impulsive, girlish fashion. He was a handsome fellow, with well-bred
face. He stroked his silky mustache with an air not unsuggestive of
complacency.
"It is delightful," said he, "to find somebody who really appreciates
the book for what is best in it. Of course there are a great many people
who say nice things about it, but they don't seem to go to the real
heart of it as you do."
"Oh, the story has so much heart," she returned. Then she regarded him
quizzically. "You speak almost as if you had written it yourself."
"Oh, I--That is--Why, you see," he answered, in evident confusion, "I
suppose that my being an embryo literary man myself makes it natural for
me to take the point of view of the author. Most readers of a novel, you
know, care for nothing but the plot, and see nothing else."
"Oh, it is not the plot," May cried enthusiastically. "I like that, of
course, but what I really care for is the feeling in the book."
Jack Neligage, with his eyes on Alice Endicott, had made his way over to
the tea-table, and came up in time to hear this.
"The book, Miss Calthorpe?" he repeated. "Oh, you must be talking of
that everlasting novel. I wish I had had the good luck to write it."
"Oh, I should adore you if you had, Mr. Neligage."
"By Jove, then I'll swear I did write it."
Fairfield regarded the girl with heightened color.
"You had better be careful, Miss Calthorpe," he commented. "The real
author might hear you."
She started in pretty dismay, and covered with her hand the flower
nestling under her chin.
"Oh, he is not here!" she cried.
"How do you know that?" demanded Jack laughingly.
She sank back into the corner of the sofa with a blush far deeper than
could be called for by the situation.
"Oh, I just thought so," she said. "Who is there here that could have
written it?"
"Why, Dick here is always scribbling," Neligage returned, with a
chuckle. "Perhaps you have been telling him what you thought of his
book."
The face of Fairfield grew suddenly sober.
"Come, Jack," he said, rising, "that's too stupid a joke to be worthy of
you."
He was seized at that moment by Mrs. Harbinger, who presented him to
Miss Wentstile. Fairfield had been presented to Miss Wentstile a dozen
times in the course of the two winters since he had graduated at Harvard
and settled in Boston; but since she never seemed to recognize him, he
gave no sign of remembering her.
"Miss Wentstile," the hostess said, "don't you know Mr. Fairfield? He is
one of our literary lights now, you know."
"A very tiny rushlight, I am afraid," the young man commented.
Miss Wentstile examined him with critical impertinence through her
lorgnette.
"Are you one of the Baltimore Fairfields?" she asked.
"No; my family came from Connecticut."
"Indeed!" she remarked coolly. "I do not remember that I ever met a
person from Connecticut before."
The lips of the young man set themselves a little more firmly at this
impertinence, and there came into his eyes a keen look.
"I am pleased to be the humble means of increasing your experience," he
said, with a bow.
Miss Wentstile had the appearance of being anxious to quarrel with
somebody, a fact which was perhaps due to the conversation which she had
had with her niece as they came to the house. Alice had been ordered to
be especially gracious to Count Shimbowski, and had respectfully but
succinctly declared her intention to be as cold as possible. Miss
Wentstile had all her life indulged in saying whatever she felt like
saying, little influenced by the ordinary restraints of conventionality
and not at all by consideration for the feelings of others. She had gone
about the room that afternoon being as disagreeable as possible, and her
rudeness to Fairfield was milder than certain things which were at that
very moment being resented and quoted in the groups which she had
passed. She glared at the young man now as if amazed that he had dared
to reply, and unfortunately she ventured once more.
"Thank you," she said. "Even the animals in the Zoo increase one's
experience. It is always interesting to meet those that one has heard
chattered about."
He made her a deeper bow.
"I know," he responded with a manner coolly polite. "I felt it myself
the first half dozen times I had the honor to be presented to you; but
even the choicest pleasures grow stale on too frequent repetition."
Miss Wentstile glared at him for half a minute, while he seemed to grow
pale at his own temerity. Then a humorous smile lightened her face, and
she tapped him approvingly on the shoulder with her gold lorgnette.
"Come, come," she said briskly but without any sharpness, "you must not
be impertinent to an old woman. You will hold your own, I perceive. Come
and see me. I am always at home on Wednesdays."
Miss Wentstile moved on looking less grim, but her previous sins were
still to be atoned for, and Mrs. Neligage, who knew nothing of the
encounter between the spinster and Fairfield, was watching her
opportunity. Miss Wentstile came upon the widow just as a burst of
laughter greeted the conclusion of a story.
