OLD HANDS
Karl Steinmetz lifted his pen from the paper before him and scratched
his forehead with his forefinger.
"Now, I wonder," he said aloud, "how many bushels there are in a ton.
Ach! how am I to find out? These English weights and measures, this
English money, when there is a metrical system!"
He sat and hardly looked up when the clock struck seven. It was a quiet
room this in which he sat, the library of Paul's London house. The noise
of Piccadilly reached his ears as a faint roar, not entirely unpleasant,
but sociable and full of life. Accustomed as he was to the great silence
of Russia, where sound seems lost in space, the hum of a crowded
humanity was a pleasant change to this philosopher, who loved his kind
while fully recognizing its little weaknesses.
While he sat there still wondering how many bushels of seed made a ton,
Paul Alexis came into the room. The younger man was in evening dress. He
looked at the clock rather eagerly.
"Will you dine here?" he asked, and Steinmetz wheeled around in his
chair. "I am going out to dinner," he explained further.
"Ah!" said the elder man.
"I am going to Mrs. Sydney Bamborough's."
Steinmetz bowed his head gravely. He said nothing. He was not looking at
Paul, but at the pattern of the carpet. There was a short silence. Then
Paul said, with entire simplicity:
"I shall probably ask her to marry me."
"And she will probably say yes."
"I am not so sure about that," said Paul, with a laugh. For this man was
without conceit. He had gradually been forced to admit that there are
among men persons whose natural inclination is toward evil, persons who
value not the truth, nor hold by honesty. But he was guileless enough to
believe that women are not so. He actually believed that women are
truthful and open and honorable. He believes it still, which is somewhat
startling. There are a few such dullards yet. "I do not see why she
should," he went on gravely. He was standing by the empty fire-place, a
manly, upright figure; one who was not very clever, not brilliant at
all, somewhat slow in his speech, but sure, deadly sure, in the honesty
of his purpose.
Karl Steinmetz looked at him and smiled openly, with the quaint air of
resignation that was his.
"You have never seen her, eh?" enquired Paul.
Steinmetz paused, then he told a lie, a good one, well told,
deliberately.
"No."
"We are going to the opera, Box F2. If you come in I shall have pleasure
in introducing you. The sooner you know each other the better. I am sure
you will approve."
"I think you ought to marry money."
"Why?"
Steinmetz laughed.
"Oh," he answered, "because every-body does who can. There is Catrina
Lanovitch, an estate as big as yours, adjoining yours. A great Russian
family, a good girl who--is willing."
Paul laughed, a good wholesome laugh.
"You are inclined to exaggerate my manifold and obvious qualifications,"
he said. "Catrina is a very nice girl, but I do not think she would
marry me even if I asked her."
"Which you do not intend to do."
"Certainly not."
"Then you will make an enemy of her," said Steinmetz quietly. "It may be
inconvenient, but that cannot be helped. A woman scorned--you know.
Shakspere or the Bible, I always mix them up. No, Paul; Catrina
Lanovitch is a dangerous enemy. She has been making love to you these
last four years, and you would have seen it if you had not been a fool!
I am afraid, my good Paul, you are a fool, God bless you for it!"
"I think you are wrong," said Paul rather curtly; "not about me being a
fool, but about Catrina Lanovitch. If you are right, however, it only
makes me dislike her instead of being perfectly indifferent to her."
His honest face flushed up finely, and he turned away to look at the
clock again.
"I hate your way of talking about women, Steinmetz," he said. "You're a
cynical old beast, you know."
"Heaven forbid, my dear prince! I admire all women--they are so clever,
so innocent, so pure-minded. Do not your English novels prove it, your
English stage, your newspapers, so high-toned? Who supports the
novelist, the play-wright, the actor, who but your English ladies?"
"Better than being cooks--like your German ladies," retorted Paul
stoutly. "If you _are_ German this evening. Better than being cooks."
"I doubt it! I very much doubt it, my friend. At what time shall I
present myself at Box F2 this evening?"
"About nine--as soon as you like."
Paul looked at the clock. The pointers lagged horribly. He knew that the
carriage was certain to be at the door, waiting in the quiet street with
its great restless horses, its two perfectly trained men, its gleaming
lamps and shining harness. But he would not allow himself the luxury of
being the first arrival. Paul had himself well in hand. At last it was
time to go.
"See you later," he said.
"Thank you--yes," replied Steinmetz, without looking up.
So Paul Howard Alexis sallied forth to seek the hand of the lady of his
choice, and as he left his own door that lady was receiving Claude de
Chauxville in her drawing-room. The two had not met for some weeks--not
indeed since Etta had told the Frenchman that she could not marry him.
