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VISION HOUSE
By C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON
Author of "_The Lion's Mouse_," "_The Second Latchkey_,"
"_Everyman's Land_," etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with George H. Doran Company
COPYRIGHT, 1921,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO
THE GRAND CANYON
AND ARIZONA
CONTENTS
I ENTER MISS SOREL
II EXIT THE BLIGHTER
III A CABIN WINDOW
IV REPRISALS--ET CETERA
V ANONYMOUS
VI ON SUNDAY AT THREE
VII SAMSON AGONISTES
VIII WHAT THE STAR SAID
IX SOMETHING OUT OF ANCIENT ROME
X THE THING SHE COULD NOT EXPLAIN
XI EVERY MAN HAS HIS PRICE
XII "HAVE YOUR CAKE AND EAT IT, TOO!"
XIII "CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?"
XIV MARISE PUTS ON BLACK
XV THE CHURCH DOOR
XVI FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE
XVII THE SPEAKING-TUBE
XVIII AU REVOIR--TILL SOMETIME!
XIX WHY THE BARGAIN WAS OFF
XX THE BRIDAL SUITE
XXI KEEPING UP APPEARANCES
XXII A SHOCK AND A SNUB OR TWO
XXIII THE DREAM
XXIV ACCORDING TO MUMS
XXV "SOME DAY--SOME WAY--SOMEHOW!"
XXVI THE END OF THE JOURNEY
XXVII SECOND FIDDLE
XXVIII MOTHEREEN
XXIX THE WHITE DOVE
XXX THE VIGIL LIGHT
XXXI THE ALBUM
XXXII THE BEREAVED ONE
XXXIII THE VISITORS' BOOK
XXXIV THE TERRACE
XXXV STRAIGHT TALK
XXXVI STUMBLING IN THE DARK
XXXVII ZELIE GETS EVEN
XXXVIII WHEN SEVERANCE THREW DOWN THE KEY
VISION HOUSE
CHAPTER I
ENTER MISS SOREL
It was the third day out from Liverpool on the way to New York, and
people were just beginning to take an interest in each other's names and
looks.
The passenger list of the _Britannia_ was posted up close to the lift on
B deck, but the weather had not encouraged curious groups to study and
inwardly digest its items. In fact, digestion of all sorts had been
difficult. To-day, however, the huge ship had ceased to step on and
stumble over monster waves, and had slipped into a sea of silken blue.
Bad sailors and lazy ones were on deck staring at their fellows as at
unearthly creatures who had dropped on board since the vessel sailed,
miraculously like manna from heaven. The news had flown round, as news
flies in an Eastern bazaar, that there were three names of conspicuous
interest on the hitherto neglected list, and that now was the moment for
"spotting" their owners.
Two of these should be easy to find, for their steamer chairs, plainly
labelled, stood side by side on A deck, where everyone sat or was
supposed to sit. The sea dogs and dogesses who braved all weathers had
nosed out those labels, but had so far watched in vain for the chairs to
be occupied. They had observed, also, that corresponding places at the
captain's table were vacant. There were three chairs together on deck,
and in the dining-saloon, but the third did not count with the public.
It was that of a mere chaperon--The Girl's mother. She was not the third
of the Three Thrilling Passengers. That person happened to be a man, and
he had neither chair nor label. If he had eaten a meal outside his cabin
he had somehow passed unrecognised.
The stewards, questioned, said that John Garth had not applied for a
seat at table. Yes, certainly, one had been assigned to him, next Mrs.
Sorel, she being in the place of honour on the right of the
_Britannia's_ captain. In this position Garth would have faced Lord
Severance, and sat diagonally opposite Miss Sorel, who was on the
captain's left. But the favoured man had ignored his privilege. It was
understood that he preferred snatching vague sandwiches and glasses of
beer at odd hours in the smoking-room, or on deck; therefore it would be
hard to identify him. Meanwhile, however, celebrity seekers gathered
near those three chairs on the sunny port side of A deck.
