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_The_ YOUNGER SET
WORKS OF ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
THE YOUNGER SET
THE FIGHTING CHANCE
THE TREE OF HEAVEN
THE TRACER OF LOST PERSONS
THE RECKONING
IOLE
Cardigan
The Maid-at-Arms
Lorraine
Maids of Paradise
Ashes of Empire
The Red Republic
The King in Yellow
A Maker of Moons
A King and a Few Dukes
The Conspirators
The Cambric Mask
The Haunts of Men
Outsiders
A Young Man in a Hurry
The Mystery of Choice
In Search of the Unknown
In the Quarter
* * * * *
FOR CHILDREN
Garden-Land
Forest-Land
River-Land
Mountain-Land
Orchard-Land
Outdoorland
[Illustration: "Gave into his keeping soul and body."--Page 513]
_The_
YOUNGER SET
BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
AUTHOR OF
"THE FIGHTING CHANCE," ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
G.C. WILMSHURST
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
_Published August, 1907_
TO
MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--HIS OWN PEOPLE 1
II.--A DREAM ENDS 43
III.--UNDER THE ASHES 84
IV.--MID-LENT 119
V.--AFTERGLOW 161
VI.--THE UNEXPECTED 194
VII.--ERRANDS AND LETTERS 242
VIII.--SILVERSIDE 280
IX.--A NOVICE 324
X.--LEX NON SCRIPTA 384
XI.--HIS OWN WAY 420
XII.--HER WAY 460
ARS AMORIS 503
THE YOUNGER SET
* * * * *
CHAPTER I
HIS OWN PEOPLE
"You never met Selwyn, did you?"
"No, sir."
"Never heard anything definite about his trouble?" insisted Gerard.
"Oh, yes, sir!" replied young Erroll, "I've heard a good deal about it.
Everybody has, you know."
"Well, I _don't_ know," retorted Austin Gerard irritably, "what
'everybody' has heard, but I suppose it's the usual garbled version made
up of distorted fact and malicious gossip. That's why I sent for you.
Sit down."
Gerald Erroll seated himself on the edge of the big, polished table in
Austin's private office, one leg swinging, an unlighted cigarette
between his lips.
Austin Gerard, his late guardian, big, florid, with that peculiar blue
eye which seems to characterise hasty temper, stood by the window,
tossing up and catching the glittering gold piece--souvenir of the
directors' meeting which he had just left.
"What has happened," he said, "is this. Captain Selwyn is back in
town--sent up his card to me, but they told him I was attending a
directors' meeting. When the meeting was over I found his card and a
message scribbled, saying he'd recently landed and was going uptown to
call on Nina. She'll keep him there, of course, until I get home, so I
shall see him this evening. Now, before you meet him, I want you to
plainly understand the truth about this unfortunate affair; and that's
why I telephoned your gimlet-eyed friend Neergard just now to let you
come around here for half an hour."
The boy nodded and, drawing a gold matchbox from his waistcoat pocket,
lighted his cigarette.
"Why the devil don't you smoke cigars?" growled Austin, more to himself
than to Gerald; then, pocketing the gold piece, seated himself heavily
in his big leather desk-chair.
"In the first place," he said, "Captain Selwyn is my
brother-in-law--which wouldn't make an atom of difference to me in my
judgment of what has happened if he had been at fault. But the facts of
the case are these." He held up an impressive forefinger and laid it
flat across the large, ruddy palm of the other hand. "First of all, he
married a cat! C-a-t, cat. Is that clear, Gerald?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good! What sort of a dance she led him out there in Manila, I've heard.
Never mind that, now. What I want you to know is how he behaved--with
what quiet dignity, steady patience, and sweet temper under constant
provocation and mortification, he conducted himself. Then that fellow
Ruthven turned up--and--Selwyn is above that sort of suspicion. Besides,
his scouts took the field within a week."
He dropped a heavy, highly coloured fist on his desk with a bang.
"After that hike, Selwyn came back, to find that Alixe had sailed with
Jack Ruthven. And what did he do; take legal measures to free himself,
as you or I or anybody with an ounce of temper in 'em would have done?
No; he didn't. That infernal Selwyn conscience began to get busy, making
him believe that if a woman kicks over the traces it must be because of
some occult shortcoming on his part. In some way or other that man
persuaded himself of his responsibility for her misbehaviour. He knew
what it meant if he didn't ask the law to aid him to get rid of her; he
knew perfectly well that his silence meant acknowledgment of
culpability; that he couldn't remain in the service under such
suspicion.
"And now, Gerald," continued Austin, striking his broad palm with
extended forefinger and leaning heavily forward, "I'll tell you what
sort of a man Philip Selwyn is. He permitted Alixe to sue him for
absolute divorce--and, to give her every chance to marry Ruthven, he
refused to defend the suit. That sort of chivalry is very picturesque,
no doubt, but it cost him his career--set him adrift at thirty-five, a
man branded as having been divorced from his wife for cause, with no
profession left him, no business, not much money--a man in the prime of
life and hope and ambition, clean in thought and deed; an upright, just,
generous, sensitive man, whose whole career has been blasted because he
was too merciful, too generous to throw the blame where it belonged. And
it belongs on the shoulders of that Mrs. Jack Ruthven--Alixe
Ruthven--whose name you may see in the columns of any paper that
truckles to the sort of society she figures in."
Austin stood up, thrust his big hands into his pockets, paced the room
for a few moments, and halted before Gerald.
"If any woman ever played me a dirty trick," he said, "I'd see that the
public made no mistake in placing the blame. I'm that sort"--he
shrugged--"Phil Selwyn isn't; that's the difference--and it may be in
his favour from an ethical and sentimental point of view. All right; let
it go at that. But all I meant you to understand is that he is every
inch a man; and when you have the honour to meet him, keep that fact in
the back of your head, among the few brains with which Providence has
equipped you."
"Thanks!" said Gerald, colouring up. He cast his cigarette into the
empty fireplace, slid off the edge of the table, and picked up his hat.
Austin eyed him without particular approval.
"You buy too many clothes," he observed. "That's a new suit, isn't it?"
"Certainly," said Gerald; "I needed it."
"Oh! if you can afford it, all right. . . . How's the nimble Mr.
Neergard?"
"Neergard is flourishing. We put through that Rose Valley deal. I tell
you what, Austin, I wish you could see your way clear to finance one or
two--"
Austin's frown cut him short.
"Oh, all right! You know your own business, of course," said the boy, a
little resentfully. "Only as Fane, Harmon & Co. have thought it worth
while--"
"I don't care what Fane, Harmon think," growled Austin, touching a
button over his desk. His stenographer entered; he nodded a curt
dismissal to Gerald, adding, as the boy reached the door:
"Your sister expects you to be on hand to-night--and so do we."
Gerald halted.
"I'd clean forgotten," he began; "I made another--a rather important
engagement--"
But Austin was not listening; in fact, he had already begun to dictate
to his demure stenographer, and Gerald stood a moment, hesitating, then
turned on his heel and went away down the resounding marble corridor.
"They never let me alone," he muttered; "they're always at me--following
me up as though I were a schoolboy. . . . Austin's the worst--never
satisfied. . . . What do I care for all these functions--sitting around
with the younger set and keeping the cradle of conversation rocking? I
won't go to that infernal baby-show!"
