A DREAM ENDS
To pick up once more and tighten and knot together the loosened threads
which represented the unfinished record that his race had woven into the
social fabric of the metropolis was merely an automatic matter for
Selwyn.
His own people had always been among the makers of that fabric. Into
part of its vast and intricate pattern they had woven an inconspicuously
honourable record--chronicles of births and deaths and marriages, a
plain memorandum of plain living, and upright dealing with their fellow
men.
Some public service of modest nature they had performed, not seeking it,
not shirking; accomplishing it cleanly when it was intrusted to them.
His forefathers had been, as a rule, professional men--physicians and
lawyers; his grandfather died under the walls of Chapultepec Castle
while twisting a tourniquet for a cursing dragoon; an uncle remained
indefinitely at Malvern Hill; an only brother at Montauk Point having
sickened in the trenches before Santiago.
His father's services as division medical officer in Sheridan's cavalry
had been, perhaps, no more devoted, no more loyal than the services of
thousands of officers and troopers; and his reward was a pension offer,
declined. He practised until his wife died, then retired to his country
home, from which house his daughter Nina was married to Austin Gerard.
Mr. Selwyn, senior, continued to pay his taxes on his father's house in
Tenth Street, voted in that district, spent a month every year with the
Gerards, read a Republican morning newspaper, and judiciously enlarged
the family reservation in Greenwood--whither he retired, in due time,
without other ostentation than half a column in the _Evening Post_,
which paper he had, in life, avoided.
The first gun off the Florida Keys sent Selwyn's only brother from his
law office in hot haste to San Antonio--the first _étape_ on his first
and last campaign with Wood's cavalry.
That same gun interrupted Selwyn's connection with Neergard & Co.,
operators in Long Island real estate; and, a year later, the captaincy
offered him in a Western volunteer regiment operating on the Island of
Leyte, completed the rupture.
* * * * *
And now he was back again, a chance career ended, with option of picking
up the severed threads--his inheritance at the loom--and of retying
them, warp and weft, and continuing the pattern according to the designs
of the tufted, tinted pile-yarn, knotted in by his ancestors before him.
There was nothing else to do; so he did it. Civil and certain social
obligations were mechanically reassumed; he appeared in his sister's pew
for worship, he reënrolled in his clubs as a resident member once more;
the directors of such charities as he meddled with he notified of his
return; he remitted his dues to the various museums and municipal or
private organisations which had always expected support from his
family; he subscribed to the _Sun_.
He was more conservative, however, in mending the purely social strands
so long relaxed or severed. The various registers and blue-books
recorded his residence under "dilatory domiciles"; he did not subscribe
to the opera, preferring to chance it in case harmony-hunger attacked
him; pre-Yuletide functions he dodged, considering that his sister's
days in January and attendance at other family formalities were
sufficient.
Meanwhile he was looking for two things--an apartment and a job--the
first energetically combated by his immediate family.
It was rather odd--the scarcity of jobs. Of course Austin offered him
one which Selwyn declined at once, comfortably enraging his
brother-in-law for nearly ten minutes.
"But what do I know about the investment of trust funds?" demanded
Selwyn; "you wouldn't take me if I were not your wife's brother--and
that's nepotism."
Austin's harmless fury raged for nearly ten minutes, after which he
cheered up, relighted his cigar, and resumed his discussion with Selwyn
concerning the merits of various boys' schools--the victim in
prospective being Billy.
A little later, reverting to the subject of his own enforced idleness,
Selwyn said: "I've been on the point of going to see Neergard--but
somehow I can't quite bring myself to it--slinking into his office as a
rank failure in one profession, to ask him if he has any use for me
again."
"Stuff and fancy!" growled Gerard; "it's all stuff and fancy about your
being any kind of a failure. If you want to resume with that Dutchman,
go to him and say so. If you want to invest anything in his Long Island
schemes he'll take you in fast enough. He took in Gerald and some twenty
thousand."
"Isn't he very prosperous, Austin?"
"Very--on paper. Long Island farm lands and mortgages on Hampton
hen-coops are not fragrant propositions to me. But there's always one
more way of making a living after you counted 'em all up on your
fingers. If you've any capital to offer Neergard, he won't shriek for
help."
"But isn't suburban property--"
"On the jump? Yes--both ways. Oh, I suppose that Neergard is all
right--if he wasn't I wouldn't have permitted Gerald to go into it.
Neergard sticks to his commissions and doesn't back his fancy in
certified checks. I don't know exactly how he operates; I only know that
we find nothing in that sort of thing for our own account. But Fane,
Harmon & Co. do. That's their affair, too; it's all a matter of taste, I
tell you."
Selwyn reflected: "I believe I'd go and see Neergard if I were perfectly
sure of my personal sentiments toward him. . . . He's been civil enough
to me, of course, but I have always had a curious feeling about
Neergard--that he's for ever on the edge of doing something--doubtful--"
"His business reputation is all right. He shaves the dead line like a
safety razor, but he's never yet cut through it. On principle, however,
look out for an apple-faced Dutchman with a thin nose and no lips.
Neither Jew, Yankee, nor American stands any chance in a deal with that
type of financier. Personally my feeling is this: if I've got to play
games with Julius Neergard, I'd prefer to be his partner. And so I told
Gerald. By the way--"
Austin checked himself, looked down at his cigar, turned it over and
over several times, then continued quietly:
--"By the way, I suppose Gerald is like other young men of his age and
times--immersed in his own affairs--thoughtless perhaps, perhaps a
trifle selfish in the cross-country gallop after pleasure. . . . I was
rather severe with him about his neglect of his sister. He ought to have
come here to pay his respects to you, too--"
"Oh, don't put such notions into his head--"
"Yes, I will!" insisted Austin; "however indifferent and thoughtless and
selfish he is to other people, he's got to be considerate toward his own
family. And I told him so. Have you seen him lately?"
"N-o," admitted Selwyn.
"Not since that first time when he came to do the civil by you?"
"No; but don't--"
"Yes, I will," repeated his brother-in-law; "and I'm going to have a
thorough explanation with him and learn what he's up to. He's got to be
decent to his sister; he ought to report to me occasionally; that's all
there is to it. He has entirely too much liberty with his bachelor
quarters and his junior whipper-snapper club, and his house parties and
his cruises on Neergard's boat!"
He got up, casting his cigar from him, and moved about bulkily,
muttering of matters to be regulated, and firmly, too. But Selwyn,
looking out of the window across the Park, knew perfectly well that
young Erroll, now of age, with a small portion of his handsome income
at his mercy, was past the regulating stage and beyond the authority of
Austin. There was no harm in him; he was simply a joyous,
pleasure-loving cub, chock full of energetic instincts, good and bad,
right and wrong, out of which, formed from the acts which become habits,
character matures. This was his estimate of Gerald.
* * * * *
The next morning, riding in the Park with Eileen, he found a chance to
speak cordially of her brother.