By ten o'clock the crowd had thickened; but it was not till close on
eleven that a tall figure in uniform, preceded by a steward with rugs,
sat down in the chair ticketed "Major the Earl of Severance."
Many Americans were on board, homeward bound after months of Red Cross
and other war work, and they knew in their hearts, no doubt, that
titles, once valued by snobs, were absolutely out-of-date in this
newly-democratised world. Nevertheless, they threw glances at Lord
Severance. Their glances would not have been wasted on a mere every-day
male. Of course, their excuse might have been that they'd prefer
glancing at their own American Johnny Garth, who was as much a major as
Lord Severance, and, being a V.C. (the one and only American V.C.),
twice as much a man for them.
But then Garth wasn't in sight, and Severance was. Besides, the chair
between Lord Severance's and Mrs. Sorel's was ticketed "Miss Marise
Sorel." Nobody could deny that Miss Sorel was worth flocking to gaze at,
had Severance not existed.
Thousands, hundred of thousands, of men and women paid good money to
gaze at her in theatres. Here she could be seen free of charge. But was
she coming out? the deck pilgrims wondered. And Lord Severance had an
air of wondering, too. He held a book in his hand; but his eyes were
often on the nearest door.
They were strikingly fine eyes, and Lord Severance was in appearance a
striking man. "Stunning" was an adjective used by some American
promenaders. They remarked, too, that he "wasn't a typical Englishman.
You'd think he was Spanish or something."
He was not Spanish, but half of him was not English; the "something" was
Greek. His mother had been a Greek heiress and beauty, but her money and
looks had been lost before she died. Most valuable things were lost
after they had been in the Severance family for any length of time. The
beautiful Greek woman's handsome son had pale olive skin, a straight
nose, full red lips under a miniature moustache like two inked
finger-prints, raven hair sleekly brushed straight back from his square
forehead, and immense eyes of unfathomable blackness.
He was going to "the States" on some military mission, no one knew quite
what, and so, although the war had finished months ago, he was still in
uniform, with the "brass hat" of a staff officer, and the gorgeous
grey-lavender overcoat of the Guards. It seemed as if nobody could help
admiring him, and nobody did help it, except a great, hulking chap in
abominable clothes, with a khaki-coloured handkerchief round his neck
instead of a collar. This beast--in a sat-on-looking cap, enough to
disgrace a commercial traveller, sleeves as much too short for his
red-brown wrists as were the trousers for his strapping ankles--strode
to and fro along the deck as if for a wager. It was almost as if he
flaunted himself in defiance of someone or something. Yet he didn't
appear self-conscious. He had in his yellow-grey eyes that
bored-with-humanity look of a lion in a zoo, who gazes past crowds to
the one vision he desires--the desert. Only, now and then as he passed
the chair of Lord Severance, his look came back for an instant from the
desert, or waste of waves, to shoot scorn at a pair of well-shod feet
crossed on a black fur rug. This would hardly indicate any emotion
higher than jealousy, it seemed, as the boots of Major Lord Severance
were perfect, and his own were vile.
When Severance had restlessly occupied his chair for fifteen minutes he
suddenly sprang up. A maid, unmistakably French, was squeezing a load of
rugs through a doorway. Severance ignored the offered service of a deck
steward, as if the rugs were too sacred for human hands to touch. With a
kind smile he himself helped the woman in black to spread the soft,
furry folds over the two neighbouring chairs.
"It's like a scene on the stage in a play written for her," said one
American Red Cross nurse to another. "The hero of the piece and the maid
working up the woman star's entrance."
"Which is he, more like hero or villain?" the second nurse reflected
aloud. "If I wrote him into a play, he'd be the villain--that dark type
with red lips and a little black moustache. But the Sorel's a star all
right. We ought to tune up and whistle a bar of entrance music! See how
the French maid puts the brown rug on one chair and the blue rugs on the
other. What'll you bet Sorel and her mother aren't dressed one in blue
and one in brown? Gee! The biggest blue rug's lined with chinchilla. Can
you beat it?"
Neither nurse could beat it, but the approaching vision could. She beat
it with a long cloak of even more silvery chinchilla.
