The Famous Tea
In spite of the promise of recent events and the possible clews which
Moore and I believed we had found, the next three weeks were
uneventful. Uneventful, that is, from the standpoint of our quest,
though eventful enough to me personally.
I was a languid and cynical guest at many high-brow and low-brow
gatherings. I discussed Turgenieff, spiritualism, psycho-analysis,
free love, and so forth at the one until my ears burned; and polo, the
Dempsey-Carpentier match, women, politics and stocks at the other
until I could start my tongue going and go away and leave it. But I
made little progress and unearthed no fresh clews.
I did make a little progress, however.
For one thing, I cultivated the acquaintanceship of Mrs. Fawcette
until it ripened into something much more intimate, though vague and
undefined. She was, I found, an interesting woman, well-traveled and
well-read, and, better still, with very definite views on most things.
She had a clever gift of repartee, as I learned to my cost, for I
found myself several times considerably beyond my depth and somewhat
at a loss. Her views were strikingly, glaringly liberal, and although
I attempted to match her in cynical disregard of the conventions of
conversation, I think she suspected that my views were not quite so
disillusioned and opportunistic as I tried to make them appear. At all
events she seemed to take a secret delight in attempting to startle
me, and succeeded better than, I hope, she guessed. But I got no news
from her.
However, I formed a real friendship during those three weeks which
meant far more to me, however little it might mean to our quest. For I
arranged a second opportunity to meet and talk with the Girl in Gray,
as I like to call her. And after that I obtained her permission, and
that of her aunt, to call upon them. After that call and a theater
party which I gave for them, we were good friends. It was my playtime,
before the serious part of our quest began, and it meant more to me
than I can express. Natalie Van Cleef took her many social experiences
and the many strange specimens she met during her energetic aunt’s
peregrinations with a ready sympathy and a sweet reserve that were
inspiring to watch. She was welcome everywhere, as much for her lovely
personality as for her beauty, but somehow she contrived to be a
welcome addition to each circle without being exactly of it. She was
essentially innocent without being ignorant, so that the
unconventional moods and tenses with which she came into contact left
her comprehending, at least in part, and yet quite untouched in her
own sweet, calm, and slightly shy personality.
To me during those days she was like a breath of sea air in a crowded
department store, or a bunch of roses on a tramp steamer, and before
many days had passed she filled most of my waking thoughts and many of
my dreams. We saw a good deal of each other and had many happy days
together, days so happy, at least to me, that I can never think of
them without a catch in the throat and a tightening of the hands, in
view of what came after. For as our friendship ripened I grew to
realize that her mind and spirit were as sweet and lovely and gracious
as her person.
Moore accomplished little more than I did, during those three weeks.
The young fellow from whom he had obtained his first hint of a circle
of drug-takers _de luxe_ had in truth disappeared, and being a wealthy
young man of considerable social position, his disappearance became a
nine-days’ wonder. But for all that, no trace of him was found, and
Moore and I decided that our first surmise that his lack of reticence
that night had been the cause of his disappearance was the correct
one.
Moore did, however, get in touch with the young doctor who had
overheard that conversation, and after a while succeeded in making his
acquaintance. Vining apparently took to him at once, and when Moore
carelessly mentioned the fact that he had independent means, which was
lucky, because the public and the dealers were hardly sufficiently
educated to appreciate his ideas on art, Vining contrived to see a
good deal of him, aided and abetted by Moore himself.
Once or twice, Moore vaguely skirted the subject of his conversation
that night with the young fellow who had disappeared, but Vining
displayed a bland ignorance of any such conversation or of any place
where such a party as the young man had described could be found.
However, Moore did not despair, but continued to cultivate the
friendship, in his effeminate and lackadaisical way, until presently
Vining knew all about his passion for new and outlandish sensations.
But events were shaping themselves for us both during those weeks, and
the end of our period of inactivity came suddenly and at the same time
to both.
A few days before Natalie planned to leave New York, Mrs. Furneau
arranged a little luncheon to which I had the honor of being invited.
Among others, the luncheon included Mrs. Fawcette, and I hope that I
shall never be called upon to sit through a more trying two hours. For
I had fallen almost unconsciously into the habit of being very much
myself when Natalie and I were alone together, and my change of manner
when talking to Mrs. Fawcette, and to Mrs. Furneau for that matter,
must have been striking.