He entered the elevator and shot down to the great rotunda, still
scowling over his grievance. For he had made arrangements to join a
card-party at Julius Neergard's rooms that night, and he had no
intention of foregoing that pleasure just because his sister's first
grown-up dinner-party was fixed for the same date.
As for this man Selwyn, whom he had never met, he saw no reason why he
should drop business and scuttle uptown in order to welcome him. No
doubt he was a good fellow; no doubt he had behaved very decently in a
matter which, until a few moments before, he had heard little about. He
meant to be civil; he'd look up Selwyn when he had a chance, and ask him
to dine at the club. But this afternoon he couldn't do it; and, as for
the evening, he had made his arrangements, and he had no intention of
disturbing them on Austin's account.
When he reached his office he picked up the telephone and called up
Gerard's house; but neither his sister nor anybody else was there except
the children and servants, and Captain Selwyn had not yet called. So he
left no message, merely saying that he'd call up again. Which he forgot
to do.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Captain Selwyn was sauntering along Fifth Avenue under the
leafless trees, scanning the houses of the rich and great across the
way; and these new houses of the rich and great stared back at him out
of a thousand casements as polished and expressionless as the monocles
of the mighty.
And, strolling at leisure in the pleasant winter weather, he came
presently to a street, stretching eastward in all the cold
impressiveness of very new limestone and plate-glass.
Could this be the street where his sister now lived?
As usual when perplexed he slowly raised his hand to his moustache; and
his pleasant gray eyes, still slightly blood-shot from the glare of the
tropics, narrowed as he inspected this unfamiliar house.
The house was a big elaborate limestone affair, evidently new. Winter
sunshine sparkled on lace-hung casement, on glass marquise, and the
burnished bronze foliations of grille and door.
It was flood-tide along Fifth Avenue; motor, brougham, and victoria
swept by on the glittering current; pretty women glanced out from
limousine and tonneau; young men of his own type, silk-hatted,
frock-coated, the crooks of their walking sticks tucked up under their
left arms, passed on the Park side.
But the nods of recognition, lifted hats, the mellow warnings of motor
horns, clattering hoofs, the sun flashing on carriage wheels and
polished panels, on liveries, harness, on the satin coats of horses--a
gem like a spark of fire smothered by the sables at a woman's throat,
and the bright indifference of her beauty--all this had long since lost
any meaning for him. For him the pageant passed as the west wind passes
in Samar over the glimmering valley grasses; and he saw it through
sun-dazzled eyes--all this, and the leafless trees beyond against the
sky, and the trees mirrored in a little wintry lake as brown as the
brown of the eyes which were closed to him now forever.
As he stood there, again he seemed to hear the whistle signal, clear,
distant, rippling across the wind-blown grasses where the brown
constabulary lay firing in the sunshine; but the rifle shots were the
crack of whips, and it was only a fat policeman of the traffic squad
whistling to clear the swarming jungle trails of the great metropolis.
Again Selwyn turned to the house, hesitating, unreconciled. Every
sun-lit window stared back at him.
He had not been prepared for so much limestone and marquise magnificence
where there was more renaissance than architecture and more bay-window
than both; but the number was the number of his sister's house; and, as
the street and the avenue corroborated the numbered information, he
mounted the doorstep, rang, and leisurely examined four stiff box-trees
flanking the ornate portal--meagre vegetation compared to what he had
been accustomed to for so many years.
Nobody came; once or twice he fancied he heard sounds proceeding from
inside the house. He rang again and fumbled for his card case. Somebody
was coming.
The moment that the door opened he was aware of a distant and curious
uproar--far away echoes of cheering, and the faint barking of dogs.
These seemed to cease as the man in waiting admitted him; but before he
could make an inquiry or produce a card, bedlam itself apparently broke
loose somewhere in the immediate upper landing--noise in its crudest
elemental definition--through which the mortified man at the door
strove to make himself heard: "Beg pardon, sir, it's the children broke
loose an' runnin' wild-like--"
"The _what_?"
"Only the children, sir--fox-huntin' the cat, sir--"
His voice was lost in the yelling dissonance descending crescendo from
floor to floor. Then an avalanche of children and dogs poured down the
hall-stairs in pursuit of a rumpled and bored cat, tumbling with yelps
and cheers and thuds among the thick rugs on the floor.
Here the cat turned and soundly cuffed a pair of fat beagle puppies, who
shrieked and fled, burrowing for safety into the yelling heap of
children and dogs on the floor. Above this heap legs, arms, and the
tails of dogs waved wildly for a moment, then a small boy, blond hair in
disorder, staggered to his knees, and, setting hollowed hand to cheek,
shouted: "Hi! for'rard! Harkaway for'rard! Take him, Rags! Now, Tatters!
After him, Owney! Get on, there, Schnitzel! Worry him, Stinger!
Tally-ho-o!"
At which encouraging invitation the two fat beagle pups, a waddling
dachshund, a cocker, and an Irish terrier flew at Selwyn's nicely
creased trousers; and the small boy, rising to his feet, became aware of
that astonished gentleman for the first time.
"Steady, there!" exclaimed Selwyn, bringing his walking stick to a brisk
bayonet defence; "steady, men! Prepare to receive infantry--and doggery,
too!" he added, backing away. "No quarter! Remember the Alamo!"
The man at the door had been too horrified to speak, but he found his
voice now.
"Oh, you hush up, Dawson!" said the boy; and to Selwyn he added
tentatively, "Hello!"
"Hello yourself," replied Selwyn, keeping off the circling pups with the
point of his stick. "What is this, anyway--a Walpurgis hunt?--or Eliza
and the bloodhounds?"
Several children, disentangling themselves from the heap, rose to
confront the visitor; the shocked man, Dawson, attempted to speak again,
but Selwyn's raised hand quieted him.
The small boy with the blond hair stepped forward and dragged several
dogs from the vicinity of Selwyn's shins.
"This is the Shallowbrook hunt," he explained; "I am Master of Hounds;
my sister Drina, there, is one of the whips. Part of the game is to all
fall down together and pretend we've come croppers. You see, don't you?"
"I see," nodded Selwyn; "it's a pretty stiff hunting country, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is. There's wire, you know," volunteered the girl, Drina,
rubbing the bruises on her plump shins.
"Exactly," agreed Selwyn; "bad thing, wire. Your whips should warn you."
The big black cat, horribly bored by the proceedings, had settled down
on a hall seat, keeping one disdainful yellow eye on the dogs.
"All the same, we had a pretty good run," said Drina, taking the cat
into her arms and seating herself on the cushions; "didn't we, Kit-Ki?"
And, turning to Selwyn, "Kit-Ki makes a pretty good fox--only she isn't
enough afraid of us to run away very fast. Won't you sit down? Our
mother is not at home, but we are."
"Would you really like to have me stay?" asked Selwyn.
"Well," admitted Drina frankly, "of course we can't tell yet how
interesting you are because we don't know you. We are trying to be
polite--" and, in a fierce whisper, turning on the smaller of the
boys--"Winthrop! take your finger out of your mouth and stop staring at
guests! Billy, you make him behave himself."
The blond-haired M.F.H. reached for his younger brother; the infant
culprit avoided him and sullenly withdrew the sucked finger but not his
fascinated gaze.
"I want to know who he ith," he lisped in a loud aside.
"So do I," admitted a tiny maid in stickout skirts.
Drina dropped the cat, swept the curly hair from her eyes, and stood up
very straight in her kilts and bare knees.
