MRS. CHEDSOYE HAS HER DOUBTS
Mrs. Chedsoye retired to her room early that memorable December night.
Her brother could await the return of Horace. She hadn't the least doubt
as to the result; a green young man pitted against a seasoned veteran's
duplicity. She wished Jones no harm physically; in fact, she had put
down the law against it. Still, much depended upon chance. But for all
her confidence of the outcome, a quality of restlessness pervaded her.
She tried to analyze it, ineffectually at first. Perhaps she did not
look deep enough; perhaps she did not care thoroughly to examine the
source of it. Insistently, however, it recurred; and by repeated
assaults it at length conquered her. It was the child.
Did she possess, after all, a latent sense of motherhood, and was it
stirring to establish itself? She really did not know. Was it not fear
and doubt rather than motherly instinct? She paused in front of the
mirror, but the glass solved only externals. She could not see her soul
there in the reflection; she saw only the abundant gifts of nature,
splendid, double-handed, prodigal. And in contemplating that reflection,
she forgot for a space what she was seeking. But that child! From whom
did she inherit her peculiar ideas of life? From some Puritan ancestor
of her father's; certainly not from her side. She had never bothered her
head about Fortune, save to house and clothe her, till the past
forty-eight hours. And now it was too late to pick up the thread she had
cast aside as not worth considering. To no one is given perfect wisdom;
and she recognized the flaw in hers that had led her to ignore the
mental attitude of the girl. She had not even made a friend of her; a
mistake, a bit of stupidity absolutely foreign to her usual keenness.
The child lacked little of being beautiful, and in three or four years
she would be. Mrs. Chedsoye was without jealousy; she accepted beauty
in all things unreservedly. Possessing as she did an incomparable beauty
of her own, she could well afford to be generous. Perhaps the true cause
of this disturbance lay in the knowledge that there was one thing her
daughter had inherited from her directly, almost identically; indeed, of
this pattern the younger possessed the wider margin of the two: courage.
Mrs. Chedsoye was afraid of nothing except wrinkles, and Fortune was too
young to know this fear. So then, the mother slowly began to comprehend
the spirit which had given life to this singular perturbation. Fortune
had declared that she would run away; and she had the courage to carry
out the threat.
Resolutely Mrs. Chedsoye rang for her maid Celeste. Thoughts like these
only served to disturb the marble smoothness of her forehead.
The two began to pack. That is to say, Celeste began; Mrs. Chedsoye
generally took charge of these manoeuvers from the heights, as became
the officer in command. Bending was likely to enlarge the vein in the
neck; and all those beautiful gowns would not be worth a _soldi_ without
the added perfection of her lineless throat and neck. She was getting
along in years, too, a fact which was assuming the proportions of a
cross; and more and more she must husband these lingering (not to say
beguiling) evidences of youthfulness.
"We might as well get Fortune's things out of the way, too, Celeste."
"Yes, Madame."
"And bring my chocolate at half after eight in the morning. It is quite
possible that we shall sail to-morrow night from Port Saïd. If not from
there, from Alexandria. It all depends upon the booking, which can not
be very heavy going west this time of year."
"As madame knows!" came from the depth of the cavernous trunk. Celeste
was no longer surprised; at least she never evinced this emotion. For
twelve years now she had gone from one end of the globe to the other,
upon the shortest notice. While surprise was lost to her or under such
control as to render it negligible, she still shivered with pleasurable
excitement at the thought of entering a port. Madame was so clever, so
transcendently clever! If she, Celeste, had not been loyal, she might
have retired long ago, and owned a shop of her own in the busy Rue de
Rivoli. But that would have meant a humdrum existence; and besides, she
would have grown fat, which, of the seven horrors confronting woman, so
madame said, was first in number.
"Be very careful how you handle that blue ball-gown."
"Oh, Madame!" reproachfully.
"It is the silver braid. Do not press the rosettes too harshly."
