At eleven o'clock the next morning Miss Nevers had not arrived at
Silverwood.
It was still raining hard, the brown Westchester fields, the leafless
trees, hedges, paths, roads, were soaked; pools stood in hollows with
the dead grass awash; ditches brimmed, river and brook ran amber riot,
and alder swamps widened into lakes.
The chances were now that she would not come at all. Desboro had met
both morning trains, but she was not visible, and all the passengers had
departed leaving him wandering alone along the dripping platform.
For a while he stood moodily on the village bridge beyond, listening to
the noisy racket of the swollen brook; and after a little it occurred to
him that there was laughter in the noises of the water, like the mirth
of the gods mocking him.
"Laugh on, high ones!" he said. "I begin to believe myself the ass that
I appear to you."
Presently he wandered back to the station platform, where he idled
about, playing with a stray and nondescript dog or two, and caressing
the station-master's cat; then, when he had about decided to get into
his car and go home, it suddenly occurred to him that he might telephone
to New York for information. And he did so, and learned that Miss Nevers
had departed that morning on business, for a destination unknown, and
would not return before evening.
Also, the station-master informed him that the morning express now
deposited passengers at Silverwood Station, on request--an innovation of
which he had not before heard; and this put him into excellent spirits.
"Aha!" he said to himself, considerably elated. "Perhaps I'm not such an
ass as I appear. Let the high gods laugh!"
So he lighted a cigarette, played with the wastrel dogs some more,
flattered the cat till she nearly rubbed her head off against his legs,
took a small and solemn child onto his knee and presented it with a
silver dollar, while its overburdened German mother publicly nourished
another.
"You are really a remarkable child," he gravely assured the infant on
his knee. "You possess a most extraordinary mind!"--the child not having
uttered a word or betrayed a vestige of human expression upon its
slightly soiled features.
Presently the near whistle of the Connecticut Express brought him to his
feet. He lifted the astonishingly gifted infant and walked out; and when
the express rolled past and stopped, he set it on the day-coach platform
beside its stolid parent, and waved to it an impressive adieu.
At the same moment, descending from the train, a tall young girl, in
waterproofs, witnessed the proceedings, recognised Desboro, and smiled
at the little ceremony taking place.
"Yours?" she inquired, as, hat off, hand extended, he came forward to
welcome her--and the next moment blushed at her impulsive informality.
"Oh, all kids seem to be mine, somehow or other," he said. "I'm awfully
glad you came. I was afraid you wouldn't."
"Why?"
"Because I didn't believe you really existed, for one thing. And then
the weather----"
"Do you suppose mere _weather_ could keep me from the Desboro
collection? You have much to learn about me."
"I'll begin lessons at once," he said gaily, "if you don't mind giving
them. Do you?"
She smiled non-committally, and looked around her at the departing
vehicles.
"We have a limousine waiting for us behind the station," he said. "It's
five muddy miles."
"I had been wondering all the way up in the train just how I was to get
to Silverwood----"
"You didn't suppose I'd leave you to find your way, did you?"
"Business people don't expect limousines," she said, with an
unmistakable accent that sounded priggish even to herself--so prim,
indeed, that he laughed outright; and she finally laughed, too.
"This is very jolly, isn't it?" he remarked, as they sped away through
the rain.
She conceded that it was.
"It's going to be a most delightful day," he predicted.
She thought it was likely to be a _busy_ day.
"And delightful, too," he insisted politely.
"Why particularly delightful, Mr. Desboro?"
"I thought you were looking forward with keen pleasure to your work in
the Desboro collection!"
She caught a latent glimmer of mischief in his eye, and remained silent,
not yet quite certain that she liked this constant running fire of words
that always seemed to conceal a hint of laughter at her expense.
Had they been longer acquainted, and on a different footing, she knew
that whatever he said would have provoked a response in kind from her.
But friendship is not usually born from a single business interview; nor
is it born perfect, like a fairy ring, over night. And it was only last
night, she made herself remember, that she first laid eyes on Desboro.
Yet it seemed curious that whatever he said seemed to awaken in her its
echo; and, though she knew it was an absurd idea, the idea persisted
that she already began to understand this young man better than she had
ever understood any other of his sex.
He was talking now at random, idly but agreeably, about nothing in
particular. She, muffled in the fur robe, looked out through the
limousine windows into the rain, and saw brown fields set with pools in
every furrow, and squares of winter wheat, intensely green.