"They don't really mean to be rude," she explained; "they're only
children." Then, detecting the glimmering smile in Selwyn's eyes, "But
perhaps you wouldn't mind telling us who you are because we all would
like to know, but we are not going to be ill-bred enough to ask."
Their direct expectant gaze slightly embarrassed him; he laughed a
little, but there was no response from them.
"Well," he said, "as a matter of fact and record, I am a sort of
relative of yours--a species of avuncular relation."
"What is that?" asked Drina coldly.
"That," said Selwyn, "means that I'm more or less of an uncle to you.
Hope you don't mind. You don't have to entertain me, you know."
"An uncle!" repeated Drina.
"Our uncle?" echoed Billy. "You are not our soldier uncle, are you? You
are not our Uncle Philip, are you?"
"It amounts to that," admitted Selwyn. "Is it all right?"
There was a dead silence, broken abruptly by Billy; "Where is your
sword, then?"
"At the hotel. Would you like to see it, Billy?"
The five children drew a step nearer, inspecting him with merciless
candour.
"Is it all right?" asked Selwyn again, smilingly uneasy under the
concentrated scrutiny. "How about it, Drina? Shall we shake hands?"
Drina spoke at last: "Ye-es," she said slowly, "I think it is all right
to shake hands." She took a step forward, stretching out her hand.
Selwyn stooped; she laid her right hand across his, hesitated, looked up
fearlessly, and then, raising herself on tiptoe, placed both arms upon
his shoulders, offering her lips.
One by one the other children came forward to greet this promising new
uncle whom the younger among them had never before seen, and whom Drina,
the oldest, had forgotten except as that fabled warrior of legendary
exploits whose name and fame had become cherished classics of their
nursery.
And now children and dogs clustered amicably around him; under foot
tails wagged, noses sniffed; playful puppy teeth tweaked at his
coat-skirts; and in front and at either hand eager flushed little faces
were upturned to his, shy hands sought his and nestled confidently into
the hollow of his palms or took firm proprietary hold of sleeve and
coat.
"I infer," observed Selwyn blandly, "that your father and mother are not
at home. Perhaps I'd better stop in later."
"But you are going to stay here, aren't you?" exclaimed Drina in dismay.
"Don't you expect to tell us stories? Don't you expect to stay here and
live with us and put on your uniform for us and show us your swords and
pistols? _Don't_ you?"
"We have waited such a very long time for you to do this," added Billy.
"If you'll come up to the nursery we'll have a drag-hunt for you,"
pleaded Drina. "Everybody is out of the house and we can make as much
noise as we please! Will you?"
"Haven't you any governesses or nurses or something?" asked Selwyn,
finding himself already on the stairway, and still being dragged upward.
"Our governess is away," said Billy triumphantly, "and our nurses can do
nothing with us."
"I don't doubt it," murmured Selwyn; "but where are they?"
"Somebody must have locked them in the schoolroom," observed Billy
carelessly. "Come on, Uncle Philip; we'll have a first-class drag-hunt
before we unlock the schoolroom and let them out."
"Anyway, they can brew tea there if they are lonely," added Drina,
ushering Selwyn into the big sunny nursery, where he stood, irresolute,
looking about him, aware that he was conniving at open mutiny. From
somewhere on the floor above persistent hammering and muffled appeals
satisfied him as to the location and indignation of the schoolroom
prisoners.
"You ought to let them out," he said. "You'll surely be punished."
"We will let them out after we've made noise enough," said Billy calmly.
"We'll probably be punished anyway, so we may as well make a noise."
"Yes," added Drina, "we are going to make all the noise we can while we
have the opportunity. Billy, is everything ready?"
And before Selwyn understood precisely what was happening, he found
himself the centre of a circle of madly racing children and dogs. Round
and round him they tore. Billy yelled for the hurdles and Josephine
knocked over some chairs and dragged them across the course of the
route; and over them leaped and scrambled children and puppies,
splitting the air with that same quality of din which had greeted him
upon his entrance to his sister's house.
When there was no more breath left in the children, and when the dogs
lay about, grinning and lolling, Drina approached him, bland and
dishevelled.
"That circus," she explained, "was for your entertainment. Now will you
please do something for ours?"
"Certainly," said Selwyn, looking about him vaguely; "shall
we--er--build blocks, or shall I read to you--er--out of that big
picture-book--"
"_Picture_-book!" repeated Billy with scorn; "that's good enough for
nurses to read. You're a soldier, you know. Soldiers have real stories
to tell."
"I see," he said meekly. "What am I to tell you about--our missionaries
in Sulu?"
"In the first place," began Drina, "you are to lie down flat on the
floor and creep about and show us how the Moros wriggle through the
grass to bolo our sentinels."
"Why, it's--it's this way," began Selwyn, leaning back in his
rocking-chair and comfortably crossing one knee over the other; "for
instance, suppose--"
"Oh, but you must _show_ us!" interrupted Billy. "Get down on the floor
please, uncle."
"I can tell it better!" protested Selwyn; "I can show you just the--"
"Please lie down and show us how they wriggle?" begged Drina.
"I don't want to get down on the floor," he said feebly; "is it
necessary?"
But they had already discovered that he could be bullied, and they had
it their own way; and presently Selwyn lay prone upon the nursery floor,
impersonating a ladrone while pleasant shivers chased themselves over
Drina, whom he was stalking.
And it was while all were passionately intent upon the pleasing and
snake-like progress of their uncle that a young girl in furs, ascending
the stairs two at a time, peeped perfunctorily into the nursery as she
passed the hallway--and halted amazed.
Selwyn, sitting up rumpled and cross-legged on the floor, after having
boloed Drina to everybody's exquisite satisfaction, looked around at the
sudden rustle of skirts to catch a glimpse of a vanishing figure--a
glimmer of ruddy hair and the white curve of a youthful face,
half-buried in a muff.
Mortified, he got to his feet, glanced out into the hallway, and began
adjusting his attire.
"No, you don't!" he said mildly, "I decline to perform again. If you
want any more wriggling you must accomplish it yourselves. Drina, has
your governess--by any unfortunate chance--er--red hair?"
"No," said the child; "and won't you _please_ crawl across the floor and
bolo me--just _once_ more?"
"Bolo me!" insisted Billy. "I haven't been mangled yet!"
"Let Billy assassinate somebody himself. And, by the way, Drina, are
there any maids or nurses or servants in this remarkable house who
occasionally wear copper-tinted hair and black fox furs?"
"No. Eileen does. Won't you please wriggle--"
"Who is Eileen?"
"Eileen? Why--don't you know who Eileen is?"
"No, I don't," began Captain Selwyn, when a delighted shout from the
children swung him toward the door again. His sister, Mrs. Gerard, stood
there in carriage gown and sables, radiant with surprise.
"Phil! _You!_ Exactly like you, Philip, to come strolling in from the
antipodes--dear fellow!" recovering from the fraternal embrace and
holding both lapels of his coat in her gloved hands. "Six years!" she
said again and again, tenderly reproachful; "Alexandrine was a baby of
six--Drina, child, do you remember my brother--do you remember your
Uncle Philip? She doesn't remember; you can't expect her to recollect;
she is only twelve, Phil--"
"I remember _one_ thing," observed Drina serenely.
Brother and sister turned toward her in pride and delight; and the child
went on: "My Aunt Alixe; I remember her. She was _so_ pretty," concluded
Drina, nodding thoughtfully in the effort to remember more; "Uncle
Philip, where is she now?"