"I've meant to look up Gerald," he said, as though the neglect were his
own fault, "but every time something happens to switch me on to another
track."
"I'm afraid that I do a great deal of the switching," she said; "don't
I? But you've been so nice to me and to the children that--"
Miss Erroll's horse was behaving badly, and for a few moments she became
too thoroughly occupied with her mount to finish her sentence.
The belted groom galloped up, prepared for emergencies, and he and
Selwyn sat their saddles watching a pretty battle for mastery between a
beautiful horse determined to be bad and a very determined young girl
who had decided he was going to be good.
Once or twice the excitement of solicitude sent the colour flying into
Selwyn's temples; the bridle-path was narrow and stiff with freezing
sand, and the trees were too near for such lively manoeuvres; but Miss
Erroll had made up her mind--and Selwyn already had a humorous idea that
this was no light matter. The horse found it serious enough, too, and
suddenly concluded to be good. And the pretty scene ended so abruptly
that Selwyn laughed aloud as he rejoined her:
"There was a man--'Boots' Lansing--in Bannard's command. One night on
Samar the bolo-men rushed us, and Lansing got into the six-foot major's
boots by mistake--seven-leaguers, you know--and his horse bucked him
clean out of them."
"Hence his Christian name, I suppose," said the girl; "but why such a
story, Captain Selwyn? I believe I stuck to my saddle?"
"With both hands," he said cordially, always alert to plague her. For
she was adorable when teased--especially in the beginning of their
acquaintance, before she had found out that it was a habit of his--and
her bright confusion always delighted him into further mischief.
"But I wasn't a bit worried," he continued; "you had him so firmly
around the neck. Besides, what horse or man could resist such a pleading
pair of arms around the neck?"
"What you saw," she said, flushing up, "is exactly the way I shall do
any pleading with the two animals you mention."
"Spur and curb and thrash us? Oh, my!"
"Not if you're bridle-wise, Captain Selwyn," she returned sweetly. "And
you know you always are. And sometimes"--she crossed her crop and looked
around at him reflectively--"_sometimes_, do you know, I am almost
afraid that you are so very, very good, that perhaps you are becoming
almost goody-good."
"_What_!" he exclaimed indignantly; but his only answer was her head
thrown back and a ripple of enchanting laughter.
Later she remarked: "It's just as Nina says, after all, isn't it?"
"I suppose so," he replied suspiciously; "what?"
"That Gerald isn't really very wicked, but he likes to have us think
so. It's a sign of extreme self-consciousness, isn't it," she added
innocently, "when a man is afraid that a woman thinks he is very, very
good?"
"That," he said, "is the limit. I'm going to ride by myself."
Her pleasure in Selwyn's society had gradually become such genuine
pleasure, her confidence in his kindness so unaffectedly sincere, that,
insensibly, she had fallen into something of his manner of
badinage--especially since she realised how much amusement he found in
her own smiling confusion when unexpectedly assailed. Also, to her
surprise, she found that he could be plagued very easily, though she did
not quite dare to at first, in view of his impressive years and
experience.
But once goaded to it, she was astonished to find how suddenly it seemed
to readjust their personal relations--years and experience falling from
his shoulders like a cloak which had concealed a man very nearly her own
age; years and experience adding themselves to her, and at least an inch
to her stature to redress the balance between them.
It had amused him immensely as he realised the subtle change; and it
pleased him, too, because no man of thirty-five cares to be treated _en
grandpère_ by a girl of nineteen, even if she has not yet worn the
polish from her first pair of high-heeled shoes.
"It's astonishing," he said, "how little respect infirmity and age
command in these days."
"I do respect you," she insisted, "especially your infirmity of purpose.
You said you were going to ride by yourself. But, do you know, I don't
believe you are of a particularly solitary disposition; are you?"
He laughed at first, then suddenly his face fell.
"Not from choice," he said, under his breath. Her quick ear heard, and
she turned, semi-serious, questioning him with raised eyebrows.
"Nothing; I was just muttering. I've a villainous habit of muttering
mushy nothings--"
"You _did_ say something!"
"No; only ghoulish gabble; the mere murky mouthings of a meagre mind."
"You _did_. It's rude not to repeat it when I ask you."
"I didn't mean to be rude."
"Then repeat what you said to yourself."
"Do you wish me to?" he asked, raising his eyes so gravely that the
smile faded from lip and voice when she answered: "I beg your pardon,
Captain Selwyn. I did not know you were serious."
"Oh, I'm not," he returned lightly, "I'm never serious. No man who
soliloquises can be taken seriously. Don't you know, Miss Erroll, that
the crowning absurdity of all tragedy is the soliloquy?"
Her smile became delightfully uncertain; she did not quite understand
him--though her instinct warned her that, for a second, something had
menaced their understanding.
Riding forward with him through the crisp sunshine of mid-December, the
word "tragedy" still sounding in her ears, her thoughts reverted
naturally to the only tragedy besides her own which had ever come very
near to her--his own.
Could he have meant _that_? Did people mention such things after they
had happened? Did they not rather conceal them, hide them deeper and
deeper with the aid of time and the kindly years for a burial past all
recollection?
Troubled, uncomfortably intent on evading every thought or train of
ideas evoked, she put her mount to a gallop. But thought kept pace with
her.
She was, of course, aware of the situation regarding Selwyn's domestic
affairs; she could not very well have been kept long in ignorance of the
facts; so Nina had told her carefully, leaving in the young girl's mind
only a bewildered sympathy for man and wife whom a dreadful and
incomprehensible catastrophe had overtaken; only an impression of
something new and fearsome which she had hitherto been unaware of in the
world, and which was to be added to her small but, unhappily, growing
list of sad and incredible things.
The finality of the affair, according to Nina, was what had seemed to
her the most distressing--as though those two were already dead people.
She was unable to understand it. Could no glimmer of hope remain that,
in that magic "some day" of all young minds, the evil mystery might
dissolve? Could there be no living "happily ever after" in the wake of
such a storm? She had managed to hope for that, and believe in it.
Then, in some way, the news of Alixe's marriage to Ruthven filtered
through the family silence. She had gone straight to Nina, horrified,
unbelieving. And, when the long, tender, intimate interview was over,
another unhappy truth, very gently revealed, was added to the growing
list already learned by this young girl.
Then Selwyn came. She had already learned something of the world's
customs and manners before his advent; she had learned more since his
advent; and she was learning something else, too--to understand how
happily ignorant of many matters she had been, had better be, and had
best remain. And she harboured no malsane desire to know more than was
necessary, and every innocent instinct to preserve her ignorance intact
as long as the world permitted.
As for the man riding there at her side, his problem was simple enough
as he summed it up: to face the world, however it might chance to spin,
that small, ridiculous, haphazard world rattling like a rickety roulette
ball among the numbered nights and days where he had no longer any vital
stake at hazard--no longer any chance to win or lose.