Celeste looked up. Mrs. Chedsoye answered her inquiring gaze with a thin
smile.
"You are wonderful, Madame!"
"And so are you, Celeste, in your way."
At ten o'clock Mrs. Chedsoye was ready for her pillow. She slept
fitfully; awoke at eleven and again at twelve. After that she knew
nothing more till the maid roused her with the cup of chocolate. She sat
up and sipped slowly. Celeste waited at the bedside with the tray. Her
admiration for her mistress never waned. Mrs. Chedsoye was just as
beautiful in dishabille as in a ball-gown. She drained the cup, and as
she turned to replace it upon the tray, dropped it with a clatter, a
startled cry coming from her lips.
"Madame?"
"Fortune's bed!"
It had not been slept in. The steamer-cloak lay across the counterpane
exactly where Celeste herself had laid it the night before. Mrs.
Chedsoye sprang out of her bed and ran barefoot to the other. Fortune
had not been in the room since dinner-time.
"Celeste, dress me as quickly as possible. Hurry! Something has happened
to Fortune."
Never, in all her years of service, could she recollect such a toilet as
madame made that morning. And never before had she shown such concern
over her daughter. It was amazing!
"The little fool! The little fool!" Mrs. Chedsoye repeatedly murmured as
the nimble fingers of the maid flew over her. "The silly little fool;
and at a time like this!" Not that remorse of any kind stirred Mrs.
Chedsoye's conscience; she was simply extremely annoyed.
She hastened out into the corridor and knocked at the door of her
brother's room. No answer. She flew down-stairs, and there she saw him
coming in from the street. He greeted her cheerily.
"It's all right, Kate; plenty of room on the _Ludwig_. We shall take the
afternoon train for Port Saïd. She sails at dawn to-morrow instead of
to-night.... What's up?" suddenly noting his sister's face.
"Fortune did not return to her room last night."
"What? Where do you suppose the little fool went, then?"
They both seemed to look upon Fortune as a little fool.
"Yesterday she threatened to run away."
"Run away? Kate, be sensible. How the deuce could she run away? She
hasn't a penny. It takes money to go anywhere over here. She has
probably found some girl friend, and has spent the night with her. We'll
soon find out where she is." The Major wasn't worried.
"Have you seen Horace?" with discernible anxiety.
"No. I didn't wait up for him. He's sleeping off a night of it. You know
his failing."
"Find out if he _is_ in his room. Go to the porter's bureau and inquire
for both him and Jones."
The Major, perceiving that his sister was genuinely alarmed, rushed over
to the bureau. No, neither Mr. Ryanne nor Mr. Jones had been in the
hotel since yesterday. Would the porter send some one up to the rooms of
those gentlemen to make sure? Certainly. No; there was no one in the
rooms. The Major was now himself perturbed. He went back to Mrs.
Chedsoye.
"Kate, neither has been in his room since yesterday. If you want my
opinion, it is this: Hoddy has sequestered Jones all right, and is
somewhere in town, sleeping off the effects of a night of it."
"He has run away with Fortune!" she cried. Her expression was tragic.
She couldn't have told whether it was due to her daughter's
disappearance or to Horace's defection. "Did he not threaten?"
"Sh! not so loud, Kate."
"The little simpleton defied me yesterday, and declared she would leave
me."
"Oho!" The Major fingered his imperial. "That puts a new face to the
subject. But Jones! He has not turned up. We can not move till we find
out what has become of him. I know. I'll jump into a carriage and see if
he got as far as the English-Bar."
Mrs. Chedsoye did not go up-stairs, but paced the lounging-room, lithe
and pantherish. Frequently she paused, as if examining the patterns in
the huge carpets. She entered the reception-room, came back, wandered
off into the ball-room, stopped to inspect the announcement hanging upon
the bulletin-board, returned to the windows and watched the feluccas
sail past as the great bridge opened; and during all these aimless
occupations but a single thought busied her mind: what could a man like
Horace see in a chit like Fortune?