"And his wife is entirely in the dark to this day," Mrs. Neligage ended.
"That is--ha, ha!--the funniest thing I've heard this winter," declared
Mr. Bradish, who was always in the train of Mrs. Neligage.
"I think it's horrid!" protested Mrs. Croydon, with an entirely
unsuccessful attempt to look shocked. "I declare, Miss Wentstile, they
are gossiping in a way that positively makes me blush."
"So you see that the age of miracles is not past after all," put in Mrs.
Neligage.
"Mrs. Neligage has lived abroad so much," Miss Wentstile said severely,
"that I fear she has actually forgotten the language of civility."
"Not to you, my dear Miss Wentstile," was the incorrigible retort. "My
mother taught me to be civil to you in my earliest youth."
And all that the unfortunate lady, thus cruelly attacked, could say
was,--
"I wish you remembered all your mother taught you half as well!"
V
THE BLAZING OF RANK
The usual mass of people came and went that afternoon at Mrs.
Harbinger's. It was not an especially large tea, but in a country where
the five o'clock tea is the approved method of paying social grudges
there will always be a goodly number of people to be asked and many who
will respond. The hum of talk rose like the clatter of a factory, the
usual number of conversations were begun only to end as soon as they
were well started; the hostess fulfilled her duty of interrupting any
two of her guests who seemed to be in danger of getting into real talk;
presentations were made with the inevitable result of a perfunctory
exchange of inanities; and in general the occasion was very like the
dozen other similar festivities which were proceeding at the same time
in all the more fashionable parts of the city.
As time wore on the crowd lessened. Many had gone to do their wearisome
duty of saying nothing at some other five o'clock; and the rooms were
becoming comfortable again. The persons who had come early were
lingering, and one expert in social craft might have detected signs that
their remaining so long was not without some especial reason.
"If he is coming," Mrs. Neligage observed to Mr. Bradish, "I wish he
would come. It is certainly not very polite of him not to arrive earlier
if he is really trying to pass as the slave of Alice."
"Oh, he is always late," Bradish answered. "If you had not been in
Washington you would have heard how he kept Miss Wentstile's dinner
waiting an hour the other day because he couldn't make up his mind to
leave the billiard table."
Mrs. Neligage laughed rather mockingly.
"How did dear Miss Wentstile like that?" asked she. "It is death for any
mortal to dare to be late at her house, and she does not approve of
billiards."
"She was so taken up with berating the rest of us for his tardiness that
when he appeared she had apparently forgotten all about his being to
blame in anything."
"She loves a title as she loves her life," Mrs. Neligage commented. "She
would marry him herself and give him every penny she owns just to be
called a countess for the rest of her life."
A stir near the door, and the voice of Graham announcing "Count
Shimbowski" made them both turn. A brief look of intelligence flashed
across the face of the widow.
"It is he," she murmured as if to herself.
"Do you know him?" demanded Bradish.
"Oh, I used to see him abroad years ago," was her answer. "Very likely
he will have forgotten me."
"That," Bradish declared, with a profound bow, "is impossible."
The Count made his way across the drawing-room with a jaunty air not
entirely in keeping with the crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes. He
was tall and wiry, with sandy hair and big mustaches. He showed no
consciousness that he was being stared at, but with admirable
self-possession saluted his hostess.
"How do you do, Count?" Mrs. Harbinger greeted him. "We began to think
you were not coming."
"Ah, how do, Mees Harbeenger. Not to come eet would be to me too
desolate. _Bon jour_, my deear Mees Wentsteele. I am so above-joyed to
encountair you'self here. My deear Mees Endeecott, I kees your
feengair."
"Beast!" muttered Jack Neligage to Fairfield. "I should like to cram a
fistful of his twisted-up sentences down his snaky throat!"
"He must open his throat with a corkscrew in the morning," was the
reply.
Miss Wentstile was smiling her most gracious.
"How do you feel to-day, Count?" she asked. "Does our spring weather
affect you unpleasantly?"
The Count made a splendid gesture with both his hands, waving in the
right the monocle which he more often carried than wore.
"Oh, what ees eet de weder een one land w'ere de peoples so heavenly
keent ees?" he demanded oratorically. "Only eet ees Mees Endeecott do
keel me wid her so great cheelleeness."
Miss Endicott looked up from her seat at the tea-table beside which the
group stood. Her air was certainly sufficiently cold to excuse the Count
for feeling her chilliness; and she answered without a glimmer of a
smile.