This was an unstable state of mind, particularly as he had not yet
destroyed the photograph which he kept locked in his despatch box. He
had not returned it, either; it was too late by several months to do
that, but he was still fool enough to consider the idea at
moments--sometimes after a nursery romp with the children, or after a
good-night kiss from Drina on the lamp-lit landing, or when some
commonplace episode of the domesticity around him hurt him, cutting him
to the quick with its very simplicity, as when Nina's hand fell
naturally into Austin's on their way to "lean over" the children at
bedtime, or their frank absorption in conjugal discussion to his own
exclusion as he sat brooding by the embers in the library.
"I'm like a dead man at times," he said to himself; "nothing to expect
of a man who is done for; and worst of all, I no longer expect anything
of myself."
This was sufficiently morbid, and he usually proved it by going early to
his own quarters, where dawn sometimes surprised him asleep in his
chair, white and worn, all the youth in his hollow face extinct, his
wife's picture fallen face downward on the floor.
But he always picked it up again when he awoke, and carefully dusted
it, too, even when half stupefied with sleep.
* * * * *
Returning from their gallop, Miss Erroll had very little to say. Selwyn,
too, was silent and absent-minded. The girl glanced furtively at him
from time to time, not at all enlightened. Man, naturally, was to her an
unknown quantity. In fact she had no reason to suspect him of being
anything more intricate than the platitudinous dance or dinner partner
in black and white, or any frock-coated entity in the afternoon, or any
flannelled individual at the nets or on the links or cantering about the
veranda of club, casino, or cottage, in evident anxiety to be
considerate and agreeable.
This one, however, appeared to have individual peculiarities; he
differed from his brother Caucasians, who should all resemble one
another to any normal girl. For one thing he was subject to illogical
moods--apparently not caring whether she noticed them or not. For
another, he permitted himself the liberty of long and unreasonable
silences whenever he pleased. This she had accepted unquestioningly in
the early days when she was a little in awe of him, when the discrepancy
of their ages and experiences had not been dissipated by her first
presumptuous laughter at his expense.
Now it puzzled her, appearing as a specific trait differentiating him
from Man in the abstract.
He had another trick, too, of retiring within himself, even when smiling
at her sallies or banteringly evading her challenge to a duel of wits.
At such times he no longer looked very young; she had noticed that more
than once. He looked old, and ill-tempered.
Perhaps some sorrow--the actuality being vague in her mind; perhaps
some hidden suffering--but she learned that he had never been wounded in
battle and had never even had measles.
The sudden sullen pallor, the capricious fits of silent reserve, the
smiling aloofness, she never attributed to the real source. How could
she? The Incomprehensible Thing was a Finality accomplished according to
law. And the woman concerned was now another man's wife. Which
conclusively proved that there could be no regret arising from the
Incomprehensible Finality, and that nobody involved cared, much less
suffered. Hence _that_ was certainly not the cause of any erratic or
specific phenomena exhibited by this sample of man who differed, as she
had noticed, somewhat from the rank and file of his neutral-tinted
brothers.
"It's this particular specimen, _per se_," she concluded; "it's himself,
_sui generis_--just as I happen to have red hair. That is all."
And she rode on quite happily, content, confident of his interest and
kindness. For she had never forgotten his warm response to her when she
stood on the threshold of her first real dinner party, in her first real
dinner gown--a trivial incident, trivial words! But they had meant more
to her than any man specimen could understand--including the man who had
uttered them; and the violets, which she found later with his card, must
remain for her ever after the delicately fragrant symbol of all he had
done for her in a solitude, the completeness of which she herself was
only vaguely beginning to realise.
Thinking of this now, she thought of her brother--and the old hurt at
his absence on that night throbbed again. Forgive? Yes. But how could
she forget it?
"I wish you knew Gerald well," she said impulsively; "he is such a dear
fellow; and I think you'd be good for him--and besides," she hastened to
add, with instinctive loyalty, lest he misconstrue, "Gerald would be
good for you. We were a great deal together--at one time."
He nodded, smilingly attentive.
"Of course when he went away to school it was different," she added.
"And then he went to Yale; that was four more years, you see."
"I was a Yale man," remarked Selwyn; "did he--" but he broke off
abruptly, for he knew quite well that young Erroll could have made no
senior society without his hearing of it. And he had not heard of
it--not in the cane-brakes of Leyte where, on his sweat-soaked shirt, a
small pin of heavy gold had clung through many a hike and many a scout
and by many a camp-fire where the talk was of home and of the chances of
crews and of quarter-backs.
"What were you going to ask me, Captain Selwyn?"
"Did he row--your brother Gerald?"
"No," she said. She did not add that he had broken training; that was
her own sorrow, to be concealed even from Gerald. "No; he played polo
sometimes. He rides beautifully, Captain Selwyn, and he is so clever
when he cares to be--at the traps, for example--and--oh--anything. He
once swam--oh, dear, I forget; was it five or fifteen or fifty miles? Is
that _too_ far? Do people swim those distances?"
"Some of those distances," replied Selwyn.
"Well, then, Gerald swam some of those distances--and everybody was
amazed. . . . I do wish you knew him well."
"I mean to," he said. "I must look him up at his rooms or his club
or--perhaps--at Neergard & Co."
"_Will_ you do this?" she asked, so earnestly that he glanced up
surprised.
"Yes," he said; and after a moment: "I'll do it to-day, I think; this
afternoon."
"Have you time? You mustn't let me--"
"Time?" he repeated; "I have nothing else, except a watch to help me get
rid of it."
"I'm afraid I help you get rid of it, too. I heard Nina warning the
children to let you alone occasionally--and I suppose she meant that for
me, too. But I only take your mornings, don't I? Nina is unreasonable; I
never bother you in the afternoons or evenings; do you know I have not
dined at home for nearly a month--except when we've asked people?"
"Are you having a good time?" he asked condescendingly, but without
intention.
"Heavenly. How can you ask that?--with every day filled and a chance to
decline something every day. If you'd only go to one--just one of the
dances and teas and dinners, you'd be able to see for yourself what a
good time I am having. . . . I don't know why I should be so
delightfully lucky, but everybody asks me to dance, and every man I meet
is particularly nice, and nobody has been very horrid to me; perhaps
because I like everybody--"
She rode on beside him; they were walking their horses now; and as her
silken-coated mount paced forward through the sunshine she sat at ease,
straight as a slender Amazon in her habit, ruddy hair glistening at the
nape of her neck, the scarlet of her lips always a vivid contrast to
that wonderful unblemished skin of snow.
He thought to himself, quite impersonally: "She's a real beauty, that
youngster. No wonder they ask her to dance and nobody is horrid. Men are
likely enough to go quite mad about her as Nina predicts: probably some
of 'em have already--that chuckle-headed youth who was there Tuesday,
gulping up the tea--" And, "What was his name?" he asked aloud.