I caught Natalie looking at me once or twice in a puzzled way during
the luncheon, but so far as the quest was concerned, it would have
been more costly to strike a false or inconsistent note in their ears
than in the ears of Natalie; so that I was forced to carry on a
miserably cynical, disillusioned and world-weary conversation with my
hostess and with Mrs. Fawcette, sick at heart all the time at the
half-concealed surprise in Natalie’s eyes.
It had to be done now, but I regretted adopting such a pose in the
first place.
It was a little better after luncheon, however. I had taken upon
myself the position of an admirer of both my hostess and Mrs.
Fawcette, but I contrived, with some difficulty, to have a word or two
with Natalie away from the others. We had always been frank with each
other and this conversation was no exception, although she was just a
little cool at first.
“I’m—I’m very, very sorry that you are going away,” I told her.
“Are you? I should not imagine that anything would have the power to
make you either very, very sorry or very, very glad.”
“Natalie!”
She looked down for a moment, and when she looked up again she was her
usual friendly, frank self. “Well then, why do you talk in that
disillusioned way? It isn’t a bit like you.”
I was silent. Then, taking a wild leap in the dark, I tried to be
equally frank, whatever the consequences.
“Natalie, I know it isn’t like me. It isn’t even a real side of me.
But I had to do it to-day, as I have had to do it before. There is a
real and vital reason. And that is all I can tell you. Do you believe
me?”
She looked up, laughing. Then, as her eyes met mine, her smile faded
into a look of wonder. “Do you really mean that?” she demanded.
“I really mean just that,” I assured her earnestly; “and I really mean
that I simply cannot tell you any more than that.”
“But—but—why, that is absurd. Why can’t you be yourself?”
I shook my head despairingly. “Natalie, I have told you the truth. I
don’t lie much anyway; and our friendship means far too much to me for
me to lie to you of all people. But I cannot tell you any more than
that!”
She stared at me for a moment or two, and then I realized for the
first time, perhaps, what a really wonderful girl she was. For her
hand went out impulsively to my sleeve and the eyes she raised to mine
were full of sincerity. “I believe you, then,” she said simply, “and
your reason does not matter.”
I must have let some of my appreciation show in my eyes, for she
flushed a delicious pink and dropped her own quickly. I leaned a
little nearer to her: “And you see I can still be very, very glad
about something!” I told her.
She changed the subject rather hastily.
“Do you remember my telling you about some wonderful tea I had had,
just before our first meeting?” she asked.
I hastened to assure her that I did remember, although we had
discussed that tea several times and wondered about its peculiar
properties.
“Well, Mrs. Fawcette has promised me some more of it, and she is
taking me there to tea this afternoon!”
“To the same place?” I asked. Her words filled me with a vague
apprehension, perhaps because by now I hated the thought of
associating her closely with anything that had to do with my quest.
“Yes, to the same place. _Now_ what’s the matter?” she added,
laughing.
“Well,” I answered, “frankly, I hate the thought of your taking drugs
of any kind, however mild. You don’t belong in that crowd, Natalie.”
She laughed. “Oh, but I must have some more of that tea, if only to
convince myself that there was nothing in it, and that my queer mood
_was_ only a mood.”
“Well, if you must go there, somehow I wish you’d let me go with you!
I know it’s a funny request, and I don’t quite know why I don’t want
you to go there without me—but I don’t!” I felt very young and awkward
with that speech. But there was so little that I could tell her to
warn her. And I did _not_ trust either Mrs. Fawcette or her friends. I
had seen something of them, and they were a queer crowd, to say the
least.
Natalie looked up at me curiously. “You are in a funny mood to-day,”
she said. “But if you want to come along, I should think Mrs. Fawcette
would be delighted to take you!” It was unlike her, but I seemed to
feel something of a challenge in her last remark.
Before I could answer, however, she had turned to that lady, who was
sitting near by.
“Mrs. Fawcette,” she called gayly, “Mr. Clayton is dying to come to
the tea with us this afternoon. Do you suppose you could manage to
take him?”
Then I saw a queer thing happen. Mrs. Fawcette turned as though she
had been stung and glanced first at me and then at Natalie, with a
scarcely veiled intensity that left us startled in our turn. She did
not answer for a moment, and Natalie was driven into further speech.
“I’ve been telling him about that wonderful tea we had there before,
and he wants to come along and sample it. But of course if you’d
rather not——” She glanced from Mrs. Fawcette to me in obvious
embarrassment.
I thought Mrs. Fawcette had grown rather pale, but she answered now
and readily enough: “You bad girl! I told you not to talk about that
tea, or our host will be swamped with people coming to sample it and
demanding where he got it. But if Mr. Clayton wants to come with us, I
shall be delighted to include him in the party.” She avoided my eyes
as she spoke. “He can see you home afterwards,” she added.