But her uncle seemed to have lost his voice as well as his colour, and
Mrs. Gerard's gloved fingers tightened on the lapels of his coat.
"Drina--child--" she faltered; but Drina, immersed in reflection, smiled
dreamily; "So pretty," she murmured; "I remember my Aunt Alixe--"
"Drina!" repeated her mother sharply, "go and find Bridget this minute!"
Selwyn's hesitating hand sought his moustache; he lifted his eyes--the
steady gray eyes, slightly bloodshot--to his sister's distressed face.
"I never dreamed--" she began--"the child has never spoken of--of her
from that time to this! I never dreamed she could remember--"
"I don't understand what you are talking about, mother," said Drina; but
her pretty mother caught her by the shoulders, striving to speak
lightly; "Where in the world is Bridget, child? Where is Katie? And what
is all this I hear from Dawson? It can't be possible that you have been
fox-hunting all over the house again! Your nurses know perfectly well
that you are not to hunt anywhere except in your own nursery."
"I know it," said Drina, "but Kit-Ki got out and ran downstairs. We had
to follow her, you know, until she went to earth."
Selwyn quietly bent over toward Billy: "'Ware wire, my friend," he said
under his breath; "_you'd_ better cut upstairs and unlock that
schoolroom."
And while Mrs. Gerard turned her attention to the cluster of clamouring
younger children, the boy vanished only to reappear a moment later,
retreating before the vengeful exclamations of the lately imprisoned
nurses who pursued him, caps and aprons flying, bewailing aloud their
ignominious incarceration.
"Billy!" exclaimed his mother, "_did_ you do that? Bridget, Master
William is to take supper by himself in the schoolroom--and _no_
marmalade!--No, Billy, not one drop!"
"We all saw him lock the door," said Drina honestly.
"And you let him? Oh, Drina!--And Ellen! Katie! No marmalade for Miss
Drina--none for any of the children. Josie, mother feels dreadfully
because you all have been so naughty. Winthrop!--your finger! Instantly!
Clemence, baby, where on earth did you acquire all that grime on your
face and fists?" And to her brother: "Such a household, Phil! Everybody
incompetent--including me; everything topsy-turvy; and all five dogs
perfectly possessed to lie on that pink rug in the music room.--_Have_
they been there to-day, Drina?--while you were practising?"
"Yes, and there are some new spots, mother. I'm _very_ sorry."
"Take the children away!" said Mrs. Gerard. But she bent over, kissing
each culprit as the file passed out, convoyed by the amply revenged
nurses. "No marmalade, remember; and mother has a great mind _not_ to
come up at bedtime and lean over you. Mother has no desire to lean over
her babies to-night."
To "lean over" the children was always expected of this mother; the
direst punishment on the rather brief list was to omit this intimate
evening ceremony.
"M-mother," stammered the Master of Fox Hounds, "you _will_ lean over
us, won't you?"
"Mother hasn't decided--"
"Oh, muvver!" wailed Josie; and a howl of grief and dismay rose from
Winthrop, modified to a gurgle by the forbidden finger.
"You _will_, won't you?" begged Drina. "We've been pretty bad, but not
bad enough for that!"
"I--Oh, yes, I will. Stop that noise, Winthrop! Josie, I'm going to lean
over you--and you, too, Clemence, baby. Katie, take those dogs away
immediately; and remember about the marmalade."
Reassured, smiling through tears, the children trooped off, it being the
bathing hour; and Mrs. Gerard threw her fur stole over one shoulder and
linked her slender arm in her brother's.
"You see, I'm not much of a mother," she said; "if I was I'd stay here
all day and every day, week in and year out, and try to make these poor
infants happy. I have no business to leave them for one second!"
"Wouldn't they get too much of you?" suggested Selwyn.
"Thanks. I suppose that even a mother had better practise an artistic
absence occasionally. Are they not sweet? _What_ do you think of them?
You never before saw the three youngest; you saw Drina when you went
east--and Billy was a few months old--what do you think of them?
Honestly, Phil?"
"All to the good, Ninette; very ornamental. Drina--and that Josephine
kid are real beauties. I--er--take to Billy tremendously. He told me
that he'd locked up his nurses. I ought to have interfered. It was
really my fault, you see."
"And you didn't make him let them out? You are not going to be very good
morally for my young. Tell me, Phil, have you seen Austin?"
"I went to the Trust Company, but he was attending a directors' confab.
How is he? He's prosperous anyhow, I observe," with a humorous glance
around the elaborate hallway which they were traversing.
"Don't dare laugh at us!" smiled his sister. "I wish we were back in
Tenth Street. But so many children came--Billy, Josephine, Winthrop, and
Tina--and the Tenth Street house wasn't half big enough; and a dreadful
speculative builder built this house and persuaded Austin to buy it. Oh,
dear, and here we are among the rich and great; and the steel kings and
copper kings and oil kings and their heirs and dauphins. _Do_ you like
the house?"
"It's--ah--roomy," he said cheerfully.
"Oh! It isn't so bad from the outside. And we have just had it
redecorated inside. Mizner did it. Look, dear, isn't that a cunning
bedroom?" drawing him toward a partly open door. "Don't be so horridly
critical. Austin is becoming used to it now, so don't stir him up and
make fun of things. Anyway you're going to stay here."
"No, I'm at the Holland."
"Of _course_ you're to live with us. You've resigned from the service,
haven't you?"
He looked at her sharply, but did not reply.
A curious flash of telepathy passed between them; she hesitated, then:
"You once promised Austin and me that you would stay with us."
"But, Nina--"
"No, no, no! Wait," pressing an electric button; "Watson, Captain
Selwyn's luggage is to be brought here immediately from the Holland!
Immediately!" And to Selwyn: "Austin will not be at home before
half-past six. Come up with me now and see your quarters--a perfectly
charming place for you, with your own smoking-room and dressing-closet
and bath. Wait, we'll take the elevator--as long as we have one."
Smilingly protesting, yet touched by the undisguised sincerity of his
welcome, he suffered himself to be led into the elevator--a dainty white
and rose rococo affair. His sister adjusted a tiny lever; the car moved
smoothly upward and, presently stopped; and they emerged upon a wide
landing.
"Here," said Nina, throwing open a door. "Isn't this comfortable? Is
there anything you don't fancy about it? If there is, tell me frankly."
"Little sister," he said, imprisoning both her hands, "it is a
paradise--but I don't intend to come here and squat on my relatives, and
I won't!"
"Philip! You are common!"
"Oh, I know you and Austin _think_ you want me."
"Phil!"
"All right, dear. I'll--it's awfully generous of you--so I'll pay you a
visit--for a little while."
"You'll live here, that's what you'll do--though I suppose you are
dreaming and scheming to have all sorts of secret caves and queer places
to yourself--horrid, grimy, smoky bachelor quarters where you can behave
_sans-façon_."
"I've had enough of _sans-façon_" he said grimly. "After shacks and
bungalows and gun-boats and troopships, do you suppose this doesn't look
rather heavenly?"
"Dear fellow!" she said, looking tenderly at him; and then under her
breath: "What a ghastly life you have led!"
But he knew she did not refer to the military portion of his life.
He threw back his coat, dug both hands into his pockets, and began to
wander about the rooms, halting sometimes to examine nondescript
articles of ornament or bits of furniture as though politely
interested. But she knew his thoughts were steadily elsewhere.
[Illustration: "'There is no reason,' she said, 'why you should not call
this house home.'"]