And now the silver birch woods, which had given the house its name,
began to appear as outlying clumps across the hills; and in a few
moments the car swung into a gateway under groves of solemnly-dripping
Norway spruces, then up a wide avenue, lined with ranks of leafless,
hardwood trees and thickets of laurel and rhododendron, and finally
stopped before a house made of grayish-brown stone, in the rather
inoffensive architecture of early eighteen hundred.
Mrs. Quant, in best bib and tucker, received them in the hallway, having
been instructed by Desboro concerning her attitude toward the expected
guest. But when she became aware of the slender youth of the girl, she
forgot her sniffs and misgivings, and she waddled, and bobbed, and
curtsied, overflowing with a desire to fondle, and cherish, and
instruct, which only fear of Desboro choked off.
But as soon as Jacqueline had followed her to the room assigned, and had
been divested of wet outer-clothing, and served with hot tea, Mrs. Quant
became loquacious and confidential concerning her own personal ailments
and sorrows, and the history and misfortunes of the Desboro family.
Jacqueline wished to decline the cup of tea, but Mrs. Quant insisted;
and the girl yielded.
"Air you sure you feel well, Miss Nevers?" she asked anxiously.
"Why, of course."
"Don't be _too_ sure," said Mrs. Quant ominously. "Sometimes them that
feels bestest is sickest. I've seen a sight of sickness in my day,
dearie--typod, mostly. You ain't never had typod, now, hev you?"
"Typhoid?"
"Yes'm, typod!"
"No, I never did."
"Then you take an old woman's advice, Miss Nevers, and don't you go and
git it!"
Jacqueline promised gravely; but Mrs. Quant was now fairly launched on
her favourite topic.
"I've been forty-two years in this place--and Quant--my man--he was head
farmer here when he was took. Typod, it was, dearie--and you won't never
git it if you'll listen to me--and Quant, a man that never quarreled
with his vittles, but he was for going off without 'em that morning. Sez
he, 'Cassie, I don't feel good this mornin'!'--and a piece of pie and a
pork chop layin' there onto his plate. 'My vittles don't set right,' sez
he; 'I ain't a mite peckish.' Sez I, 'Quant, you lay right down, and
don't you stir a inch! You've gone and got a mild form of typod,' sez I,
knowing about sickness as I allus had a gift, my father bein' a natural
bone-setter. And those was my very words, dearie, 'a mild form of
typod.' And I was right and he was took. And when folks ain't well, it's
mostly that they've got a mild form of typod which some call
malairy----"
There was no stopping her; Jacqueline tasted her hot tea and listened
sympathetically to that woman of many sorrows. And, sipping her tea, she
was obliged to assist at the obsequies of Quant, the nativity of young
Desboro, the dissolution of his grandparents and parents, and many, many
minor details, such as the freezing of water-pipes in 1907, the menace
of the chestnut blight, mysterious maladies which had affected cattle
and chickens on the farm--every variety of death, destruction,
dissolution, and despondency that had been Mrs. Quant's portion to
witness.
And how she gloried in detailing her dismal career; and presently
pessimistic prophecies for the future became plainer as her undammed
eloquence flowed on:
"And Mr. James, _he_ ain't well, neither," she said in a hoarse whisper.
"He don't know it, and he won't listen to _me_, dearie, but I _know_
he's got a mild form of typod--he's that unwell the mornings when he's
been out late in the city. Say what you're a mind to, typod is typod!
And if you h'ain't got it you're likely to git it most any minute; but
he won't swaller the teas and broths and suffusions I bring him, and
he'll be took like everybody else one of these days, dearie--which he
wouldn't if he'd listen to me----"
"Mrs. Quant," came Desboro's voice from the landing.
"Y--yes, sir," stammered that guilty and agitated Cassandra.
Jacqueline set aside her teacup and came to the stairs; their glances
met in the suppressed amusement of mutual comprehension, and he
conducted her to the hallway below, where a big log fire was blazing.
"What was it--death, destruction, and general woe, as usual?" he asked.
"And typod," she whispered. "It appears that _you_ have it!"
"Poor old soul! She means all right; but imagine me here with her all
day, dodging infusions and broths and red flannel! Warm your hands at
the blaze, Miss Nevers, and I'll find the armoury keys. It will be a
little colder in there."