"Whose name?" she inquired, roused by his voice from smiling
retrospection.
"That chuckle head--the young man who continued to haunt you so
persistently when you poured tea for Nina on Tuesday. Of course they
_all_ haunted you," he explained politely, as she shook her head in sign
of non-comprehension; "but there was one who--ah--gulped at his cup."
"Please--you are rather dreadful, aren't you?"
"Yes. So was he; I mean the infatuated chinless gentleman whose facial
ensemble remotely resembled the features of a pleased and placid lizard
of the Reptilian period."
"Oh, George Fane! That is particularly disagreeable of you, Captain
Selwyn, because his wife has been very nice to me--Rosamund Fane--and
she spoke most cordially of you--"
"Which one was she?"
"The Dresden china one. She looks--she simply cannot look as though she
were married. It's most amusing--for people always take her for
somebody's youngest sister who will be out next winter. . . . Don't you
remember seeing her?"
"No, I don't. But there were dozens coming and going every minute whom I
didn't know. Still, I behaved well, didn't I?"
"Pretty badly--to Kathleen Lawn, whom you cornered so that she couldn't
escape until her mother made her go without any tea."
"Was _that_ the reason that old lady looked at me so queerly?"
"Probably. I did, too, but you were taking chances, not hints. . . . She
_is_ attractive, isn't she?"
"Very fetching," he said, leaning down to examine his stirrup leathers
which he had already lengthened twice. "I've got to have Cummins punch
these again," he muttered; "or am I growing queer-legged in my old age?"
As he straightened up, Miss Erroll said: "Here comes Mr. Fane now--with
a strikingly pretty girl. How beautifully they are mounted"--smilingly
returning Fane's salute--"and she--oh! so you _do_ know her, Captain
Selwyn? Who is she?"
Crop raised mechanically in dazed salute, Selwyn's light touch on the
bridle had tightened to a nervous clutch which brought his horse up
sharply.
"What is it?" she asked, drawing bridle in her turn and looking back
into his white, stupefied face.
"Pain," he said, unconscious that he spoke. At the same instant the
stunned eyes found their focus--and found her beside his stirrup,
leaning wide from her seat in sweet concern, one gloved hand resting on
the pommel of his saddle.
"Are you ill?" she asked; "shall we dismount? If you feel dizzy, please
lean against me."
"I am all right," he said coolly; and as she recovered her seat he set
his horse in motion. His face had become very red now; he looked at her,
then beyond her, with all the deliberate concentration of aloof
indifference.
Confused, conscious that something had happened which she did not
comprehend, and sensitively aware of the preoccupation which, if it did
not ignore her, accepted her presence as of no consequence, she
permitted her horse to set his own pace.
Neither self-command nor self-control was lacking now in Selwyn; he
simply was too self-absorbed to care what she thought--whether she
thought at all. And into his consciousness, throbbing heavily under the
rushing reaction from shock, crowded the crude fact that Alixe was no
longer an apparition evoked in sleeplessness, in sun-lit brooding;
in the solitude of crowded avenues and swarming streets; she
was an actual presence again in his life--she was here, bodily,
unchanged--unchanged!--for he had conceived a strange idea that she must
have changed physically, that her appearance had altered. He knew it was
a grotesquely senseless idea, but it clung to him, and he had nursed it
unconsciously.
He had, truly enough, expected to encounter her in life
again--somewhere; though what he had been preparing to see, Heaven alone
knew; but certainly not the supple, laughing girl he had known--that
smooth, slender, dark-eyed, dainty visitor who had played at marriage
with him through a troubled and unreal dream; and was gone when he
awoke--so swift the brief two years had passed, as swift in sorrow as in
happiness.
Two vision-tinted years!--ended as an hour ends with the muffled chimes
of a clock, leaving the air of an empty room vibrant. Two years!--a
swift, restless dream aglow with exotic colour, echoing with laughter
and bugle-call and the noise of the surf on Samar rocks--a dream through
which stirred the rustle of strange brocades and the whisper of breezes
blowing over the grasses of Leyte; and the light, dry report of rifles,
and the shuffle of bare feet in darkened bungalows, and the whisper of
dawn in Manila town.
Two years!--wherever they came from, wherever they had gone. And now,
out of the ghostly, shadowy memory, behold _her_ stepping into the world
again!--living, breathing, quickening with the fire of life undimmed in
her. And he had seen the bright colour spreading to her eyes, and the
dark eyes widen to his stare; he had seen the vivid blush, the forced
smile, the nod, the voiceless parting of her stiffened lips. Then she
was gone, leaving the whole world peopled with her living presence and
the very sky ringing with the words her lips had never uttered, never
would utter while sun and moon and stars endured.
Shrinking from the clamouring tumult of his thoughts he looked around,
hard-eyed and drawn of mouth, to find Miss Erroll riding a length in
advance, her gaze fixed resolutely between her horse's ears.
How much had she noticed? How much had she divined?--this straight,
white-throated young girl, with her self-possession and her rounded,
firm young figure, this child with the pure, curved cheek, the clear,
fearless eyes, untainted, ignorant, incredulous of shame, of evil.
Severe, confident, untroubled in the freshness of adolescence, she rode
on, straight before her, symbolic innocence leading the disillusioned.
And he followed, hard, dry eyes narrowing, ever narrowing and flinching
under the smiling gaze of the dark-eyed, red-mouthed ghost that sat
there on his saddle bow, facing him, almost in his very arms.
* * * * *
Luncheon had not been served when they returned. Without lingering on
the landing as usual, they exchanged a formal word or two, then Eileen
mounted to her own quarters and Selwyn walked nervously through the
library, where he saw Nina evidently prepared for some mid-day
festivity, for she wore hat and furs, and the brougham was outside.
"Oh, Phil," she said, "Eileen probably forgot that I was going out; it's
a directors' luncheon at the exchange. Please tell Eileen that I can't
wait for her; where is she?"
"Dressing, I suppose. Nina, I--"
"One moment, dear. I promised the children that you would lunch with
them in the nursery. Do you mind? I did it to keep them quiet; I was
weak enough to compromise between a fox hunt or fudge; so I said you'd
lunch with them.. Will you?"
"Certainly. . . . And, Nina--what sort of a man is this George Fane?"
"Fane?"
"Yes--the chinless gentleman with gentle brown and protruding eyes and
the expression of a tame brontosaurus."
"Why--how do you mean, Phil? What sort of man? He's a banker. He isn't
very pretty, but he's popular."
"Oh, popular!" he nodded, as close to a sneer as he could ever get.