Sauntering about, aware at moments that her troubled eyes were following
him, he came back, presently, to where she sat perched upon his bed.
"It all looks most inviting, Nina," he said cheerfully, seating himself
beside her. "I--well, you can scarcely be expected to understand how
this idea of a home takes hold of a man who has none."
"Yes, I do," she said.
"All this--" he paused, leisurely, to select his words--"all
this--you--the children--that jolly nursery--" he stopped again, looking
out of the window; and his sister looked at him through eyes grown
misty.
"There is no reason," she said, "why you should not call this house
home."
"N-no reason. Thank you. I will--for a few days."
"_No_ reason, dear," she insisted. "We are your own people; we are all
you have, Phil!--the children adore you already; Austin--you know what
he thinks of you; and--and I--"
"You are very kind, Ninette." He sat partly turned from her, staring at
the sunny window. Presently he slid his hand back along the bed-covers
until it touched and tightened over hers. And in silence she raised it
to her lips.
They remained so for a while, he still partly turned from her, his
perplexed and narrowing gaze fixed on the window, she pressing his
clenched hand to her lips, thoughtful and silent.
"Before Austin comes," he said at length, "let's get the thing over--and
buried--as long as it will stay buried."
"Yes, dear."
"Well, then--then--" but his throat closed tight with the effort.
"Alixe is here," she said gently; "did you know it?"
He nodded.
"You know, of course, that she's married Jack Ruthven?"
He nodded again.
"Are you on leave, Phil, or have you really resigned?"
"Resigned."
"I knew it," she sighed.
He said: "As I did not defend the suit I couldn't remain in the service.
There's too much said about us, anyway--about us who are appointed from
civil life. And then--to have _that_ happen!"
"Phil?"
"What?"
"Will you answer me one thing?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"Do you still care for--her?"
"I am sorry for her."
After a painful silence his sister said: "Could you tell me how it
began, Phil?"
"How it began? I don't know that, either. When Bannard's command took
the field I went with the scouts. Alixe remained in Manila. Ruthven was
there for Fane, Harmon & Co. That's how it began, I suppose; and it's a
rotten climate for morals; and that's how it began."
"Only that?"
"We had had differences. It's been one misunderstanding after another.
If you mean was I mixed up with another woman--no! She knew that."
"She was very young, Phil."
He nodded: "I don't blame her."
"Couldn't anything have been done?"
"If it could, neither she nor I did it--or knew how to do it, I suppose.
It went wrong from the beginning; it was founded on froth--she had been
engaged to Harmon, and she threw him over for 'Boots' Lansing. Then I
came along--Boots behaved like a thoroughbred--that is all there is to
it--inexperience, romance, trouble--a quick beginning, a quick parting,
and two more fools to give the lie to civilization, and justify the West
Pointers in their opinions of civil appointees."
"Try not to be so bitter, Phil; did you know she was going before she
left Manila?"
"I hadn't the remotest idea of the affair. I thought that we were trying
to learn something about life and about each other. . . . Then that
climax came."
He turned and stared out of the window, dropping his sister's hand. "She
couldn't stand me, she couldn't stand the life, the climate, the
inconveniences, the absence of what she was accustomed to. She was dead
tired of it all. I can understand that. And I--I didn't know what to do
about it. . . . So we drifted; and the catastrophe came very quickly.
Let me tell you something; a West Pointer, an Annapolis man, knows what
sort of life he's going into and what he is to expect when he marries.
Usually, too, he marries into the Army or Navy set; and the girl knows,
too, what kind of a married life that means.
"But I didn't. Neither did Alixe. And we went under; that's
all--fighting each other heart and soul to the end. . . . Is she happy
with Ruthven? I never knew him--and never cared to. I suppose they go
about in town among the yellow set. Do they?"
"Yes. I've met Alixe once or twice. She was perfectly composed--formal
but unembarrassed. She has shifted her milieu somewhat--it began with
the influx of Ruthven's friends from the 'yellow' section of the younger
married set--the Orchils, Fanes, Minsters, and Delmour-Carnes. Which is
all right if she'd stay there. But in town you're likely to encounter
anybody where the somebodies of one set merge into the somebodies of
another. And we're always looking over our fences, you know. . . . By
the way," she added cheerfully, "I'm dipping into the younger set myself
to-night--on Eileen's account. I brought her out Thursday and I'm giving
a dinner for her to-night."
"Who's Eileen?" he asked.
"Eileen? Why, don't you--why, of _course_, you don't know yet that I've
taken Eileen for my own. I didn't want to write you; I wanted first to
see how it would turn out; and when I saw that it was turning out
perfectly, I thought it better to wait until you could return and hear
all about it from me, because one can't write that sort of thing--"
"Nina!"
"What, dear?" she said, startled.
"Who the dickens _is_ Eileen?"
"Philip! You are precisely like Austin; you grow impatient of
preliminary details when I'm doing my very best attempting to explain
just as clearly as I can. Now I will go on and say that Eileen is Molly
Erroll's daughter, and the courts appointed Austin and me guardians for
her and for her brother Gerald."
"Oh!"
"Now is it clear to you?"
"Yes," he said, thinking of the tragedy which had left the child so
utterly alone in the world, save for her brother and a distant kinship
by marriage with the Gerards.
For a while he sat brooding, arms loosely folded, immersed once more in
his own troubles.
"It seems a shame," he said, "that a family like ours, whose name has
always spelled decency, should find themselves entangled in the very
things their race has always hated and managed to avoid. And through me,
too."
"It was not your fault, Phil."
"No, not the divorce part. Do you suppose I wouldn't have taken any kind
of medicine before resorting to that! But what's the use; for you can
try as you may to keep your name clean, and then you can fold your arms
and wait to see what a hopeless fool fate makes of you."
"But no disgrace touches you, dear," she said tremulously.
"I've been all over that, too," he said with quiet bitterness. "You are
partly right; nobody cares in this town. Even though I did not defend
the suit, nobody cares. And there's no disgrace, I suppose, if nobody
cares enough even to condone. Divorce is no longer noticed; it is a
matter of ordinary occurrence--a matter of routine in some sets. Who
cares?--except decent folk? And they only think it's a pity--and
wouldn't do it themselves. The horrified clamour comes from outside the
social registers and blue books; we know they're right, but it doesn't
affect us. What does affect us is that we _were_ the decent folk who
permitted ourselves the luxury of being sorry for others who resorted to
divorce as a remedy but wouldn't do it ourselves! . . . Now we've done
it and--"
"Phil! I will not have you feel that way."
"What way?"
"The way you feel. We are older than we were--everybody is older--the
world is, too. What we were brought up to consider impossible--"
"What we were brought up to consider impossible was what kept me up to
the mark out there, Nina." He made a gesture toward the East. "Now, I
come back here and learn that we've all outgrown those ideas--"
"Phil! I never meant that."
He said: "If Alixe found that she cared for Ruthven, I don't blame her.
Laws and statutes can't govern such matters. If she found she no longer
cared for me, I could not blame her. But two people, mismated, have only
one chance in this world--to live their tragedy through with dignity.
That is absolutely all life holds for them. Beyond that, outside of that
dead line--treachery to self and race and civilisation! That is my
conclusion after a year's experience in hell." He rose and began to pace
the floor, fingers worrying his moustache. "Law? Can a law, which I do
not accept, let me loose to risk it all again with another woman?"