It was an hour and a half before the Major put in an appearance. He was
out of breath and temper.
"Come up to the room." Once there, he sat down and bade her do likewise.
"There's the devil to pay. You heard Hoddy speak of the nigger who
guarded the Holy Yhiordes, and that he wanted to get out of Cairo
before he turned up? Well, he turned up. He fooled Hoddy to the top of
his bent. So far as I could learn, Fortune and Hoddy and Jones are all
in the same boat, kidnapped by this Mahomed, and carried out into the
desert, headed, God knows where! Now, don't get excited. Take it easy.
Luck is with us, for Hoddy left all the diagrams with me. We need him,
but not so much that we can't go on without him. You see, these Arabs
are like the Hindus; touch anything that concerns their religion, and
they'll have your hair off. How Fortune got into it I can't imagine,
unless Mahomed saw her with Hoddy and jumped to the conclusion that they
were lovers. All this Mahomed wants is the rug; and he is going to hold
them till he gets it. No use notifying the police. No one would know
where to find him. None of them will come to actual harm. Anyhow, the
coast is clear. Kate, there's a big thing in front. No nerves. We've got
to go to-day. Time is everything. Our butler and first man cabled this
morning that they had just started in, and that everything was running
like clockwork. We'll get into New York in time for the _coup_.
Remember, I was against the whole business at the start, but now I'm
going to see it off."
Feverishly Mrs. Chedsoye prepared for the journey. She was irritable to
Celeste, she was unbearable to her brother, who took a seat in a forward
compartment to be rid of her. It was only when they went aboard the
steamer that night that she became reconciled to the inevitable. At any
rate, the presence of Jones would counteract any influence Horace might
have gained over Fortune. That the three of them might suffer unheard-of
miseries never formed thought in her mind. It appealed to her in the
sense of a comedy which annoyed rather than amused her.
They were greeted effusively by Wallace, he of the bulbous nose; and his
first inquiry was of Ryanne. Briefly the Major told him what had
happened and added his fears. Wallace was greatly cast-down. Hoddy had
so set his heart upon this venture that it was a shame to proceed
without him. He had warned him at the beginning about that infernal
rug; but Hoddy was always set in his daredevil schemes. So long as the
Major had the plans, he supposed that they could turn the trick without
Hoddy's assistance; only, it seemed rather hard for him not to be in the
sport.
"He told me that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to stick
his fist into the first bag of yellow-boys. There was something
mysterious in the way he used to chuckle over the thing when I first
sprung it on him. He saw a joke somewhere. Let's go into the smoke-room
for a peg. It won't hurt either of us. And that poor little girl! It's a
hell of a world; eh?"
The Major admitted that it was; but he did not add that Fortune's
welfare or ill-fare was of little or no concern of his. The little
spitfire had always openly despised him.
They were drinking silently and morosely, when Mrs. Chedsoye, pale and
anxious, appeared in the companionway. She beckoned them to follow her
down to her cabin. Had Fortune arrived? Had Ryanne? She did not answer.
Arriving at her cabin she pushed the two wondering men inside, and
pointed at the floor. A large steamer-roll lay unstrapped, spread out.
"I only just opened it," she said. "I never thought of looking into it
at Cairo. Here, it looked so bulky that I was curious."
"Why, it's that damned Yhiordes!" exclaimed the Major wrathfully. "What
the devil is it doing in Fortune's steamer-roll?"
"That is what I should like to know. If they have been kidnapped in
order to recover the rug, whatever will become of them?" And Mrs.
Chedsoye touched the rug with her foot, absently. She was repeating in
her mind that childish appeal: "You don't know how loyal I should have
been!"