There was an almost venomous light in her eyes as she spoke. But if
Natalie saw it she appeared serenely unconscious of the fact.
“Thank you,” she answered, “and I’m awfully sorry if I should not have
talked to him about it.”
Naturally I did not feel very comfortable about my position in the
party, but I was determined to go, and so made no demur to my somewhat
left-handed invitation. And later, when we found ourselves in Mrs.
Fawcette’s car on the way to her friend’s house, she seemed to wish to
make amends by being very cordial to us both. But I did not much
relish the look in her eye when it fell on Natalie all the same.
Our host was a Russian, an aristocrat and a card from the fallen house
of cards that had been Russia, carried by the wind of that fall into a
new country and a new circle.
Unlike most Russian aristocrat refugees, however, he seemed to have
plenty of means. The house, just off Fifth Avenue in the Eighties, was
beautifully if somewhat barbarically furnished, with a queer mixture
of Occidental comfort in the shape of deep lounges and armchairs, and
of Oriental splendor in many and rich hangings and cushions. The air
of his rooms was heavy with perfume, and the man himself, with his
pale skin, deep-set eyes and pointed beard, gave an impression of
something equally exotic. We were the only guests and he welcomed us
with almost effusive cordiality, myself included. But I did not take
to him at all.
After a few moments of general conversation, Mrs. Fawcette rose to her
feet, smiling. “Droga,” she called to him—he was talking to Natalie—“I
have brought something to show you. I am sure that the young people
will excuse us for a moment!”
Before I had recovered from my amused surprise at the somewhat crude
method of classifying me with Natalie, Ivanovitch, our host, had risen
to his feet with a smile and a bow and followed Mrs. Fawcette through
a pair of heavy curtains into a room beyond.
Natalie and I turned and stared at each other. “Well!” she laughed.
Then her smile faded and she touched my arm. “But I’m glad you came,”
she whispered. “I don’t think I like it here very much; I thought
there were going to be a lot of people. At least, I thought that was
what Mrs. Fawcette said.”
“Natalie, dear,” I whispered, “don’t come here again without me!
Promise!”
I was very much in earnest, and the “dear” slipped out before I knew
it, but fortunately she did not seem to notice it. “You are growing
very dictatorial, sir!” she answered. “But all the same I don’t
believe I do like it here. I’m glad you came.”
A moment later the curtains parted and the others rejoined us. There
was nothing to be learned from our host’s expression, for his face was
a beautiful blank. But I thought Mrs. Fawcette bore traces of either
temper or fear, and possibly both.
But that was all that happened. We had tea, and I must say it was
wonderful tea. But it was just tea and nothing more, of that I am
certain. The conversation was general and interesting enough, and if
Natalie was disappointed she naturally could not show it.
For my part, I went very much out of my way to be pleasant to the
Russian, although not too obviously, I hope. And presently, after the
tea-things had been cleared away by a slant-eyed servant, I drew him
into a discussion on the war and its ultimate effect upon his country,
while the two women talked clothes or something. I laid myself out to
be both sympathetic and entertaining. At all events, the moment came
when I felt justified in asking him to give me the pleasure of taking
him to lunch the following day, and he accepted readily enough. If
there was anything to be learned from him I was determined to make an
attempt to learn it. And I believed that Natalie’s first statement
about the tea was correct. She was exceedingly healthy and not given
to violent moods.
Afterwards, Mrs. Fawcette had to hurry home to dress for a dinner
engagement, and I took Natalie back to her aunt’s house.
When our taxi pulled up in front of the house it was nearly
dinner-time, and we both had engagements. But I detained her for a
moment longer.
“Listen, Natalie! Will you do me a very big favor?” I asked her, as we
mounted her aunt’s steps.
She threw me a smiling glance of inquiry.
“It is a big favor,” I warned her. “And this is it: Will you promise
to tell me before you go there again for any more of that wonderful
tea?”
Natalie looked at me in wonder. “How funny you are to-day,” she said
at last. “Don’t you like Mrs. Fawcette or Ivanovitch?”
“Not very much, I confess. But I like the idea of that drugged tea
even less, Natalie. Promise, please!”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve got to go and dress, you importunate
man,” she laughed, “so—I’ll promise. Though I haven’t the slightest
idea why I should.”
At all events, I went down her aunt’s front steps treading on
something much less substantial.