At the door she stood aside for an older, shorter, plumper woman to
pass, she herself being very tall and exquisitely slender. She did not
seem to look at anyone, or be aware that anyone looked at her.
Nevertheless, all eyes were focussed upon the standing figure in the
chinchilla coat and blue toque while the lady in brown and sables was
being seated. Even Lord Severance had eyes only for the girl as he lent
his hands to her maid to tuck in the brown rugs. But the girl's smile
was for her mother, and it was not till Mrs. Sorel was settled that she
moved. A charming little scene of daughterly devotion, worthy a
paragraph if there were a journalist in sight!
Just as Severance, with an air of absorption, wrapped Miss Sorel's grey
suede shoes in her chinchilla-lined rug, the giant in the ghastly
clothes hurled himself past. The girl did not lift her lashes, so famous
for their length and curl. She was hanging a gold-mesh bag on the arm of
her chair. You would say that she had not noticed the fellow. But the
fellow had noticed her.
The distant-desert look died. In his eyes a flame lit, and flashed at
the girl in the chair. It was a light that literally spoke. It said
"God! You're a beauty." Then he flung one of his glances at Severance,
scornful or jealous as before. To do this he had not actually paused,
yet it was as if something had happened. Whatever the thing was,
Severance resented it in hot silence; and, in turn, his eyes did deadly
work. They stabbed the broad back of the badly-cut, badly-fitting coat
as its wearer forged away, hands deep in pockets.
Miss Sorel sat between her mother and Lord Severance. She glanced at the
former as if to begin a conversation, but Mrs. Sorel had opened her
lorgnettes and a novel. The girl knew the signal: "Don't talk to me.
Talk to him." But she was lazy in obeying. She felt so sure of
Severance, that she needn't try to hold him by any tricks. She might now
treat him as she chose. Not that she had ever let him see that she was
anxious to please. But there _had_ been an anxious time. The girl didn't
want to talk, so she sat deliciously still, deliciously happy. She was
thinking. The restful peace of the sea after stormy days made her think
of herself.
She often thought of herself; more, indeed, than of any other subject,
because, like most beautiful young actresses, she had been encouraged to
form the habit. But this was special--extra special.
The girl was so content with her world that she shut herself in with it
by shutting her eyes. Then she faintly smiled in order that (just in
case they happened to look) people shouldn't suppose she was seasick.
How odd that it should be her mother's lorgnettes which had reminded her
suddenly of her own good luck--the lorgnettes, and the delicate ringed
fingers grasping the tortoiseshell handle!
Once that little hand had not been so white. There had been no leisure
for manicuring nails, and polishing them to the sheen of pink coral.
There had been no rings--no lorgnettes monogramed with rose diamonds.
That was before the "Marise" days; before clever Mums had linked
together in the French way her daughter's name of Mary Louise (after
father and mother) and begun training the girl into superlative beauty
and grace for the stage. Oh yes, Marise owed a lot to ambitious little
Mums! But at last she had been able to make generous payment for all the
trouble, all the sacrifices. She, Marise, had bought the lorgnettes, and
the sables, and the antique rings which Mums told everyone were
heirlooms in the Sorel family, bequeathed to a great-grandfather of
"poor dear Louis by a Countess Sorel beheaded in the Revolution." She,
Marise, had easily earned money for all the other lovely things they
both possessed.
It was like a dream to remember how, three years ago, she had been just
a pretty "actorine" among other "actorines" in New York, struggling for
a chance to "show what she could really do," her heart jumping like a
fish at the sight of a Big Manager. Why, hadn't she literally squeaked
with joy when she got a contract for "fifty per"? And hadn't she soon
after nearly fallen dead when Dunstan Belloc let her understudy Elsa
Fortescue in "The Spring Song"?
Of course, even at that time, she and Mums had both been sure she was
born to play "Dolores," and that Elsa _wasn't_. Belloc hadn't been so
sure. He had given her the part only because she looked irresistible
when she begged for it. Oh, and perhaps a little because her dead
father, Louis Sorel, had been an old friend of his. Marise had had to
"make good," and she had made good.