She spread her hands to the flames, conscious of his subtle change of
manner toward her, now that she was actually under his roof--and liked
him for it--not in the least surprised that she was comprehending still
another phase of this young man's most interesting personality.
For, without reasoning, her slight misgivings concerning him were
vanishing; instinct told her she might even permit herself a friendlier
manner, and she looked up smilingly when he came back swinging a bunch
of keys.
"These belong to the Quant," he explained, "--honest old soul! Every gem
and ivory and lump of jade in the collection is at her mercy, for here
are the keys to every case. Now, Miss Nevers, what do you require?
Pencil and pad?"
"I have my note-book, thanks--a new one in your honour."
He said he was flattered and led the way through a wide corridor to the
eastern wing; unlocked a pair of massive doors, and swung them wide.
And, beside him, she walked into the armoury of the famous Desboro
collection.
Straight ahead of her, paved with black marble, lay a lane through a
double rank of armed and mounted men in complete armour; and she could
scarcely suppress a little cry of surprise and admiration.
"This is magnificent!" she exclaimed; and he saw her cheeks brighten,
and her breath coming faster.
"It _is_ fine," he said soberly.
"It is, indeed, Mr. Desboro! That is a noble array of armour. I feel
like some legendary princess of long ago, passing her chivalry in review
as I move between these double ranks. What a _wonderful_ collection! All
Spanish and Milanese mail, isn't it? Your grandfather specialised?"
"I believe he did. I don't know very much about the collection,
technically."
"Don't you care for it?"
"Why, yes--more, perhaps, than I realised--now that you are actually
here to take it away."
"But I'm not going to put it into a magic pocket and flee to New York
with it!"
She spoke gaily, and his face, which had become a little grave, relaxed
into its habitual expression of careless good humour.
They had slowly traversed the long lane, and now, turning, came back
through groups of men-at-arms, pikemen, billmen, arquebussiers,
crossbowmen, archers, halbardiers, slingers--all the multitudinous arms
of a polyglot service, each apparently equipped with his proper weapon
and properly accoutred for trouble.
Once or twice she glanced at the trophies aloft on the walls, every
group bunched behind its shield and radiating from it under the drooping
remnants of banners emblazoned with arms, crests, insignia, devices, and
quarterings long since forgotten, except by such people as herself.
[Illustration: "Now and then she ... halted on tip-toe to lift some
slitted visor"]
She moved gracefully, leisurely, pausing now and then before some
panoplied manikin, Desboro sauntering beside her. Now and then she
stopped to inspect an ancient piece of ordnance, wonderfully wrought and
chased, now and then halted on tip-toe to lift some slitted visor and
peer into the dusky cavern of the helmet, where a painted face stared
back at her out of painted eyes.
"Who scours all this mail?" she asked.
"Our old armourer. My grandfather trained him. But he's very old and
rheumatic now, and I don't let him exert himself. I think he sleeps all
winter, like a woodchuck, and fishes all summer."
"You ought to have another armourer."
"I can't turn Michael out to starve, can I?"
She swung around swiftly: "I didn't mean _that_!" and saw he was
laughing at her.
"I know you didn't," he said. "But I can't afford two armourers. That's
the reason I'm disposing of these tin-clothed tenants of mine--to
economise and cut expenses."
She moved on, evidently desiring to obtain a general impression of
the task before her, now and then examining the glass-encased labels at
the feet of the figures, and occasionally shaking her head. Already the
errant lock curled across her cheek.
"What's the trouble?" he inquired. "Aren't these gentlemen correctly
ticketed?"
"Some are not. That suit of gilded mail is not Spanish; it's German. It
is not very difficult to make such a mistake sometimes."
Steam heat had been put in, but the vast hall was chilly except close to
the long ranks of oxidised pipes lining the walls. They stood a moment,
leaning against them and looking out across the place, all glittering
with the mail-clad figures.
"I've easily three weeks' work before me among these mounted figures
alone, to say nothing of the men on foot and the trophies and
artillery," she said. "Do you know it is going to be rather expensive
for you, Mr. Desboro?"
This did not appear to disturb him.
"Because," she went on, "a great many mistakes have been made in
labelling, and some mistakes in assembling the complete suits of mail
and in assigning weapons. For example, that mounted man in front of you
is wearing tilting armour and a helmet that doesn't belong to it. That's
a childish mistake."