Her invitation to dine, couched in the usual friendly words, had been
the first move in that game commonly called "bluff." Claude de
Chauxville's acceptance of the same had been the second move. And these
two persons, who were not afraid of each other, shook hands with a
pleasant smile of greeting, while Paul hurried toward them through the
busy streets.
"Am I forgiven--that I am invited to dinner?" asked De Chauxville
imperturbably, when the servant had left them alone.
Etta was one of those women who are conscious of their dress. Some may
protest that a lady moving in such circles would not be so. But in all
circles women are only women, and in every class of life we meet such as
Etta Bamborough. Women who, while they talk, glance down and rearrange a
flower or a piece of lace. It is a mere habit, seemingly small and
unimportant; but it marks the woman and sets her apart.
Etta was standing on the hearthrug, beautifully dressed--too beautifully
dressed, it is possible, to sit down. Her maid had a moment earlier
confessed that she could do no more, and Etta had come down stairs a
vision of luxury, of womanly loveliness. Nevertheless, there appeared to
be something amiss. She was so occupied with a flower at her shoulder
that she did not answer at once.
"Forgiven for what?" she asked at length, in that preoccupied tone of
voice which tells wise men that only questions of dress will be
considered.
De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders in his graceful Gallic way.
"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed. "For a crime which requires no excuse, and no
explanation other than a mirror."
She looked up at him innocently.
"A mirror?"
"Yours. Have you forgiven me for falling in love with you? It is, I am
told, a crime that women sometimes condone."
"It was no crime," she said. She had heard the wheels of Paul's
carriage. "It was a misfortune. Please let us forget that it ever
happened."
De Chauxville twirled his neat mustache, looking keenly at her the
while.
"You forget," he said. "But I--will remember."
She did not answer, but turned with a smile to greet Paul.
"I think you know each other," she said gracefully when she had shaken
hands, and the two men bowed. They were foreigners, be it understood.
There were three languages in which they could understand each other
with equal ease.
"Where _is_ Maggie?" exclaimed Mrs. Bamborough. "She is always late."
"When I am here," reflected De Chauxville. But he did not say it.
Miss Delafield kept them waiting a few minutes, and during that time
Etta Sydney Bamborough gave a very fine display of prowess with the
double-stringed bow. When a man attempts to handle this delicate weapon,
he usually makes, if one may put it thus crudely, an ass of himself. He
generally succeeds in snapping one and probably both of the strings,
injuring himself most certainly in the process.
Not so, however, this clever lady. She had a smile and an epigram for
Claude de Chauxville, a grave air of sympathetic interest in more
serious affairs for Paul Alexis. She was bright and amusing, guileless
and very worldly wise in the same breath--simple for Paul and a match
for De Chauxville, within the space of three seconds. Withal she was a
beautiful woman beautifully dressed. A thousand times too wise to scorn
her womanhood, as learned fools are prone to do in print and on platform
in these wordy days, but wielding the strongest power on earth, to wit,
that same womanhood, with daring and with skill. A learned woman is not
of much account in the world. A clever woman moves as much of it as lies
in her neighborhood--that is to say, as much as she cares to rule. For
women love power, but they do not care to wield it at a distance.
Paul was asked to take Mrs. Sydney Bamborough down to dinner by the lady
herself.
"Mon ami," she said in a quiet aside to De Chauxville, before making her
request, "it is the first time the prince dines here."
She spoke in French. Maggie and Paul were talking together at the other
end of the room. De Chauxville bowed in silence.
At dinner the conversation was necessarily general, and, as such, is not
worth reporting. No general conversation, one finds, is of much value
when set down in black and white. It is not even grammatical nowadays.
To be more correct, let us note that the talk lay between Etta and M. de
Chauxville, who had a famous supply of epigrams and bright nothings
delivered in such a way that they really sounded like wisdom. Etta was
equal to him, sometimes capping his sharp wit, sometimes contenting
herself with silvery laughter. Maggie Delafield was rather distraite, as
De Chauxville noted. The girl's dislike for him was an iron that entered
the quick of his vanity anew every time he saw her. There was no
petulance in the aversion, such as he had perceived with other maidens
who were only resenting a passing negligence or seeking to pique his
curiosity. This was a steady and, if you will, unmaidenly aversion,
which Maggie conscientiously attempted to conceal.