She said slowly, her hands folded in her lap: "It is well you've come to
me at last. You've been turning round and round in that wheeled cage
until you think you've made enormous progress; and you haven't. Dear,
listen to me; what you honestly believe to be unselfish and high-minded
adherence to principle, is nothing but the circling reasoning of a hurt
mind--an intelligence still numbed from shock, a mental and physical
life forced by sheer courage into mechanical routine. . . . Wait a
moment; there is nobody else to say this to you; and if I did not love
you I would not interfere with this great mistake you are so honestly
making of your life, and which, perhaps, is the only comfort left you. I
say, 'perhaps,' for I do not believe that life holds nothing happier for
you than the sullen content of martyrdom."
"Nina!"
"I am right!" she said, almost fiercely; "I've been married thirteen
years and I've lost that fear of men's portentous judgments which all
girls outgrow one day. And do you think I am going to acquiesce in this
attitude of yours toward life? Do you think I can't distinguish between
a tragical mistake and a mistaken tragedy? I tell you your life is not
finished; it is not yet begun!"
He looked at her, incensed; but she sprang to the floor, her face bright
with colour, her eyes clear, determined: "I thought, when you took the
oath of military service, you swore to obey the laws of the land? And
the very first law that interferes with your preconceived
notions--crack!--you say it's not for you! Look at me--you great, big,
wise brother of mine--who knows enough to march a hundred and three men
into battle, but not enough to know where pride begins and conscience
ends. You're badly hurt; you are deeply humiliated over your
resignation; you believe that ambition for a career, for happiness, for
marriage, and for children is ended for you. You need fresh air--and I'm
going to see you have it. You need new duties, new faces, new scenes,
new problems. You shall have them. Dear, believe me, few men as young as
you--as attractive, as human, as lovable, as affectionate as you,
wilfully ruin their lives because of a hurt pride which they mistake for
conscience. You will understand that when you become convalescent. Now
kiss me and tell me you're much obliged--for I hear Austin's voice on
the stairs."
He held her at arms' length, gazing at her, half amused, half indignant;
then, unbidden, a second flash of the old telepathy passed between
them--a pale glimmer lighted his own dark heart in sympathy; and for a
moment he seemed to have a brief glimpse of the truth; and the truth was
not as he had imagined it. But it was a glimpse only--a fleeting
suspicion of his own fallibility; then it vanished into the old, dull,
aching, obstinate humiliation. For truth would not be truth if it were
so easily discovered.
"Well, we've buried it now," breathed Selwyn. "You're all right,
Nina--from your own standpoint--and I'm not going to make a stalking
nuisance of myself; no fear, little sister. Hello!"--turning
swiftly--"here's that preposterous husband of yours."
They exchanged a firm hand clasp; Austin Gerard, big, smooth shaven,
humorously inclined toward the ruddy heaviness of successful middle age;
Selwyn, lean, bronzed, erect, and direct in all the powerful symmetry
and perfect health of a man within sight of maturity.
"Hail to the chief--et cetera," said Austin, in his large, bantering
voice. "Glad to see you home, my bolo-punctured soldier boy. Welcome to
our city! I suppose you've both pockets stuffed with loot, now haven't
you?--pearls and sarongs and dattos--yes? Have you inspected the kids?
What's your opinion of the Gerard batallion? Pretty fit? Nina's
commanding, so it's up to her if we don't pass dress parade. By the
way, your enormous luggage is here--consisting of one dinky trunk and a
sword done up in chamois skin."
"Nina's good enough to want me for a few days--" began Selwyn, but his
big brother-in-law laughed scornfully:
"A few days! We've got you now!" And to his wife: "Nina, I suppose I'm
due to lean over those infernal kids before I can have a minute with
your brother. Are they in bed yet? All right, Phil; we'll be down in a
minute; there's tea and things in the library. Make Eileen give you
some."
He turned, unaffectedly taking his pretty wife's hand in his large
florid paw, and Selwyn, intensely amused, saw them making for the
nursery absorbed in conjugal confab. He lingered to watch them go their
way, until they disappeared; and he stood a moment longer alone there in
the hallway; then the humour faded from his sun-burnt face; he swung
wearily on his heel, and descended the stairway, his hand heavy on the
velvet rail.
The library was large and comfortable, full of agreeably wadded corners
and fat, helpless chairs--a big, inviting place, solidly satisfying in
dull reds and mahogany. The porcelain of tea paraphernalia caught the
glow of the fire; a reading lamp burned on a centre table, shedding
subdued lustre over ceiling, walls, books, and over the floor where lay
a few ancient rugs of Beloochistan, themselves full of mysterious,
sombre fire.
Hands clasped behind his back, he stood in the centre of the room,
considering his environment with the grave, absent air habitual to him
when brooding. And, as he stood there, a sound at the door aroused him,
and he turned to confront a young girl in hat, veil, and furs, who was
leisurely advancing toward him, stripping the gloves from a pair of very
white hands.
"How do you do, Captain Selwyn," she said. "I am Eileen Erroll and I am
commissioned to give you some tea. Nina and Austin are in the nursery
telling bedtime stories and hearing assorted prayers. The children seem
to be quite crazy about you--" She unfastened her veil, threw back stole
and coat, and, rolling up her gloves on her wrists, seated herself by
the table. "--_Quite_ crazy about you," she continued, "and you're to be
included in bedtime prayers, I believe--No sugar? Lemon?--Drina's mad
about you and threatens to give you her new maltese puppy. I
congratulate you on your popularity."
"Did you see me in the nursery on all fours?" inquired Selwyn,
recognising her bronze-red hair.
Unfeigned laughter was his answer. He laughed, too, not very heartily.
"My first glimpse of our legendary nursery warrior was certainly
astonishing," she said, looking around at him with frank malice. Then,
quickly: "But you don't mind, do you? It's all in the family, of
course."
"Of course," he agreed with good grace; "no use to pretend dignity here;
you all see through me in a few moments."
She had given him his tea. Now she sat upright in her chair, smiling,
_distraite_, her hat casting a luminous shadow across her eyes; the
fluffy furs, fallen from throat and shoulder, settled loosely around her
waist.
Glancing up from her short reverie she encountered his curious gaze.
"To-night is to be my first dinner dance, you know," she said. Faint
tints of excitement stained her white skin; the vivid scarlet contrast
of her mouth was almost startling. "On Thursday I was introduced--" she
explained, "and now I'm to have the gayest winter I ever dreamed
of. . . . And I'm going to leave you in a moment if Nina doesn't hurry
and come. Do you mind?"
"Of course I mind," he protested amiably, "but I suppose you wish to
devote several hours to dressing."
She nodded. "Such a dream of a gown! Nina's present! You'll see it. I
hope Gerald will be here to see it. He promised. You'll say you like it
if you do like it, won't you?"
"I'll say it, anyway."
"Oh, well--if you are contented to be commonplace like other men--"
"I've no ambition to be different at my age."
"Your age?" she repeated, looking up quickly. "You are as young as Nina,
aren't you? Half the men in the younger set are no younger than you--and
you know it," she concluded--"you are only trying to make me say so--and
you've succeeded. I'm not very experienced yet. Does tea bring wisdom,
Captain Selwyn?" pouring herself a cup. "I'd better arm myself
immediately." She sank back into the depths of the chair, looking gaily
at him over her lifted cup. "To my rapid education in worldly wisdom!"
She nodded, and sipped the tea almost pensively.