Not that the girl had wished harm to Elsa Fortescue. But Elsa was a "Has
Been," whereas "Dolores" was supposed to be in the springtime of youth,
and possessed of an annihilating beauty--the beauty which draws men as
the moon draws the sea. Marise didn't think it conceited to face facts,
and admit that this description fitted her like a glove. These gifts had
brought her sensational success in a single night, whereas the piece had
simply "flivvered" with Elsa as star. The critics had been cold if not
cruel, and grief mixed with _grippe_ laid Elsa low. Then little Marise
Sorel (only figuratively "little," she being one of those willowy,
long-limbed nymphs who are the models and manikins of the moment),
"little Marise," in whom author and manager felt scant faith, had saved
the play and made herself. Both had boomed for a wonderful year, and at
the end of that time England had called for "Dolores" and "The Song."
Oh, and those two years in London that followed! Never could another
girl have known anything like them since the days of the great
professional beauties whom crowds had mobbed in Hyde Park. Papers and
people had praised Miss Sorel's looks, her voice, and her talent. It was
thought quite amazing that a girl so lovely should take the trouble to
act well, but Marise explained to interviewers that she couldn't help
acting. It was in her blood to act--her father's blood. She didn't add
that ambition was in her mother's blood, and that Mums was doing all she
could to hand it on to the next generation. It wasn't necessary to
mention ambition to the public. Some people considered ambition more a
vice than a virtue. But Marise, who knew what poor Mums's past had been,
understood the passion and even felt the thrill of it. Not only had she
had the "time of her life" in those two years, but she had met people
whom she couldn't have approached before her blossoming as "Dolores" in
"The Spring Song." As "Dolores" she had been spoiled, feted, adored; and
she had become rich.
Now, here she was on the way back to dear New York to revive the play,
which Belloc, as manager, and Sheridan, as author, expected to surpass
its first success. At present Miss Sorel had the valued cachet of a
London triumph added to her charms. She was more _chic_, she could act
and sing better, than before. Isadora Duncan had coached her for the
dance in the last scene, as an act of generous friendship, and this had
given "The Song" a new fillip in London. It would be the same in New
York.
As if this were not enough to satisfy an older "star" than she, there
was the wonderful way in which the affair of Tony Severance had
developed. He had strained every nerve to sail with her on the
_Britannia_. Heaven alone knew how he'd obtained or invented the
"mission" which had made his plan possible. It was entirely for her
sake, and everyone was coupling their names--in a nice, proper way, of
course. She was that kind of girl. And Mums was that kind of mother.
Even before Severance had come into the title, he had been splendidly
worth while on account of his looks, his position, and his "set," but
now it seemed to Marise that every unmarried woman in England and
America must be envying her.
As she sipped the honey of these thoughts, the girl felt that Severance
was staring at her eyelashes, and willing her to lift them. But she
would not, just yet. She went on with her thinking. She asked herself if
her feeling for him were love? Of course, it wasn't the "Dolores" sort
of love for "David Hardcastle," but love like that was safer on the
stage than off. Marise admired Tony, and was very proud of her conquest,
though she would admit that to no one except Mums. She had been horribly
afraid, humiliatingly afraid for a few days, that he might change his
mind if not his heart, when the earldom fell into his hands like a
prize-package. If she'd not been sure before that Tony was the one man
for her, she was frantically sure after the great surprise, when he was
safely on board the _Britannia_. How pleased the cats would have been if
she'd lost him--the cats who pretended to think, in the days before he
was Lord Severance, that the honesty of his intentions depended upon her
money.
They would see now--hateful, jealous things! For, as the Earl of
Severance, though not rich, Tony would be no longer poor, and he had
proved by sailing with her that life without Marise Sorel was worthless
to him.