"We'll put the proper lid on _him_," said Desboro. "Show it to me and
I'll put it all over him now."
"It's up there aloft with the trophies, I think--the fifth group."
"There's a ladder on wheels for a closer view of the weapons. Shall I
trundle it in?"
He went out into the hallway and presently came back pushing a clanking
extension ladder with a railed top to it. Then he affixed the crank and
began to grind until it rose to the desired height.
"All I ask of you is not to tumble off it," he said. "Do you promise?"
She promised with mock seriousness: "Because I need _all_ my brains, you
see."
"You've a lot of 'em, haven't you, Miss Nevers?"
"No, not many."
He shrugged: "I wonder, then, what a quantitative analysis of _mine_
might produce."
She said: "You are as clever as you take the trouble to be--" and
stopped herself short, unwilling to drift into personalities.
"It's the interest that is lacking in me," he said, "--or perhaps the
incentive."
She made no comment.
"Don't you think so?"
"I don't know."
"--And don't care," he added.
She flushed, half turned in protest, but remained silent.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I didn't mean to force your interest in
myself. Tell me, is there anything I can do for your comfort before I
go? And shall I go and leave you to abstruse and intellectual
meditation, or do I disturb you by tagging about at your heels?"
His easy, light tone relieved her. She looked around her at the armed
figures:
"You don't disturb me. I was trying to think where to begin. To-morrow
I'll bring up some reference books----"
"Perhaps you can find what you want in my grandfather's library. I'll
show you where it is when you are ready."
"I wonder if he has Grenville's monograph on Spanish and Milanese mail?"
"I'll see."
He went away and remained for ten minutes. She was minutely examining
the sword belonging to a rather battered suit of armour when he returned
with the book.
"You see," she said, "you _are_ useful. I did well to suggest that you
remain here. Now, look, Mr. Desboro. This is German armour, and here is
a Spanish sword of a different century along with it! That's all wrong,
you know. Antonius was the sword-maker; here is his name on the
hexagonal, gilded iron hilt--'_Antonius Me Fecit_'."
"You'll put that all right," he said confidently. "Won't you?"
"That's why you asked me here, isn't it?"
He may have been on the point of an indiscreet rejoinder, for he closed
his lips suddenly and began to examine another sword. It belonged to the
only female equestrian figure in the collection--a beautifully shaped
suit of woman's armour, astride a painted war-horse, the cuirass of
Milan plates.
"The Countess of Oroposa," he said. "It was her peculiar privilege,
after the Count's death, to ride in full armour and carry a naked sword
across her knees when the Spanish Court made a solemn entry into cities.
Which will be about all from me," he added with a laugh. "Are you ready
for luncheon?"
"Quite, thank you. But you _said_ that you didn't know much about this
collection. Let me see that sword, please."
[Illustration: "She took it ... then read aloud the device in verse"]
He drew it from its scabbard and presented the hilt. She took it,
studied it, then read aloud the device in verse:
"'Paz Comigo Nunca Veo Y Siempre Guera Dese.'" ("There is never peace
with me; my desire is always war!")
Her clear young voice repeating the old sword's motto seemed to ring a
little through the silence--as though it were the clean-cut voice of the
blade itself.
"What a fine motto," he said guilelessly. "And you interpret it as
though it were your own."
"I like the sound of it. There is no compromise in it."
"Why not assume it for your own? 'There is never peace with me; my
desire is always war!' Why not adopt it?"
"Do you mean that such a militant motto suits me?" she asked, amused,
and caught the half-laughing, half malicious glimmer in his eyes, and
knew in an instant he had divined her attitude toward himself, and
toward to her own self, too--war on them both, lest they succumb to the
friendship that threatened. Silent, preoccupied, she went back with him
through the armoury, through the hallway, into a rather commonplace
dining-room, where a table had already been laid for two.
Desboro jingled a small silver bell, and presently luncheon was
announced. She ate with the healthy appetite of the young, and he
pretended to. Several cats and dogs of unaristocratic degree came
purring and wagging about the table, and he indulged them with an
impartiality that interested her, playing no favourites, but
allotting to each its portion, and serenely chastising the greedy.
"What wonderful impartiality!" she ventured. "I couldn't do it; I'd be
sure to prefer one of them."
"Why entertain preference for anything or anybody?"