* * * * *
They took the first sailing out of Naples. Twelve days later they landed
at the foot of Fourteenth Street. There was some trifling difficulty
over the rug. It had been declared; but as Mrs. Chedsoye and her brother
always declared foreign residence, there was a question as to whether it
was dutiable or not. Being a copy, it was not an original work of art,
therefore not exempt, and so forth and so on. It was finally decided
that Mrs. Chedsoye must pay a duty. The Major paid grumblingly, very
cleverly assuming an irritability well known to the inspectors. The way
the United States Government mulcted her citizens for the benefit of the
few was a scandal of the nations.
A smooth-faced young man approached them from out the crowd.
"Is this Major Callahan?"
"Yes. This must be Mr. Reynolds, the agent?"
"Yes. Everything is ready for your occupancy. Your butler and first man
have everything ship-shape. I could have turned over to you Mr.
Jones's."
"Not at all, not at all," said the Major. "They would have been
strangers to us and we to them. Our own servants are best."
"You must be very good friends of my client?"
"I have known him for years," said Mrs. Chedsoye sweetly. "It was at his
own suggestion that we take the house over for the month. He really
insisted that we should pay him nothing; but, of course, such an
arrangement could not be thought of. Oh, good-by, Mr. Wallace,"
tolerantly. "We hope to see you again some day."
Wallace, taking up his role once more, tipped his hat and rushed away
for one of his favorite haunts.
"Bounder!" growled the Major. "Well, well; a ship's deck is always
Liberty-Hall."
"You have turned your belongings over to an expressman?" asked the
agent. These were charming people; and any doubts he might have
entertained were dissipated. And why should he have any doubts? Jones
was an eccentric young chap, anyhow. An explanatory letter (written by
the Major in Jones's careless hand), backed up by a cable, was enough
authority for any reasonable man.
"Everything is out of the way," said the Major.
"Then, if you wish, I can take you right up to the house in my car. Your
butler said that he would have lunch ready when you arrived."
"Very kind of you. How noisy New York is! You can take our
hand-luggage?" Mrs. Chedsoye would have made St. Anthony uneasy of mind;
Reynolds, young, alive, metaphorically fell at her feet.
"Plenty of room for it."
"I am glad of that. You see, Mr. Jones intrusted a fine old rug to us to
bring home for him; and I shouldn't want anything to happen to it."
The Major looked up at the roof of the dingy shed. He did not care to
have Reynolds note the flicker of admiration in his eyes. The cleverest
woman of them all! The positive touch to the whole daredevil affair! And
he would not have thought of it had he lived to be a thousand. "One
might as well disembark in a stable," he said aloud. "Ah! We are ready
to go, then?"
They entered the limousine and went off buzzing and zigzagging among the
lumbering trucks. The agent drove the car himself.
"Where is Jones now?" he asked of the Major, who sat at his left.
"Haven't had a line from him for a month."
"Just before we sailed," said Mrs. Chedsoye through the window, over the
Major's shoulder, "he went into the desert for a fortnight or so; with a
caravan. He had heard of some fabulous carpet."
Touch number two. The Major grinned. "Jones is one of the best judges I
have ever met. He was off at a bound. I only hope he will get back
before we leave for California." The Major drew up his collar. It was a
cold, blustery day.
The agent was delighted. What luck a fellow like Jones had! To wander
all over creation and to meet charming people! And when they invited him
to remain for luncheon, the victory was complete.
Mrs. Chedsoye strolled in and out of the beautifully appointed rooms.
Never had she seen more excellent taste. Not too much; everything
perfectly placed, one object nicely balanced against another. Here was a
rare bit of Capo di Monte, there a piece of Sèvres or Canton. Some
houses, with their treasures, look like museums, but this one did not.
The owner had not gone mad over one subject; here was a sane and prudent
collector. The great yellow Chinese carpet represented a fortune; she
knew enough about carpets to realize this fact. Ivories, jades,
lapis-lazuli, the precious woods, priceless French and Japanese
tapestries, some fine paintings and bronzes; the rooms were full of
unspoken romance and adventure; echoed with war and tragedy, too. And
Fortune might have married a man like this one. A possibility occurred
to her, and the ghost of a smile moderated the interest in her face.