The cats would be sorry when she was the Countess of Severance, for
every nasty word they'd said. She would forgive, but she would never be
nice to them, of course. She would ask the creatures only to big, dull
parties, just to let them see what a _grande dame_ little Marise had
become. And even if she weren't certain that she'd rather be a Countess
than a stage star, Mums was certain for her--poor Mums, who had always
yearned to be at the top! And it would really be nice to "belong" among
the great people who had played with her for a while and made her their
pet.
Marise opened her eyes. She did not, however, turn them to Severance.
She gazed at the one ring which adorned her left hand. She never wore
more than one ring at a time. This, and having all her jewels match each
other, her dress and her mood, was a fad of hers. Celine helped her
carry it out. But if Severance gave her a diamond, that would match
nothing, and spoil the scheme.
"You have the longest lashes of any woman in the world," he remarked.
"One would think you'd seen them all--all the women and all the
eyelashes!" She looked at him at last, and her soft, smoke-blue eyes
were the colour of her sapphire brooch and chain.
"I've seen my share of fair ladies."
"So I've heard."
"You've probably heard a good deal that isn't true." Severance glanced
at Mrs. Sorel, or at what he could see of her, which was mostly book,
lorgnettes, and hand. She seemed absorbed. He leaned towards Marise.
"The last three days have been a hundred years long," he murmured.
"Why? Have you been seasick, poor boy?"
"No!" (This was a slight deviation from the truth.) "I've been beastly
dull without you."
"If you're such a good sailor, couldn't you walk, and read, and----"
"I couldn't be bothered doing anything intelligent. I moped in my
cabin." ("Moped" was one word for what he had done.) "I----"
"Oh, here comes Samson again!" Marise broke in. "Isn't that absolutely
the name for him? It jumped into my head when he passed before and gave
me that wild sort of look--did you notice?"
"I did," said Severance drily. "I thought you didn't. Your eyes were
apparently glued to your gold bag."
"What's the good of being an actress if you can't see two things at
once, especially if one of them's the biggest thing on the ship? Nobody
could help noticing that--any more than if Mont Blanc suddenly waltzed
down stage from off the back drop."
"Waltzed? 'Galumped' is the word in this case."
"Oh, do you think so?" Marise appealed. "He walks like a man used to
wide, free spaces."
"Like a farmer, you mean. To my mind, that's his part: Hodge--not
Samson."
"I've forgotten what Samson was, I'm ashamed to say, before he played
opposite Delilah," confessed Marise. "I suppose he was a warrior--most
men were in those days--as now. This might be one--if it weren't for the
clothes. They certainly are the limit! But do you know, he could be very
distinguished-looking, even handsome, decently turned out?"
"No, I don't know it, my child." Severance beat down his irritation.
"The only way I can picture that ugly blighter being decently 'turned
out,' is out of a respectable club."
"You talk as if you had a grudge against my provincial Samson," laughed
Marise, whose blue eyes had followed the "blighter" along the deck to
the point of disappearance.
"I don't want to talk about him at all," protested Severance. "I want to
talk about you."
"We're always talking about me!" smiled Marise, who was honestly not
aware how she enjoyed talking about herself, or how soon she tired of
most other subjects. "If you won't talk of one man, let's talk of
another! For instance, have you seen our V.C. passenger?"
Severance flushed slightly. "Didn't I tell you, angel girl, that I've
been in my cabin the whole time?"
"You didn't say the 'whole' time. And anyhow, there's such a crowd on
board, they might have stuck a fellow-soldier in with you at the last
moment. Didn't they warn you that they couldn't promise a cabin to
yourself? Naturally they'd have chosen a V.C. as the least insupportable
person."
"Several V.C.'s I've met have been most insupportable persons," grumbled
Severance.
Something in his tone made the girl suddenly face him with wide-open
eyes. She saw the dusky stain of red under the olive skin, and the
drawing down of the black brows. "Why, Tony, how stupid of me not to
remember before!" she exclaimed.
There! It had come--the thing that was bound to come sooner or later.
Severance, rawly sensitive on this subject which the girl refused to
drop, had wanted it to be later.
For the first time he thought that Marise Sorel was more obstinate than
a beautiful young woman ought to be. In a man he would call such
persistence mulish.