"He has a very popular wife, too; haven't you met Rosamund? People like
him; he's about everywhere--very useful, very devoted to pretty women;
but I'm really in a hurry, Phil. Won't you please explain to Eileen that
I couldn't wait? You and she were almost an hour late. Now I must pick
up my skirts and fly, or there'll be some indignant dowagers
downtown. . . . Good-bye, dear. . . . And _don't_ let the children eat
too fast! Make Drina take thirty-six chews to every bite; and Winthrop
is to have no bread if he has potatoes--" Her voice dwindled and died,
away through the hall; the front door clanged.
He went to his quarters, drove out Austin's man, arranged his own fresh
linen, took a sulky plunge; and, an unlighted cigarette between his
teeth, completed his dressing in sullen introspection.
When he had tied his scarf and bitten his cigarette to pieces, he paced
the room once or twice, squared his shoulders, breathed deeply, and,
unbending his eyebrows, walked off to the nursery.
"Hello, you kids!" he said, with an effort. "I've come to luncheon. Very
nice of you to want me, Drina."
"I wanted you, too!" said Billy; "I'm to sit beside you--"
"So am I," observed Drina, pushing Winthrop out of the chair and sliding
in close to Selwyn. She had the cat, Kit-Ki, in her arms. Kit-Ki,
divining nourishment, was purring loudly.
Josephine and Clemence, in pinafores and stickout skirts, sat wriggling,
with Winthrop between them; the five dogs sat in a row behind; Katie and
Bridget assumed the functions of Hibernian Hebes; and luncheon began
with a clatter of spoons.
It being also the children's dinner--supper and bed occurring from five
to six--meat figured on the card, and Kit-Ki's purring increased to an
ecstatic and wheezy squeal, and her rigid tail, as she stood up on
Drina's lap, was constantly brushing Selwyn's features.
"The cat is shedding, too," he remarked, as he dodged her caudal
appendage for the twentieth time; "it will go in with the next
spoonful, Drina, if you're not careful about opening your mouth."
"I love Kit-Ki," said Drina placidly. "I have written a poem to
her--where is it?--hand it to me, Bridget."
And, laying down her fork and crossing her bare legs under the table,
Drina took breath and read rapidly:
"LINES TO MY CAT
"Why
Do I love Kit-Ki
And run after
Her with laughter
And rub her fur
So she will purr?
Why do I know
That Kit-Ki loves me so?
I know it if
Her tail stands up stiff
And she beguiles
Me with smiles--"
"Huh!" said Billy, "cats don't smile!"
"They do. When they look pleasant they smile," said Drina, and continued
reading from her own works:
"Be kind in all
You say and do
For God made Kit-Ki
The same as you.
"Yours truly,
"ALEXANDRINA GERARD.
She looked doubtfully at Selwyn. "Is it all right to sign a poem? I
believe that poets sign their works, don't they, Uncle Philip?"
"Certainly. Drina, I'll give you a dollar for that poem."
"You may have it, anyway," said Drina, generously; and, as an
after-thought: "My birthday is next Wednesday."
"What a hint!" jeered Billy, casting a morsel at the dogs.
"It isn't a hint. It had nothing to do with my poem, and I'll write you
several more, Uncle Philip," protested the child, cuddling against him,
spoon in hand, and inadvertently decorating his sleeve with cranberry
sauce.
Cat hairs and cranberry are a great deal for a man to endure, but he
gave Drina a reassuring hug and a whisper, and leaned back to remove
traces of the affectionate encounter just as Miss Erroll entered.
"Oh, Eileen! Eileen!" cried the children; "are you coming to luncheon
with us?"
As Selwyn rose, she nodded, amused.
"I am rather hurt," she said. "I went down to luncheon, but as soon as I
heard where you all were I marched straight up here to demand the reason
of my ostracism."
"We thought you had gone with mother," explained Drina, looking about
for a chair.
Selwyn brought it. "I was commissioned to say that Nina couldn't
wait--dowagers and cakes and all that, you know. Won't you sit down?
It's rather messy and the cat is the guest of honour."
"We have three guests of honour," said Drina; "you, Eileen, and Kit-Ki.
Uncle Philip, mother has forbidden me to speak of it, so I shall tell
her and be punished--but _wouldn't_ it be splendid if Aunt Alixe were
only here with us?"
Selwyn turned sharply, every atom of colour gone; and the child smiled
up at him. "_Wouldn't_ it?" she pleaded.
"Yes," he said, so quietly that something silenced the child. And
Eileen, giving ostentatious and undivided attention to the dogs, was now
enveloped by snooping, eager muzzles and frantically wagging tails.
"My lap is full of paws!" she exclaimed; "take them away, Katie! And
oh!--my gown, my gown!--Billy, stop waving your tumbler around my face!
If you spill that milk on me I shall ask your Uncle Philip to put you in
the guard-house!"
"You're going to bolo us, aren't you, Uncle Philip?" inquired Billy.
"It's my turn to be killed, you remember--"
"I have an idea," said Selwyn, "that Miss Erroll is going to play for
you to sing."
They liked that. The infant Gerards were musically inclined, and nothing
pleased them better than to lift their voices in unison. Besides, it
always distressed Kit-Ki, and they never tired laughing to see the
unhappy cat retreat before the first minor chord struck on the piano.
More than that, the dogs always protested, noses pointed heavenward. It
meant noise, which was always welcome in any form.
"Will you play, Miss Erroll?" inquired Selwyn.
Miss Erroll would play.
"Why do you always call her 'Miss Erroll'?" asked Billy. "Why don't you
say 'Eileen'?"
Selwyn laughed. "I don't know, Billy; ask her; perhaps she knows."
Eileen laughed, too, delicately embarrassed and aware of his teasing
smile. But Drina, always impressed by formality, said: "Uncle Philip
isn't Eileen's uncle. People who are not relations say _Miss and Mrs_."
"Are faver and muvver relations?" asked Josephine timidly.
"Y-es--no!--I don't know," admitted Drina; "_are_ they, Eileen?"
"Why, yes--that is--that is to say--" And turning to Selwyn: "What
dreadful questions. _Are_ they relations, Captain Selwyn? Of course they
are!"
"They were not before they were married," he said, laughing.
"If you married Eileen," began Billy, "you'd call her Eileen, I
suppose."
"Certainly," said Selwyn.
"Why don't you?"
"That is another thing you must ask her, my son."
"Well, then, Eileen--"
But Miss Erroll was already seated at the nursery piano, and his demands
were drowned in a decisive chord which brought the children clustering
around her, while their nurses ran among them untying bibs and scrubbing
faces and fingers in fresh water.
They sang like seraphs, grouped around the piano, fingers linked behind
their backs. First it was "The Vicar of Bray." Then--and the cat fled at
the first chord--"Lochleven Castle":
"Put off, put off,
And row with speed
For now is the time and the hour of need."
Miss Erroll sang, too; her voice leading--a charmingly trained, but
childlike voice, of no pretensions, as fresh and unspoiled as the girl
herself.
There was an interval after "Castles in the Air"; Eileen sat, with her
marvellously white hands resting on the keys, awaiting further
suggestion.