"That's nonsense."
"No; it's sense. Because, if anything happens to one, there are the
others to console you. It's pleasanter to like impartially."
She was occupied with her fruit cup; presently she glanced up at him:
"Is that your policy?"
"Isn't it a safe one?"
"Yes. Is it yours?"
"Wisdom suggests it to me--has always urged it. I'm not sure that it
always works. For example, I prefer champagne to milk, but I try not
to."
"You always contrive to twist sense into nonsense."
"You don't mind, do you?"
"No; but don't you ever take anything seriously?"
"Myself."
"I'm afraid you don't."
"Indeed, I do! See how my financial mishaps sent me flying to you for
help!"
She said: "You don't even take seriously what you call your financial
mishaps."
"But I take the remedy for them most reverently and most thankfully."
"The remedy?"
"You."
A slight colour stained her cheeks; for she did not see just how to
avoid the footing they had almost reached--the understanding which,
somehow, had been impending from the moment they met. Intuition had
warned her against it. And now here it was.
How could she have avoided it, when it was perfectly evident from the
first that he found her interesting--that his voice and intonation and
bearing were always subtly offering friendship, no matter what he said
to her, whether in jest or earnest, in light-hearted idleness or in all
the decorum of the perfunctory and commonplace.
To have made more out of it than was in it would have been no sillier
than to priggishly discountenance his harmless good humour. To be prim
would have been ridiculous. Besides, everything innocent in her found an
instinctive pleasure, even in her own misgivings concerning this man and
the unsettled problem of her personal relations with him--unsolved with
her, at least; but he appeared to have settled it for himself.
As they walked back to the armoury together, she was trying to think it
out; and she concluded that she might dare be toward him as
unconcernedly friendly as he would ever think of being toward her. And
it gave her a little thrill of pride to feel that she was equipped to
carry through her part in a light, gay, ephemeral friendship with one
belonging to a world about which she knew nothing at all.
That ought to be her attitude--friendly, spirited, pretending to a
_savoir faire_ only surmised by her own good taste--lest he find her
stupid and narrow, ignorant and dull. And it occurred to her very
forcibly that she would not like that.
So--let him admire her.
His motives, perhaps, were as innocent as hers. Let him say the
unexpected and disconcerting things it amused him to say. She knew well
enough how to parry them, once her mind was made up not to entirely
ignore them; and that would be much better. That, no doubt, was the
manner in which women of his own world met the easy badinage of men; and
she determined to let him discover that she was interesting if she chose
to be.
She had produced her note-book and pencil when they entered the armoury.
He carried Grenville's celebrated monograph, and she consulted it from
time to time, bending her dainty head beside his shoulder, and turning
the pages of the volume with a smooth and narrow hand that fascinated
him.
From time to time, too, she made entries in her note-book, such as:
"Armet, Spanish, late XV century. Tilting harness probably made by
Helmschmid; espaliers, manteau d'armes, coude, left cuisse and colleret
missing. War armour, Milanese, XIV century; probably made by the
Negrolis; rere-brace, gorget, rondel missing; sword made probably by
Martinez, Toledo. Armour made in Germany, middle of XVI century,
probably designed by Diego de Arroyo; cuisses laminated."
They stopped before a horseman, clad from head to spurs in superb mail.
On a ground of blackened steel the pieces were embossed with gold
grotesqueries; the cuirass was formed by overlapping horizontal plates,
the three upper ones composing a gorget of solid gold. Nymphs, satyrs,
gods, goddesses and cupids in exquisite design and composition framed
the "lorica"; cuisses and tassettes carried out the lorica pattern;
coudes, arm-guards, and genouillères were dolphin masks, gilded.
"Parade armour," she said under her breath, "not war armour, as it has
been labelled. It is armour de luxe, and probably royal, too. Do you see
the collar of the Golden Fleece on the gorget? And there hangs the
fleece itself, borne by two cupids as a canopy for Venus rising from the
sea. That is probably Sigman's XVI century work. Is it not royally
magnificent!"
"Lord! What a lot of lore you seem to have acquired!" he said.
"But I was trained to this profession by the ablest teacher in
America--" her voice fell charmingly, "--by my father. Do you wonder
that I know a little about it?"
They moved on in silence to where a man-at-arms stood leaning both
clasped hands over the gilded pommel of a sword.