They might be upon the desert for weeks. Who knew what might not happen
to two such romantic simpletons?
The butler and the first man (who was also the cook) were impeccable
types of servants; so thought Reynolds. They moved silently and
anticipated each want. Reynolds determined that very afternoon to drop a
line to Jones and compliment him upon his good taste in the selection of
his friends. A subsequent press of office work, however, drove the
determination out of his mind.
The instant his car carried him out of sight, a strange scene was
enacted. The butler and the first man seized the Major by the arms, and
the three executed a kind of _pas-seul_. Mrs. Chedsoye eyed these
manifestations of joy stonily.
"Now then, what's been done?" asked the Major, pulling down his cuffs
and shaking the wrinkles from his sleeves.
"Half done!" cried the butler.
"Fine! What do you do with the refuse?"
"Cart it away in an automobile every night, after the gun starts down
the other end of the street."
"Gun?" The Major did not quite understand.
"Gun or bull; that's the argot for policeman."
"Thieves' argot," said Mrs. Chedsoye contemptuously.
The butler laughed. He knew Gioconda of old.
"Where's that wall-safe?" the Major wanted to know.
"Behind that sketch by Detaille." And the butler, strange to say,
pronounced it Det-i.
"Can you open it?"
"Tried, but failed. Wallace is the man for that."
"He'll be along in an hour or so."
"Where's Ryanne?"
"Don't know; don't care." The Major sketched the predicament of their
fellow-conspirator.
The butler whistled, but callously. One more or less didn't matter in
such an enterprise.
When Wallace arrived he applied his talent and acquired science to the
wall-safe, and finally swung outward the little steel-door. The Major
pushed him aside and thrust a hand into the metaled cavity, drawing out
an exquisite Indian casket of rosewood and mother-of-pearl. He opened
the lid and dipped a hand within. Emeralds, deep and light and shaded,
cut and uncut and engraved, flawed and almost perfect. He raised a
handful and let them tinkle back into the casket. One hundred in all,
beauties, every one of them, and many famous.
And while he toyed with them, pleased as a child would have been over a
handful of marbles, Mrs. Chedsoye spread out the ancient Yhiordes in the
library. She stood upon the central pattern, musing. Her mood was not
one which she had called into being; not often did she become
retrospective; the past to her was always like a page in a book, once
finished, turned down. Her elbow in one palm, her chin in the other, she
stared without seeing. It was this house, this home, it was each sign of
riches without luxury or ostentation, where money expressed itself by
taste and simplicity; a home such as she had always wanted. And why,
with all her beauty and intellect, why had she not come into possession?
She knew. Love that gives had never been hers; hers had been the love
that receives, self-love. She had bartered her body once for riches and
had been fooled, and she never could do it again.... And the child was
overflowing with the love that gives. She couldn't understand. The child
was the essence of it; and she, her mother, had always laughed at her.
The flurry of snow outside in the court she saw not. Her fancy re-formed
the pretty garden at Mentone, inclosed by pink-washed walls. Many a
morning from her window she had watched Fortune among the flowers, going
from one to the other, like a bee or a butterfly. She had watched her
grow, too, with that same detachment a machinist feels as he puts
together the invention of another man. Would she ever see her again? Her
shoulders moved ever so little. Probably not. She had blundered
wilfully. She should have waited, thrown the two together,
manoeuvered. And she had permitted this adventure to obsess her! She
might have stood within this house by right of law, motherhood,
marriage. Ryanne was in love with Fortune, and Jones by this time might
be. The desert was a terribly lonely place.
She wished it might be Jones. And immediately retrospection died away
from her gaze and actualities resumed their functions. The wish was not
without a phase of humor, formed as it was upon this magic carpet; but
it nowise disturbed the gravity of her expression.