"Sing that funny song, Uncle Philip!" pleaded Billy; "you know--the one
about:
"She hit him with a shingle
Which made his breeches tingle
Because he pinched his little baby brother;
And he ran down the lane
With his pants full of pain.
Oh, a boy's best friend is his mother!"
"_Billy!_" gasped Miss Erroll.
Selwyn, mortified, said severely: "That is a very dreadful song,
Billy--"
"But _you_ taught it to me--"
Eileen swung around on the piano stool, but Selwyn had seized Billy and
was promising to bolo him as soon as he wished.
And Eileen, surveying the scene from her perch, thought that Selwyn's
years seemed to depend entirely upon his occupation, for he looked very
boyish down there on his knees among the children; and she had not yet
forgotten the sunken pallor of his features in the Park--no, nor her own
question to him, still unanswered. For she had asked him who that woman
was who had been so direct in her smiling salute. And he had not yet
replied; probably never would; for she did not expect to ask him again.
Meanwhile the bolo-men were rushing the outposts to the outposts'
intense satisfaction.
"Bang-bang!" repeated Winthrop; "I hit you, Uncle Philip. You are dead,
you know!"
"Yes, but here comes another! Fire!" shouted Billy. "Save the flag!
Hurrah! Pound on the piano, Eileen, and pretend it's cannon."
Chord after chord reverberated through the big sunny room, punctuated by
all the cavalry music she had picked up from West Point and her friends
in the squadron.
"We can't get 'em up!
We can't get 'em up!
We can't get 'em up
In the morning!"
she sang, calmly watching the progress of the battle, until Selwyn
disengaged himself from the _mêlée_ and sank breathlessly into a chair.
"All over," he said, declining further combat. "Play the 'Star-spangled
Banner,' Miss Erroll."
"Boom!" crashed the chord for the sunset gun; then she played the
anthem; Selwyn rose, and the children stood up at salute.
The party was over.
Selwyn and Miss Erroll, strolling together out of the nursery and down
the stairs, fell unconsciously into the amiable exchange of badinage
again; she taunting him with his undignified behaviour, he retorting in
kind.
"Anyway that was a perfectly dreadful verse you taught Billy," she
concluded.
"Not as dreadful as the chorus," he remarked, wincing.
"You're exactly like a bad small boy, Captain Selwyn; you look like one
now--so sheepish! I've seen Gerald attempt to avoid admonition in
exactly that fashion."
"How about a jolly brisk walk?" he inquired blandly; "unless you've
something on. I suppose you have."
"Yes, I have; a tea at the Fanes, a function at the Grays. . . . Do you
know Sudbury Gray? It's his mother."
They had strolled into the living room--a big, square, sunny place, in
golden greens and browns, where a bay-window overlooked the Park.
Kneeling on the cushions of the deep window seat she flattened her
delicate nose against the glass, peering out through the lace hangings.
"Everybody and his family are driving," she said over her shoulder. "The
rich and great are cornering the fresh-air supply. It's interesting,
isn't it, merely to sit here and count coteries! There is Mrs.
Vendenning and Gladys Orchil of the Black Fells set; there is that
pretty Mrs. Delmour-Carnes; Newport! Here come some Cedarhurst
people--the Fleetwoods. It always surprises one to see them out of the
saddle. There is Evelyn Cardwell; she came out when I did; and there
comes Sandon Craig with a very old lady--there, in that old-fashioned
coach--oh, it is Mrs. Jan Van Elten, senior. What a very, very quaint
old lady! I have been presented at court," she added, with a little
laugh, "and now all the law has been fulfilled."
For a while she kneeled there, silently intent on the passing pageant
with all the unconscious curiosity of a child. Presently, without
turning: "They speak of the younger set--but what is its limit? So many,
so many people! The hunting crowd--the silly crowd--the wealthy
sets--the dreadful yellow set--then all those others made out of
metals--copper and coal and iron and--" She shrugged her youthful
shoulders, still intent on the passing show.
"Then there are the intellectuals--the artistic, the illuminated, the
musical sorts. I--I wish I knew more of them. They were my father's
friends--some of them." She looked over her shoulder to see where Selwyn
was, and whether he was listening; smiled at him, and turned, resting
one hand on the window seat. "So many kinds of people," she said, with a
shrug.
"Yes," said Selwyn lazily, "there are all kinds of kinds. You remember
that beautiful nature-poem:
"'The sea-gull
And the eagul
And the dipper-dapper-duck
And the Jew-fish
And the blue-fish
And the turtle in the muck;
And the squir'l
And the girl
And the flippy floppy bat
Are differ-ent
As gent from gent.
So let it go at that!'"
"What hideous nonsense," she laughed, in open encouragement; but he
could recall nothing more--or pretended he couldn't.
"You asked me," he said, "whether I know Sudbury Gray. I do, slightly.
What about him?" And he waited, remembering Nina's suggestion as to that
wealthy young man's eligibility.
"He's one of the nicest men I know," she replied frankly.
"Yes, but you don't know 'Boots' Lansing."
"The gentleman who was bucked out of his footwear? Is he attractive?"
"Rather. Shrieks rent the air when 'Boots' left Manila."
"Feminine shrieks?"
"Exclusively. The men were glad enough. He has three months' leave this
winter, so you'll see him soon."
She thanked him mockingly for the promise, watching him from amused
eyes. After a moment she said:
"I ought to arise and go forth with timbrels and with dances; but, do
you know, I am not inclined to revels? There has been a little--just a
very little bit too much festivity so far. . . . Not that I don't adore
dinners and gossip and dances; not that I do not love to pervade bright
and glittering places. Oh, no. Only--I--"
She looked shyly a moment at Selwyn: "I sometimes feel a curious desire
for other things. I have been feeling it all day."
"What things?"
"I--don't know--exactly; substantial things. I'd like to learn about
things. My father was the head of the American School of Archæology in
Crete. My mother was his intellectual equal, I believe--"
Her voice had fallen as she spoke. "Do you wonder that physical pleasure
palls a little at times? I inherit something besides a capacity for
dancing."
He nodded, watching her with an interest and curiosity totally new.
"When I was ten years old I was taken abroad for the winter. I saw the
excavations in Crete for the buried city which father discovered near
Præsos. We lived for a while with Professor Flanders in the Fayum
district; I saw the ruins of Kahun, built nearly three thousand years
before the coming of Christ; I myself picked up a scarab as old as the
ruins! . . . Captain Selwyn--I was only a child of ten; I could
understand very little of what I saw and heard, but I have never, never
forgotten the happiness of that winter! . . . And that is why, at times,
pleasures tire me a little; and a little discontent creeps in. It is
ungrateful and ungracious of me to say so, but I did wish so much to go
to college--to have something to care for--as mother cared for father's
work. Why, do you know that my mother accidentally discovered the
thirty-seventh sign in the Karian Signary?"