"I'm not cruel," she said. "I wouldn't hurt a worm."
"But," the Count responded, shaking his head archly, "eet ees dat I be
not a worm."
"I thought that all men were worms of the dust," Mrs. Harbinger
observed.
The Count bowed his tall figure with finished grace.
"And all de weemens," he declared, "aire angles!"
"It is our sharpness, then, that is to be admired," Alice commented.
"Of course, Alice," Miss Wentstile corrected vixenishly, "the Count
means angels."
"So many men," Alice went on without showing other sign of feeling than
a slight flush, "have turned a woman from an angel into an angle."
"I do comprehend not," the Count said.
"It is no matter, Count," put in the hostess. "She is only teasing you,
and being rude into the bargain. You will take tea? Alice, pour the
Count some tea."
Alice took up a cup.
"How many lumps?" she asked.
"Loomps? Loomps? Oh, eet weel be sugaire een de tea. Tree, eef you weel
be so goot weedeen eet."
Just as the Count, with profuse expressions of overwhelming gratitude
to have been permitted so great an honor, had received his tea from the
hand of Miss Endicott, and Miss Wentstile was clearing her throat with
the evident intention of directing toward him some profound observation,
Mrs. Neligage came briskly forward with outstretched hand.
"It would be generous of you, Count," she said, "to recognize an old
friend."
He stared at her with evident astonishment.
"_Ciel!_" he exclaimed. "Ah, but eet weel be de _belle_ Madame
Neleegaze!"
She laughed as she shook hands, her dark eyes sparkling with fun.
"As gallant as ever, Count. It is good of you to remember me after so
many years."
The Count regarded her with a look so earnest that he might easily be
supposed to remember from the past, whatever and whenever it had been,
many things of interest. Miss Wentstile surveyed the pair with an
expression of keen suspicion.
"Louisa," she demanded, "where did you know the Count?"
The Count tried to speak, but Mrs. Neligage was too quick for him.
"It was at--Where was it, Count? My memory for places is so bad," she
returned mischievously.
"Yees," he said eagerly. "Eet weel have been Paris _certainement_, ees
eet not?"
She laughed more teasingly yet, and glanced swiftly from him to Miss
Wentstile. She was evidently amusing herself, though the simple
question of the place of a former meeting might not seem to give much
opportunity.
"That doesn't seem to me to have been the place," she remarked. "Paris?
Let me see. I should have said that it was--"
The remark was not concluded, for down went the Count's teacup with a
splash and a crash, with startings and cries from the ladies, and a
hasty drawing away of gowns. Miss Endicott, who had listened carefully
to the talk, took the catastrophe coolly enough, but with a darkening of
the face which seemed to show that she regarded the accident as
intentional. The Count whipped out his handkerchief, and went down on
his knee instantly to wipe the hem of Miss Wentstile's spattered frock;
while Mrs. Neligage seemed more amused than ever.
"Oh, I am deesconsolate forever!" the Count exclaimed, in tones which
were pathetic enough to have made the reputation of an actor. "I am
broken een de heart, Mees Wentsteele."
"It is no matter," Miss Wentstile said stiffly.
A ring of the bell brought Graham to repair the damage as far as might
be, and in the confusion the Count moved aside with the widow.
"That was not done with your usual skill, Count," she said mockingly.
"It was much too violent for the occasion."
"But for what you speak of Monaco here?" he demanded fiercely. "De old
Mees Wentsteele say dat to play de card for money ees villain. She say
eet is murderous. She say she weel not to endure de man dat have
gamboled."
"And you have gamboled in a lively manner in your time, Count. It's an
old pun, but it would be new to you if you could understand it."
"I don't understand," he said savagely in French.
"No matter. It wasn't worth understanding," she answered, in the same
tongue. "But you needn't have been afraid. I'm no spoil-sport. I
shouldn't have told."
"She is an old prude," he went on, smiling, and showing his white teeth.
"If she knew I had been in a duel, she would know me no more."
"She will not know from me."
"As lovely and as kind as ever," he responded. "Ah, when I remember
those days, when I was young, and you were just as you are now--"
"Old, that is."
"Oh, no; young, always young as when I knew you first. When I was at
your feet with love, and your countryman was my rival--"
Mrs. Neligage began to look as if she found the tables being turned, and
that she had no more wish to have the past brought up than had the
Count. She turned away from her companion. Then she looked back over her
shoulder to observe, still in French, as she left him:--
"I make it a point never to remember those days, my friend."