He certainly did seem young there in the firelight, his narrow,
thoroughbred head turned toward the fire. Youth, too, sat lightly on his
shoulders; and it was scarcely a noticeably mature hand that touched the
short sun-burnt moustache at intervals. From head to waist, from his
loosely coupled, well-made limbs to his strong, slim foot, strength
seemed to be the keynote to a physical harmony most agreeable to look
at.
The idea entered her head that he might appear to advantage on
horseback.
"We must ride together," she said, returning her teacup to the tray; "if
you don't mind riding with me? Do you? Gerald never has time, so I go
with a groom. But if you would care to go--" she laughed. "Oh, you see I
am already beginning a selfish family claim on you. I foresee that
you'll be very busy with us all persistently tugging at your
coat-sleeves; and what with being civil to me and a martyr to Drina,
you'll have very little time to yourself. And--I hope you'll like my
brother Gerald when you meet him. Now I _must_ go."
Then, rising and partly turning to collect her furs:
"It's quite exciting to have you here. We will be good friends, won't
we? . . . and I think I had better stop my chatter and go, because my
cunning little Alsatian maid is not very clever yet. . . . Good-bye."
She stretched out one of her amazingly white hands across the table,
giving him a friendly leave-taking and welcome all in one frank
handshake; and left him standing there, the fresh contact still cool in
his palm.
Nina came in presently to find him seated before the fire, one hand
shading his eyes; and, as he prepared to rise, she rested both arms on
his shoulders, forcing him into his chair again.
"So you've bewitched Eileen, too, have you?" she said tenderly. "Isn't
she the sweetest little thing?"
"She's--ah--as tall as I am," he said, blinking at the fire.
"She's only nineteen; pathetically unspoiled--a perfect dear. Men are
going to rave over her and--_not_ spoil her. Did you ever see such
hair?--that thick, ruddy, lustrous, copper tint?--and sometimes it's
like gold afire. And a skin like snow and peaches!--she's sound to the
core. I've had her exercised and groomed and hardened and trained from
the very beginning--every inch of her minutely cared for exactly like my
own babies. I've done my best," she concluded with a satisfied sigh, and
dropped into a chair beside her brother.
"Thoroughbred," commented Selwyn, "to be turned out to-night. Is she
bridle-wise and intelligent?"
"More than sufficiently. That's one trouble--she's had, at times, a
depressing, sponge-like desire for absorbing all sorts of irrelevant
things that no girl ought to concern herself with. I--to tell the
truth--if I had not rigorously drilled her--she might have become a
trifle tiresome; I don't mean precisely frumpy--but one of those earnest
young things whose intellectual conversation becomes a visitation--one
of the wants-to-know-for-the-sake-of-knowledge sort--a dreadful human
blotter! Oh, dear; show me a girl with her mind soaking up 'isms' and
I'll show you a social failure with a wisp of hair on her cheek, who
looks the dowdier the more expensively she's gowned."
"So you believe you've got that wisp of copper-tinted hair tucked up
snugly?" asked Selwyn, amused.
"I--it's still a worry to me; at intervals she's inclined to let it
slop. Thank Heaven, I've made her spine permanently straight and her
head is screwed properly to her neck. There's not a slump to her from
crown to heel--_I_ know, you know. She's had specialists to forestall
every blemish. I made up my mind to do it; I'm doing it for my own
babies. That's what a mother is for--to turn out her offspring to the
world as flawless and wholesome as when they came into it!--physically
and mentally sound--or a woman betrays her stewardship. They must be as
healthy of body and limb as they are innocent and wholesome minded. The
happiest of all creatures are drilled thoroughbreds. Show me a young
girl, unspoiled mentally and spiritually untroubled, with a superb
physique, and I'll show you a girl equipped for the happiness of this
world. And that is what Eileen is."
"I should say," observed Selwyn, "that she's equipped for the slaughter
of man."
"Yes, but _I_ am selecting the victim," replied his sister demurely.
"Oh! Have you? Already?"
"Tentatively."
"Who?"
"Sudbury Gray, I think--with Scott Innis for an understudy--perhaps the
Draymore man as alternate--I don't know; there's time."
"Plenty," he said vaguely, staring into the fire where a log had
collapsed into incandescent ashes.
She continued to talk about Eileen until she noticed that his mind was
on other matters--his preoccupied stare enlightened her. She said
nothing for a while.
But he woke up when Austin came in and settled his big body in a chair.
"Drina, the little minx, called me back on some flimsy pretext," he
said, relighting his cigar; "I forgot that time was going--and she was
wily enough to keep me talking until Miss Paisely caught me at it and
showed me out. I tell you," turning on Selwyn--"children are what make
life worth wh--" He ceased abruptly at a gentle tap from his wife's
foot, and Selwyn looked up.
Whether or not he divined the interference he said very quietly: "I'd
rather have had children than anything in the world. They're about the
best there is in life; I agree with you, Austin."
His sister, watching him askance, was relieved to see his troubled face
become serene, though she divined the effort.
"Kids are the best," he repeated, smiling at her. "Failing them, for
second choice, I've taken to the laboratory. Some day I'll invent
something and astonish you, Nina."
"We'll fit you up a corking laboratory," began Austin cordially; "there
is--"
"You're very good; perhaps you'll all be civil enough to move out of the
house if I need more room for bottles and retorts--"
"Of _course_, Phil must have his laboratory," insisted Nina. "There's
loads of unused room in this big barn--only you don't mind being at the
top of the house, do you, Phil?"
"Yes, I do; I want to be in the drawing-room--or somewhere so that you
all may enjoy the odours and get the benefit of premature explosions.
Oh, come now, Austin, if you think I'm going to plant myself here on
you--"
"Don't notice him, Austin," said Nina, "he only wishes to be implored.
And, by the same token, you'd both better let me implore you to dress!"
She rose and bent forward in the firelight to peer at the clock.
"Goodness! Do you creatures think I'm going to give Eileen half an
hour's start with her maid?--and I carrying my twelve years' handicap,
too. No, indeed! I'm decrepit but I'm going to die fighting. Austin, get
up! You're horribly slow, anyhow. Phil, Austin's man--such as he
is--will be at your disposal, and your luggage is unpacked."
"Am I really expected to grace this festival of babes?" inquired Selwyn.
"Can't you send me a tray of toast or a bowl of gruel and let me hide my
old bones in a dressing-gown somewhere?"
"Oh, come on," said Austin, smothering the yawn in his voice and casting
his cigar into the ashes. "You're about ripe for the younger set--one of
them, anyhow. If you can't stand the intellectual strain we'll side-step
the show later and play a little--what do you call it in the
army?--pontoons?"
They strolled toward the door, Nina's arms linked in theirs, her slim
fingers interlocked on her breast.
"We are certainly going to be happy--we three--in this innocent _ménage
à trois_," she said. "I don't know what more you two men could ask
for--or I, either--or the children or Eileen. Only one thing; I think it
is perfectly horrid of Gerald not to be here."
Traversing the hall she said: "It always frightens me to be perfectly
happy--and remember all the ghastly things that _could_ happen. . . .
I'm going to take a glance at the children before I dress. . . . Austin,
did you remember your tonic?"
She looked up surprised when her husband laughed.
"I've taken my tonic and nobody's kidnapped the kids," he said. She
hesitated, then picking up her skirts she ran upstairs for one more look
at her slumbering progeny.