"No," said Selwyn, "I did not know that." He forbore to add that he did
not know what a Signary resembled or where Karia might be.
Miss Erroll's elbow was on her knee, her chin resting within her open
palm.
"Do you know about my parents?" she asked. "They were lost in the
_Argolis_ off Cyprus. You have heard. I think they meant that I should
go to college--as well as Gerald; I don't know. Perhaps after all it is
better for me to do what other young girls do. Besides, I enjoy it; and
my mother did, too, when she was my age, they say. She was very much
gayer than I am; my mother was a beauty and a brilliant woman. . . . But
there were other qualities. I--have her letters to father when Gerald
and I were very little; and her letters to us from London. . . . I have
missed her more, this winter, it seems to me, than even in that dreadful
time--"
She sat silent, chin in hand, delicate fingers restlessly worrying her
red lips; then, in quick impulse:
"You will not mistake me, Captain Selwyn! Nina and Austin have been
perfectly sweet to me and to Gerald."
"I am not mistaking a word you utter," he said.
"No, of course not. . . . Only there are times . . . moments . . ."
Her voice died; her clear eyes looked out into space while the silent
seconds lengthened into minutes. One slender finger had slipped between
her lips and teeth; the burnished strand of hair which Nina dreaded lay
neglected against her cheek.
"I should like to know," she began, as though to herself, "something
about everything. That being out of the question, I should like to know
everything about something. That also being out of the question, for
third choice I should like to know something about something. I am not
too ambitious, am I?"
Selwyn did not offer to answer.
"_Am_ I?" she repeated, looking directly at him.
"I thought you were asking yourself."
"But you need not reply; there is no sense in my question."
She stood up, indifferent, absent-eyed, half turning toward the window;
and, raising her hand, she carelessly brought the rebel strand of hair
under discipline.
"You _said_ you were going to look up Gerald," she observed.
"I am; now. What are you going to do?"
"I? Oh, dress, I suppose. Nina ought to be back now, and she expects me
to go out with her."
She nodded a smiling termination of their duet, and moved toward the
door. Then, on impulse, she turned, a question on her lips--left
unuttered through instinct. It had to do with the identity of the pretty
woman who had so directly saluted him in the Park--a perfectly
friendly, simple, and natural question. Yet it remained unuttered.
She turned again to the doorway; a maid stood there holding a note on a
salver.
"For Captain Selwyn, please," murmured the maid.
Miss Erroll passed out.
Selwyn took the note and broke the seal:
"MY DEAR SELWYN: I'm in a beastly fix--an I.O.U. due to-night and
_pas de quoi_! Obviously I don't want Neergard to know, being
associated as I am with him in business. As for Austin, he's a
peppery old boy, bless his heart, and I'm not very secure in his
good graces at present. Fact is I got into a rather stiff game last
night--and it's a matter of honour. So can you help me to tide it
over? I'll square it on the first of the month.
"Yours sincerely,
"GERALD ERROLL.
"P.S.--I've meant to look you up for ever so long, and will the
first moment I have free."
Below this was pencilled the amount due; and Selwyn's face grew very
serious.
The letter he wrote in return ran:
"DEAR GERALD: Check enclosed to your order. By the way, can't you
lunch with me at the Lenox Club some day this week? Write, wire, or
telephone when.
"Yours,
"SELWYN."
When he had sent the note away by the messenger he walked back to the
bay-window, hands in his pockets, a worried expression in his gray
eyes. This sort of thing must not be repeated; the boy must halt in his
tracks and face sharply the other way. Besides, his own income was
limited--much too limited to admit of many more loans of that sort.
He ought to see Gerald at once, but somehow he could not in decency
appear personally on the heels of his loan. A certain interval must
elapse between the loan and the lecture; in fact he didn't see very well
how he could admonish and instruct until the loan had been
cancelled--that is, until the first of the New Year.
Pacing the floor, disturbed, uncertain as to the course he should
pursue, he looked up presently to see Miss Erroll descending the stairs,
fresh and sweet in her radiant plumage. As she caught his eye she waved
a silvery chinchilla muff at him--a marching salute--and passed on,
calling back to him: "Don't forget Gerald!"
"No," he said, "I won't forget Gerald." He stood a moment at the window
watching the brougham below where Nina awaited Miss Erroll. Then,
abruptly, he turned back into the room and picked up the telephone
receiver, muttering: "This is no time to mince matters for the sake of
appearances." And he called up Gerald at the offices of Neergard & Co.
"Is it you, Gerald?" he asked pleasantly. "It's all right about that
matter; I've sent you a note by your messenger. But I want to talk to
you about another matter--something concerning myself--I want to ask
your advice, in a way. Can you be at the Lenox by six? . . . You have an
engagement at eight? Oh, that's all right; I won't keep you. . . . It's
understood, then; the Lenox at six. . . . Good-bye."
There was the usual early evening influx of men at the Lenox who dropped
in for a glance at the ticker, or for a cocktail or a game of billiards
or a bit of gossip before going home to dress.
Selwyn sauntered over to the basket, inspected a yard or two of tape,
then strolled toward the window, nodding to Bradley Harmon and Sandon
Craig.
As he turned his face to the window and his back to the room, Harmon
came up rather effusively, offering an unusually thin flat hand and
further hospitality, pleasantly declined by Selwyn.
"Horrible thing, a cocktail," observed Harmon, after giving his own
order and seating himself opposite Selwyn. "I don't usually do it. Here
comes the man who persuades me!--my own partner--"
Selwyn looked up to see Fane approaching; and instantly a dark flush
overspread his face.
"You know George Fane, don't you?" continued Harmon easily; "well,
that's odd; I thought, of course--Captain Selwyn, Mr. Fane. It's not
usual--but it's done."
They exchanged formalities--dry and brief on Selwyn's part, gracefully
urbane on Fane's.
"I've heard so pleasantly of you from Gerald Erroll," he said, "and of
course our people have always been on cordial terms. Neither Mrs. Fane
nor I was fortunate enough to meet you last Tuesday at the Gerards--such
a crush, you know. Are you not joining us, Captain Selwyn?" as the
servant appeared to take orders.
Selwyn declined again, glancing at Harmon--a large-framed, bony young
man with blond, closely trimmed and pointed beard, and the fair colour
of a Swede. He had the high, flat cheek-bones of one, too; and a
thicket of corn-tinted hair, which was usually damp at the ends, and
curled flat against his forehead. He seemed to be always in a slight
perspiration--he had been, anyway, every time Selwyn met him anywhere.
Sandon Craig and Billy Fleetwood came wandering up and joined them; one
or two other men, drifting by, adhered to the group.
Selwyn, involved in small talk, glanced sideways at the great clock, and
gathered himself together for departure.
Fleetwood was saying to Craig: "Certainly it was a stiff game--Bradley,
myself, Gerald Erroll, Mrs. Delmour-Carnes, and the Ruthvens."