Paul, it is to be feared, was what hostesses call heavy in hand. He
laughed where he saw something to laugh at, but not elsewhere, which in
some circles is considered morose and in bad form. He joined readily
enough in the conversation, but originated nothing. Those topics which
occupied his mind did not present themselves as suitable to this
occasion. His devotion to Etta was quite obvious, and he was simple
enough not to care that it should be so.
Maggie was by turns quite silent and very talkative. When Paul and Etta
were speaking together she never looked at them, but fixedly at her own
plate, at a decanter, or a salt-cellar. When she spoke she addressed her
remarks--valueless enough in themselves--exclusively to the man she
disliked, Claude de Chauxville.
There was something amiss in the pretty little room. There were shadows
seated around that pretty little table à quatre, beside the guests in
their pretty dresses and their black coats; silent cold shadows, who ate
nothing, while they chilled the dainty food and took the sweetness from
the succulent dishes. These shadows had crept in unawares, a silent
partie carrée, to take their phantom places at the table, and only Etta
seemed able to jostle hers aside and talk it down. She took the whole
burden of the conversation upon her pretty shoulders, and bore it
through the little banquet with unerring skill and unflinching good
humor. In the midst of her merriest laughter, the clever gray eyes would
flit from one man's face to the other. Paul had been brought here to ask
her to marry him. Claude de Chauxville had been invited that he might be
tacitly presented to his successful rival. Maggie was there because she
was a woman and made the necessary fourth. Puppets all, and two of them
knew it. And some of us know it all our lives. We are living, moving
puppets. We let ourselves be dragged here and pushed there, the victim
of one who happens to have more energy of mind, a greater steadfastness
of purpose, a keener grasp of the situation called life. We smirk and
smile, and lose the game because we have begun by being anvils, and are
afraid of trying to be hammers.
But Etta Sydney Bamborough had to deal with metal of a harder grain than
the majority of us. Claude de Chauxville was for the moment forced to
assume the humble rôle of anvil because he had no choice. Maggie
Delafield was passive for the time being, because that which would make
her active was no more than a tiny seedling in her heart. The girl bid
fair to be one of those women who develop late, who ripen slowly, like
the best fruit.
During the drive to the opera house the two women in Etta's snug little
brougham were silent. Etta had her thoughts to occupy her. She was at
the crucial point of a difficult game. She could not afford to allow
even a friend to see so much as the corners of the cards she held.
In the luxurious box it was easily enough arranged--Etta and Paul
together in front, De Chauxville and Maggie at the other corner of the
box.
"I have asked my friend Karl Steinmetz to come in during the evening,"
said Paul to Etta when they were seated. "He is anxious to make your
acquaintance. He is my--prime minister over in Russia."
Etta smiled graciously.
"It is kind of him," she answered, "to be anxious to make my
acquaintance."
She was apparently listening to the music; in reality she was hurrying
back mentally over half a dozen years. She had never had much to do with
the stout German philosopher, but she knew enough of him to scorn the
faint hope that he might have forgotten her name and her individuality.
Etta Bamborough had never been disconcerted in her life yet; this
incident came very near to bringing about the catastrophe.
"At what time," she asked, "is he coming in?"
"About half-past nine."
Etta had a watch on a bracelet on her arm. Such women always know the
time.
It was a race, and Etta won it. She had only half an hour. De Chauxville
was there, and Maggie with her quiet, honest eyes. But the widow of
Sydney Bamborough made Paul ask her to be his wife, and she promised to
give him his answer later. She did it despite a thousand difficulties
and more than one danger--accomplished it with, as the sporting people
say, plenty to spare--before the door behind them was opened by the
attendant, and Karl Steinmetz, burly, humorously imperturbable and
impenetrable, stood smiling gravely on the situation.
He saw Claude de Chauxville, and before the Frenchman had turned round
the expression on Steinmetz's large and placid countenance had changed
from the self-consciousness usually preceding an introduction to one of
a dim recognition.
"I have had the pleasure of meeting madame somewhere before, I think. In
St. Petersburg, was it not?"
Etta, composed and smiling, said that it was so, and introduced him to
Maggie. De Chauxville took the opportunity of leaving that young lady's
side, and placing himself near enough to Paul and Etta to completely
frustrate any further attempts at confidential conversation.
For a moment Steinmetz and Paul were left standing together.
"I have had a telegram," said Steinmetz in Russian. "We must go back to
Tver. There is cholera again. When can you come?"
Beneath his heavy mustache Paul bit his lip.
"In three days," he answered.
"True? You will come with me?" enquired Steinmetz, under cover of the
clashing music.
"Of course."
Steinmetz looked at him curiously. He glanced toward Etta, but he said
nothing.