shy hand to Aunt Hannah, and, bending her superb young head, looked down into the beady eyes which were now fairly electric with intelligence.
Desboro began, easily:
"I asked Mrs. Hammerton to have tea with——"
"I asked myself," remarked Aunt Hannah, laying her other hand over Jacqueline's—she did not know just why—perhaps because she was vain of her hands, as well as of her feet and "figger."
She seated herself on the sofa and drew Jacqueline down beside her.
"This young man tells me that you are cataloguing his grandfather's accumulation of ancient tin-ware."
"Yes," said Jacqueline, already afraid of her. And the old lady divined it, too, with not quite as much pleasure as it usually gave her to inspire trepidation in others.
Her shrill voice was a little modified when she said:
"Where did you learn to do such things? It's not usual, you know."
"You have heard of Jean Louis Nevers," suggested Desboro.
"Yes—" Mrs. Hammerton turned and looked at the girl again. "Oh!" she said. "I've heard Cary Clydesdale speak of you, haven't I?"
Jacqueline made a slight, very slight, but instinctive movement away from the old lady, on whom nothing that happened was lost.
"Mr. Clydesdale," said Mrs. Hammerton, "told several people where I was present that you knew more about antiquities in art than anybody else in New York since your father died. That's what he said about you."
Jacqueline said: "Mr. Clydesdale has been very kind to me."
"Kindness to people is also a Clydesdale tradition—isn't it, James?" said the old lady. "How kind Elena has always been to you!"
The covert impudence of Aunt Hannah, and her innocent countenance, had no significance for Jacqueline—would have had no meaning at all except for the dark flush of anger that mounted so suddenly to Desboro's forehead.
He said steadily: "The Clydesdales are very old friends, and are naturally kind. Why you don't like them I never understood."
"Perhaps you can understand why one of them doesn't like me, James."
"Oh! I can understand why many people are not crazy about you, Aunt Hannah," he said, composedly.
"Which is going some," said the old lady, with a brisk and unabashed employment of the vernacular. Then, turning to Jacqueline: "Are you going to give this young man some tea, my child? He requires a tonic."
Jacqueline rose and seated herself at the table, thankful to escape. Tea was soon ready; Aunt Hannah, whose capacity for browsing was infinite, began on jam and biscuits without apology. And Jacqueline and Desboro exchanged their first furtive glances—dismayed and questioning on the girl's part, smilingly reassuring on Desboro's. Aunt Hannah, looking intently into her teacup, missed nothing.
"Come to see me!" she said so abruptly that even Desboro started.