"Were you hit?" asked Craig, interested.
"No; about even. Gerald got it good and plenty, though. The Ruthvens
were ahead as usual--"
Selwyn, apparently hearing nothing, quietly rose and stepped out of the
circle, paused to set fire to a cigarette, and then strolled off toward
the visitors' room, where Gerald was now due.
Fane stretched his neck, looking curiously after him. Then he said to
Fleetwood: "Why begin to talk about Mrs. Ruthven when our friend yonder
is about? Rotten judgment you show, Billy."
"Well, I clean forgot," said Fleetwood; "what did I say, anyway? A man
can't always remember who's divorced from who in this town."
Harmon, whose civility to Selwyn had possibly been based on his desire
for pleasant relations with Austin Gerard and the Arickaree Loan and
Trust Company, looked at Fleetwood thoroughly vexed. But nobody could
have suspected vexation in that high-boned smile which showed such very
red lips through the blond beard.
Fane, too, smiled; his prominent soft brown eyes expressed gentlest
good-humour, and he passed his hand reflectively over his unusually
small and retreating chin. Perhaps he was thinking of the meeting in the
Park that morning. It was amusing; but men do not speak of such things
at their clubs, no matter how amusing. Besides, if the story were aired
and were traced to him, Ruthven might turn ugly. There was no counting
on Ruthven.
Meanwhile Selwyn, perplexed and worried, found young Erroll just
entering the visitors' room, and greeted him with nervous cordiality.
"If you can't stay and dine with me," he said, "I won't put you down.
You know, of course, I can only ask you once in a year, so we'll stay
here and chat a bit."
"Right you are," said young Erroll, flinging off his very new and very
fashionable overcoat--a wonderfully handsome boy, with all the
attraction that a quick, warm, impulsive manner carries. "And I say,
Selwyn, it was awfully decent of you to--"
"Bosh! Friends are for that sort of thing, Gerald. Sit here--" He looked
at the young man hesitatingly; but Gerald calmly took the matter out of
his jurisdiction by nodding his order to the club attendant.
"Lord, but I'm tired," he said, sinking back into a big arm-chair; "I
was up till daylight, and then I had to be in the office by nine, and
to-night Billy Fleetwood is giving--oh, something or other. By the way,
the market isn't doing a thing to the shorts! You're not in, are you,
Selwyn?"
"No, not that way. I hope you are not, either; are you, Gerald?"
"Oh, it's all right," replied the young fellow confidently; and raising
his glass, he nodded at Selwyn with a smile.
"You were mighty nice to me, anyhow," he said, setting his glass aside
and lighting a cigar. "You see, I went to a dance, and after a while
some of us cleared out, and Jack Ruthven offered us trouble; so half a
dozen of us went there. I had the worst cards a man ever drew to a
kicker. That was all about it."
The boy was utterly unconscious that he was treading on delicate ground
as he rattled on in his warmhearted, frank, and generous way. Totally
oblivious that the very name of Ruthven must be unwelcome if not
offensive to his listener, he laughed through a description of the
affair, its thrilling episodes, and Mrs. Jack Ruthven's blind luck in
the draw.
"One moment," interrupted Selwyn, very gently; "do you mind saying
whether you banked my check and drew against it?"
"Why, no; I just endorsed it over."
"To--to whom?--if I may venture--"
"Certainly," he said, with a laugh; "to Mrs. Jack--" Then, in a flash,
for the first time the boy realised what he was saying, and stopped
aghast, scarlet to his hair.
Selwyn's face had little colour remaining in it, but he said very
kindly: "It's all right, Gerald; don't worry--"
"I'm a beast!" broke out the boy; "I beg your pardon a thousand times."
"Granted, old chap. But, Gerald, may I say one thing--or perhaps two?"
"Go ahead! Give it to me good and plenty!"
"It's only this: couldn't you and I see one another a little oftener?
Don't be afraid of me; I'm no wet blanket. I'm not so very aged,
either; I know something of the world--I understand something of men.
I'm pretty good company, Gerald. What do you say?"
"I say, _sure_!" cried the boy warmly.
"It's a go, then. And one thing more: couldn't you manage to come up to
the house a little oftener? Everybody misses you, of course; I think
your sister is a trifle sensitive--"
"I will!" said Gerald, blushing. "Somehow I've had such a lot on
hand--all day at the office, and something on every evening. I know
perfectly well I've neglected Eily--and everybody. But the first moment
I can find free--"
Selwyn nodded. "And last of all," he said, "there's something about my
own affairs that I thought you might advise me on."
Gerald, proud, enchanted, stood very straight; the older man continued
gravely:
"I've a little capital to invest--not very much. Suppose--and this, I
need not add, is in confidence between us--suppose I suggested to Mr.
Neergard--"
"Oh," cried young Erroll, delighted, "that is fine! Neergard would be
glad enough. Why, we've got that Valleydale tract in shape now, and
there are scores of schemes in the air--scores of them--important moves
which may mean--anything!" he ended, excitedly.
"Then you think it would be all right--in case Neergard likes the idea?"
Gerald was enthusiastic. After a while they shook hands, it being time
to separate. And for a long time Selwyn sat there alone in the visitors'
room, absent-eyed, facing the blazing fire of cannel coal.
How to be friends with this boy without openly playing the mentor; how
to gain his confidence without appearing to seek it; how to influence
him without alarming him! No; there was no great harm in him yet; only
the impulse of inconsiderate youth; only an enthusiastic capacity for
pleasure.
One thing was imperative--the boy must cut out his card-playing for
stakes at once; and there was a way to accomplish that by impressing
Gerald with the idea that to do anything behind Neergard's back which he
would not care to tell him about was a sort of treachery.
Who were these people, anyway, who would permit a boy of that age, and
in a responsible position, to play for such stakes? Who were they to
encourage such--?
Selwyn's tightening grasp on his chair suddenly relaxed; he sank back,
staring at the brilliant coals. He, too, had forgotten.
Now he remembered, in humiliation unspeakable, in bitterness past all
belief.
Time sped, and he sat there, motionless; and gradually the bitterness
became less perceptible as he drifted, intent on drifting, back through
the exotic sorcery of dead years--back into the sun again, where honour
was bright and life was young--where all the world awaited happy
conquest--where there was no curfew in the red evening glow; no end to
day, because the golden light had turned to silver; but where the
earliest hint of dawn was a challenge, and where every yellow star
whispered "Awake!"
And out of the magic _she_ had come into his world again!
Sooner or later he would meet her now. That was sure. When? Where? And
of what significance was it, after all?
Whom did it concern? Him? Her? And what had he to say to her, after all?
Or she to him?
Not one word.
* * * * *
About midnight he roused himself and picked up his hat and coat.
"Do you wish a cab, please?" whispered the club servant who held his
coat; "it is snowing very hard, sir."