The two men glanced at one another; their silence was the tolerant,
amused silence of the wiser sex, posing as such for each other's
benefit; but deep under the surface stirred the tremors of the same
instinctive solicitude that had sent Nina to the nursery.
"I used to think," said Gerard, "that the more kids you had the less
anxiety per kid. The contrary is true; you're more nervous over half a
dozen than you are over one, and your wife is always going to the
nursery to see that the cat hasn't got in or the place isn't afire or
spots haven't come out all over the children."
They laughed tolerantly, lingering on the sill of Selwyn's bedroom.
"Come in and smoke a cigarette," suggested the latter. "I have nothing
to do except to write some letters and dress."
But Gerard said: "There seems to be a draught through this hallway; I'll
just step upstairs to be sure that the nursery windows are not too wide
open. See you later, Phil. If there's anything you need just dingle that
bell."
And he went away upstairs, only to return in a few minutes, laughing
under his breath: "I say, Phil, don't you want to see the kids asleep?
Billy's flat on his back with a white 'Teddy bear' in either arm; and
Drina and Josephine are rolled up like two kittens in pajamas; and you
should see Winthrop's legs--"
"Certainly," said Selwyn gravely, "I'll be with you in a second."
And turning to his dresser he laid away the letters and the small
photograph which he had been examining under the drop-light, locking
them securely in the worn despatch box until he should have time to
decide whether to burn them all or only the picture. Then he slipped on
his smoking jacket.
"--Ah, about Winthrop's legs--" he repeated vaguely, "certainly; I
should be very glad to examine them, Austin."
"I don't want you to examine them," retorted Gerard resentfully, "I want
you to see them. There's nothing the matter with them, you understand."
"Exactly," nodded Selwyn, following his big brother-in-law into the
hall, where, from beside a lamp-lit sewing table a trim maid rose
smiling:
"Miss Erroll desires to know whether Captain Selwyn would care to see
her gown when she is ready to go down?"
"By all means," said Selwyn, "I should like to see that, too. Will you
let me know when Miss Erroll is ready? Thank you."
Austin said as they reached the nursery door: "Funny thing, feminine
vanity--almost pathetic, isn't it? . . . Don't make too much
noise! . . . What do you think of that pair of legs, Phil?--and he's not
yet five. . . . And I want you to speak frankly; _did_ you ever see
anything to beat that bunch of infants? Not because they're ours and we
happen to be your own people--" he checked himself and the smile faded
as he laid his big ruddy hand on Selwyn's shoulder;--"_your own people_,
Phil. Do you understand? . . . And if I have not ventured to say
anything about--what has happened--you understand that, too, don't you?
You know I'm just as loyal to you as Nina is--as it is natural and
fitting that your own people should be. Only a man finds it difficult to
convey his--his--"
"Don't say 'sympathies'!" cut in Selwyn nervously.
"I wasn't going to, confound you! I was going to say 'sentiments.' I'm
sorry I said anything. Go to the deuce!"
Selwyn did not even deign to glance around at him. "You big red-pepper
box," he muttered affectionately, "you'll wake up Drina. Look at her in
her cunning pajamas! Oh, but she is a darling, Austin. And look at that
boy with his two white bears! He's a corker! He's a wonder--honestly,
Austin. As for that Josephine kid she can have me on demand; I'll answer
to voice, whistle, or hand. . . . I say, ought we to go away and leave
Winthrop's thumb in his mouth?"
"I guess I can get it out without waking him," whispered Gerard. A
moment later he accomplished the office, leaned down and drew the
bed-covers closer to Tina's dimpled chin, then grasped Selwyn above the
elbow in sudden alarm: "If that trained terror, Miss Paisely, finds us
in here when she comes from dinner, we'll both catch it! Come on; I'll
turn off the light. Anyway, we ought to have been dressed long ago; but
you insisted on butting in here."
In the hallway below they encountered a radiant and bewildering vision
awaiting them: Eileen, in all her glory.
"Wonderful!" said Gerard, patting the vision's rounded bare arm as he
hurried past--"fine gown! fine girl!--but I've got to dress and so has
Philip--" He meant well.
"_Do_ you like it, Captain Selwyn?" asked the girl, turning to confront
him, where he had halted. "Gerald isn't coming and--I thought perhaps
you'd be interested--"
The formal, half-patronising compliment on his tongue's tip remained
there, unsaid. He stood silent, touched by the faint under-ringing
wistfulness in the laughing voice that challenged his opinion; and
something within him responded in time:
"Your gown is a beauty; such wonderful lace. Of course, anybody would
know it came straight from Paris or from some other celestial region--"
"But it didn't!" cried the girl, delighted. "It looks it, doesn't it?
But it was made by Letellier! Is there anything you don't like about it,
Captain Selwyn? _Anything_?"
"Nothing," he said solemnly; "it is as adorable as the girl inside it,
who makes it look like a Parisian importation from Paradise!"
She colored enchantingly, and with pretty, frank impulse held out both
her hands to him:
"You _are_ a dear, Captain Selwyn! It is my first real dinner gown and
I'm quite mad about it; and--somehow I wanted the family to share my
madness with me. Nina will--she gave it to me, the darling. Austin
admires it, too, of course, but he doesn't notice such things very
closely; and Gerald isn't here. . . . Thank you for letting me show it
to you before I go down."
She gave both his hands a friendly little shake and, glancing down at
her skirt in blissful consciousness of its perfection, stepped backward
into her own room.
Later, while he stood at his dresser constructing an immaculate knot in
his white tie, Nina knocked.
"Hurry, Phil! Oh, may I come in? . . . You ought to be downstairs with
us, you know. . . . And it was very sweet of you to be so nice to
Eileen. The child had tears in her eyes when I went in. Oh, just a
single diamond drop in each eye; your sympathy and interest did
it. . . . I think the child misses her father on an occasion such as
this--the beginning of life--the first step out into the world. Men do
not understand what it means to us; Gerald doesn't, I'm sure. I've been
watching her, and I know the shadow of that dreadful tragedy falls on
her more often than Austin and I are aware of. . . . Shall I fix that
tie for you, dear? . . . Certainly I can; Austin won't let a man touch
him. . . . There, Phil. . . . Wait! . . . Now if you are decently
grateful you'll tell me I look well. Do I? Really? Nonsense, I _don't_
look twenty; but--say it, Phil. Ah, that clever maid of mine knows some
secrets--never mind!--but Drina thinks I'm a beauty. . . . Come, dear;
and thank you for being kind to Eileen. One's own kin counts so much in
this world. And when a girl has none, except a useless brother, little
things like that mean a lot to her." She turned, her hand falling on his
sleeve. "_You_ are among your own people, anyhow!"
* * * * *
His own people! The impatient tenderness of his sister's words had been
sounding in his ears all through the evening. They rang out clear and
insistent amid the gay tumult of the dinner; he heard them in the
laughing confusion of youthful voices; they stole into the delicate
undertones of the music to mock him; the rustling of silk and lace
repeated them; the high heels of satin slippers echoed them in irony.
His own people!
The scent of overheated flowers, the sudden warm breeze eddying from a
capricious fan, the mourning thrill of the violins emphasised the
emphasis of the words.
And they sounded sadder and more meaningless now to him, here in his
own room, until the monotony of their recurrent mockery began to unnerve
him.
He turned on the electricity, shrank from it, extinguished it. And for a
long time he sat there in the darkness of early morning, his unfilled
pipe clutched in his nerveless hand.