VI
THE MISCHIEF OF A WIDOW
There were now but ten guests left, the persons who have been named, and
who seemed for the most part to be lingering to observe the Count or
Alice Endicott. May Calthorpe had all the afternoon kept near Alice, and
only left her place when the sopping up of the Count's tea made it
necessary for her to move. Mrs. Harbinger took her by the arm, and
looked into her face scrutinizingly.
"Well," she asked, "did your unknown author come?"
"Nobody has come with a carnation. Oh, I am so disappointed!"
"I am glad of it, my dear."
"But he said he would come if I'd give him a sign, and I wrote to him
while I was waiting for you yesterday."
"So you told me."
"Well," May echoed dolefully; "I think you might be more sympathetic."
"What did you do with the letter?" asked Mrs. Harbinger.
"I gave it to Graham to post."
"Then very likely no harm is done. Graham never in his life posted a
letter under two days."
"Oh, do you think so?" May asked, brightening visibly at the suggestion.
"You don't think he despised me, and wouldn't come?"
Mrs. Harbinger gave her a little shake.
"You hussy!" she exclaimed, with too evident an enjoyment of the
situation to be properly severe. "How was it addressed?"
"Just to Christopher Calumus, in care of the publishers."
"Well, my dear," the hostess declared, "your precious epistle is
probably in the butler's pantry now; or one of the maids has picked it
up from the kitchen floor. I warn you that if I can find it I shall read
it."
"Oh, you wouldn't!" exclaimed May in evident distress.
"Um! Wouldn't I, though? The way you take the suggestion shows that it's
time somebody looked into your correspondence with this stranger."
May opened her lips to protest again, but the voice of Graham was heard
announcing Mr. Barnstable, and Mrs. Harbinger turned to greet the
late-coming stranger. The gentleman's hair had apparently been scrubbed
into sleekness, but had here and there broken through the smooth outer
surface as the stuffing of an old cushion breaks through slits in the
covering. His face was red, and his air full of self-consciousness. When
he entered the drawing-room Mr. Harbinger was close behind him, but the
latter stopped to speak with Bradish and Mrs. Neligage, and Barnstable
advanced alone to where Mrs. Harbinger stood with May just behind her.
"Heavens, May," the hostess said over her shoulder. "Here is your
carnation. I hope you are pleased with the bearer."
Barnstable stood hesitating, looking around as if to discover the
hostess. On the face of Mrs. Croydon only was there sign of recognition.
She bowed at him rather than to him, with an air so distant that no man
could have spoken to her after such a frigid salutation. The stranger
turned redder and redder, made a half step toward Mrs. Croydon, and then
stopped. Fortunately Mr. Harbinger hastened up, and presented him to the
hostess. That lady greeted him politely, but she had hardly exchanged
the necessary commonplaces, before she put out her hand to where May
stood watching in dazed surprise.
"Let me present you to Miss Calthorpe," she said. "Mr. Barnstable, May."
She glided away with a twinkle in her eye which must have implied that
she had no fear in leaving the romantic girl with a lover that looked
like that. May and Barnstable stood confronting each other a moment in
awkward silence, and then the girl tossed her head with the air of a
young colt that catches the bit between his teeth.
"I had quite given you up," she said in a voice low, but distinct.
"Eh?" he responded, with a startled look. "Given me up?"
"I have been watching for the carnation all the afternoon."
"Carnation?" he echoed, trying over his abundant chins to get a glimpse
of the flower in his buttonhole. "Oh, yes; I generally wear a carnation.
They keep, don't you know; and it was always the favorite flower of my
wife."
"Your wife?" demanded Miss Calthorpe.
Her cheeks grew crimson, and she drew herself up haughtily.
"Yes," Barnstable replied, looking confused. "That is, of course, she
that was my wife."
"I should never have believed," May observed distantly, "that 'Love in a
Cloud' could have been written by a widower."
Barnstable began to regard her as if he were in doubt whether she or he
himself had lost all trace of reason.
"'Love in a Cloud,'" he repeated, "'Love in a Cloud'? Do you know who
wrote that beastly book?"
Her color shot up, and the angry young goddess declared itself in every
line of her face. Her pose became instantly a protest.
"How dare you speak of that lovely book in that way?" she demanded. "It
is perfectly exquisite!"
"But who wrote it?" he demanded in his turn, growing so red as to
suggest awful possibilities of apoplexy.
"Didn't you?" she stammered. "Are you running it down just for
modesty?"