She said quickly: "That sword belongs to parade armour! How stupid to
give it to this pikeman! Don't you see? The blade is diamond sectioned;
Horn of Solingen's mark is on the ricasse. And, oh, what a wonderful
hilt! It is a miracle!"
The hilt was really a miracle; carved in gold relief, Italian
renaissance style, the guard centre was decorated with black arabesques
on a gold ground; quillons curved down, ending in cupid's heads of
exquisite beauty.
The guard was engraved with a cartouche enclosing the Three Graces; and
from it sprang a beautiful counter-guard formed out of two lovely
Caryatids united. The grip was made of heliotrope amethyst inset with
gold; the pommel constructed by two volutes which encompassed a tiny
naked nymph with emeralds for her eyes.
"What a masterpiece!" she breathed. "It can be matched only in the Royal
Armoury of Madrid."
"Have you been abroad, Miss Nevers?"
"Yes, several times with my father. It was part of my education in
business."
He said: "Yours is a French name?"
"Father was French."
"He must have been a very cultivated man."
"Self-cultivated."
"Perhaps," he said, "there once was a _de_ written before 'Nevers.'"
She laughed: "No. Father's family were always bourgeois shopkeepers--as
I am."
He looked at the dainty girl beside him, with her features and slender
limbs and bearing of an aristocrat.
"Too bad," he said, pretending disillusion. "I expected you'd tell me
how your ancestors died on the scaffold, remarking in laudable chorus,
'_Vive le Roi!_'"
She laughed and sparkled deliciously: "Alas, no, monsieur. But, _ma
foi!_ Some among them may have worked the guillotine for Sanson or
drummed for Santerre.
"You seem to me to symbolise all the grace and charm that perished on
the Place de Grève."
She laughed: "Look again, and see if it is not their Nemesis I more
closely resemble."
And as she said it so gaily, an odd idea struck him that she _did_
embody something less obvious, something more vital, than the symbol of
an aristocratic régime perishing en masse against the blood-red sky of
Paris.
He did not know what it was about her that seemed to symbolise all that
is forever young and fresh and imperishable. Perhaps it was only the
evolution of the real world he saw in her opening into blossom and
disclosing such as she to justify the darkness and woe of the long
travail.
She had left him standing alone with Grenville's book open in his hands,
and was now examining a figure wearing a coat of fine steel mail, with a
black corselet protecting back and breast decorated with _horizontal_
bands.
"Do you notice the difference?" she asked. "In German armour the bands
are vertical. This is Milanese, and I think the Negrolis made it. See
how exquisitely the morion is decorated with these lions' heads in gold
for cheek pieces, and these bands of gold damascene over the
skull-piece, that meet to form Minerva's face above the brow! I'm sure
it's the Negrolis work. Wait! Ah, here is the inscription! 'P. Iacobi et
Fratr Negroli Faciebant MDXXXIX.' Bring me Grenville's book, please."
She took it, ran over the pages rapidly, found what she wanted, and then
stepped forward and laid her white hand on the shoulder of another grim,
mailed figure.
"This is foot-armour," she said, "and does not belong with that morion.
It's neither Milanese nor yet of Augsburg make; it's Italian, but who
made it I don't know. You see it's a superb combination of parade armour
and war mail, with all the gorgeous design of the former and the
smoothness and toughness of the latter. Really, Mr. Desboro, this
investigation is becoming exciting. I never before saw such a suit of
foot-armour."
"Perhaps it belonged to the catcher of some ancient baseball club," he
suggested.
She turned, laughing, but exasperated: "I'm not going to let you remain
near me," she said. "You annihilate every atom of romance; you are an
anachronism here, anyway."
"I know it; but you fit in delightfully with tournaments and pageants
and things----"
"Go up on that ladder and sit!" resolutely pointing.
He went. Perched aloft, he lighted a cigarette and surveyed the
prospect.
"Mark Twain killed all this sort of thing for me," he observed.
She said indignantly: "It's the only thing I never have forgiven him."
"He told the truth."
"I know it--I know it. But, oh, how could he write what he did about
King Arthur's Court! And what is the use of truth, anyway, unless it
leaves us ennobling illusions?"
Ennobling illusions! She did not know it; but except for them she never
would have existed, nor others like her that are yet to come in myriads.