"I! I! I write 'Love in a Cloud'?" cried Barnstable, speaking so loud
that he could be heard all over the room. "You insult me, Miss--Miss
Calthump! You--"
His feelings were evidently too much for him. He turned with rude
abruptness, and looking about him, seemed to become aware that the eyes
of almost everybody in the room were fixed on him. He cast a despairing
glance to where Mrs. Harbinger and Mrs. Croydon were for the moment
standing together, and then started in miserable flight toward the door.
At the threshold he encountered Graham the butler, who presented him
with a handful of letters.
"Will you please give the letters to Mrs. Harbinger?" Graham said, and
vanished.
Barnstable looked after the butler, looked at the letters, looked around
as if his head were swimming, and then turned back into the
drawing-room. He walked up to the hostess, and held out the letters in
silence, his fluffy face a pathetic spectacle of embarrassed woe.
"What are these?" Mrs. Harbinger asked.
He shook his head, as if he had given up all hope of understanding
anything.
"The butler put them in my hands," he murmured.
"Upon my word, Mrs. Harbinger," spoke up Mrs. Croydon, seeming more
offended than there was any apparent reason for her to be, "you have the
most extraordinary butler that ever existed."
Mrs. Harbinger threw out her hands in a gesture by which she evidently
disclaimed all responsibility for Graham and his doings.
"Extraordinary! Why, he makes my life a burden. There is no mistake he
cannot make, and he invents fresh ones every day. Really, I know of no
reason why the creature is tolerated in the house except that he makes a
cocktail to suit Tom."
"Dat ees ver' greet veertue," Count Shimbowski commented genially.
"I do not agree with you, Count," Miss Wentstile responded stiffly.
The spinster had been hovering about the Count ever since his accident
with the teacup, apparently seeking an opportunity of snubbing him.
"Oh, but I die but eef Mees Wentsteele agree of me!" the Count declared
with his hand on his heart.
Mrs. Croydon in the meanwhile had taken the letters from the hand of
Barnstable, and was looking at them with a scrutiny perhaps closer than
was exactly compatible with strict good-breeding.
"Why, here is a letter that has never been posted," she said.
Mr. Harbinger took the whole bundle from her hand.
"I dare say," was his remark, "that any letter that's been given to
Graham to mail in the last week is there. Why, this letter is addressed
to Christopher Calumus."
May Calthorpe moved forward so quickly that Mrs. Harbinger, who had
extended her hand to take the letters from her husband, turned to
restrain the girl. Mrs. Croydon swayed forward a little.
"That is the author of 'Love in a Cloud,'" she said with a simper of
self-consciousness.
Mrs. Neligage, who was standing with Bradish and Alice at the moment,
made a grimace.
"She'll really have the impudence to take it," she said to them aside.
"Now see me give that woman a lesson."
She swept forward in a flash, and deftly took the letter out of Tom
Harbinger's hand before he knew her intention. Flourishing it over her
head, she looked them all over with eyes full of fun and mischief.
"Honor to whom honor is due," she cried. "Ladies and gentlemen, be it my
high privilege to deliver this to its real and only owner. Count," she
went on, sweeping him a profound courtesy, "let your light shine. Behold
in Count Shimbowski the too, too modest author of 'Love in a Cloud.'"
There was a general outburst of amazement. The Count looked at the
letter which had been thrust into his hand, and stammered something
unintelligible.
"_Vraiment_, Madame Neleegaze," he began, "eet ees too mooch of you--"
"Oh, don't say anything," she interrupted him. "I have no other pleasure
in life than doing mischief."
Mrs. Croydon looked from the Count to Mrs. Neligage with an expression
of mingled doubt and bewilderment. Her attitude of expecting to be
received as the anonymous author vanished in an instant, and vexation
began to predominate over the other emotions visible in her face.
"Well," she said spitefully, "it is certainly a day of wonders; but if
the letter belongs to the Count, it would be interesting to know who
writes to him as Christopher Calumus."
Mrs. Harbinger answered her in a tone so cold that Mrs. Croydon colored
under it.
"Really, Mrs. Croydon," she said, "the question is a little pointed."
"Why, it is only a question about a person who doesn't exist. There
isn't any such person as Christopher Calumus. I'm sure I'd like to know
who writes to literary men under their assumed names."
May was so pale that only the fact that everybody was looking at Mrs.
Harbinger could shield her from discovery. The hostess drew herself up
with a haughty lifting of the head.