Desboro waved his cigarette gracefully and declaimed:
"The knights are dust,
Their good swords bust;
Their souls are up the spout we trust--"
"Mr. Desboro!"
"Mademoiselle?"
"That silly parody on a noble verse is not humorous."
"Truth seldom is. The men who wore those suits of mail were everything
that nobody now admires--brutal, selfish, ruthless----"
"Mr. Desboro!"
"Mademoiselle?"
"Are there not a number of such gentlemen still existing on earth?"
"New York's full of them," he admitted cheerfully, "but they conceal
what they really are on account of the police."
"Is that all that five hundred years has taught men--concealment?"
"Yes, and five thousand," he muttered; but said aloud: "It hasn't
anything to do with admiring the iron hats and clothes they wore. If
you'll let me come down I'll admire 'em----"
"No."
"I want to carry your book for you."
"No."
"--And listen to everything you say about the vertical stripes on their
Dutch trousers----"
"Very well," she consented, laughing; "you may descend and examine these
gold inlaid and checkered trousers. They were probably made for a
fashionable dandy by Alonso Garcia, five hundred years ago; and you will
observe that they are still beautifully creased."
So they passed on, side by side, while she sketched out her preliminary
work. And sometimes he was idly flippant and irresponsible, and
sometimes she thrilled unexpectedly at his quick, warm response to some
impulsive appeal that he share her admiration.
Under the careless surface, she divined a sort of perverse intelligence;
she was certain that what appealed to her he, also, understood when he
chose to; because he understood so much--much that she had not even
imagined--much of life, and of the world, and of the men and women in
it. But, having lived a life so full, so different from her own, perhaps
his interest was less easily aroused; perhaps it might be even a little
fatigued by the endless pageant moving with him amid scenes of
brightness and happiness which seemed to her as far away from herself
and as unreal as scenes in the painted arras hanging on the walls.
They had been speaking of operas in which armour, incorrectly designed
and worn, was tolerated by public ignorance; and, thinking of the
"horseshoe," where all that is wealthy, and intelligent, and wonderful,
and aristocratic in New York is supposed to congregate, she had mentally
placed him there among those elegant and distant young men who are to be
seen sauntering from one gilded box to another, or, gracefully posed,
decorating and further embellishing boxes already replete with jeweled
and feminine beauty; or in the curtained depths, mysterious silhouettes
motionless against the dull red glow.
And, if those gold-encrusted boxes had been celestial balconies, full of
blessed damosels leaning over heaven's edge, they would have seemed no
farther away, no more accessible to her, than they seemed from where she
sometimes sat or stood, all alone, to listen to Farrar and Caruso.
* * * * *
The light in the armoury was growing a little dim. She bent more closely
over her note-book, the printed pages of Mr. Grenville, and the
shimmering, inlaid, and embossed armour.
"Shall we have tea?" he suggested.
"Tea? Oh, thank you, Mr. Desboro; but when the light fails, I'll have to
go."
It was failing fast. She used the delicate tips of her fingers more
often in examining engraved, inlaid, and embossed surfaces.
"I never had electricity put into the armoury," he said. "I'm sorry
now--for your sake."
"I'm sorry, too. I could have worked until six."
"There!" he said, laughing. "You have admitted it! What are you going to
do for nearly two hours if you don't take tea? Your train doesn't leave
until six. Did you propose to go to the station and sit there?"
Her confused laughter was very sweet, and she admitted that she had
nothing to do after the light failed except to fold her hands and wait
for the train.
"Then won't you have tea?"
"I'd--rather not!"
He said: "You could take it alone in your room if you liked--and rest a
little. Mrs. Quant will call you."
She looked up at him after a moment, and her cheeks were very pink and
her eyes brilliant.
"I'd rather take it with you, Mr. Desboro. Why shouldn't I say so?"
No words came to him, and not much breath, so totally unexpected was her
reply.
Still looking at him, the faint smile fading into seriousness, she
repeated:
"Why shouldn't I say so? Is there any reason? You know better than I
what a girl alone may do. And I really would like to have some tea--and
have it with you."
He didn't smile; he was too clever--perhaps too decent.
"It's quite all right," he said. "We'll have it served in the library
where there's a fine fire."
So they slowly crossed the armoury and traversed the hallway, where she
left him for a moment and ran up stairs to her room. When she rejoined
him in the library, he noticed that the insurgent lock of hair had been
deftly tucked in among its lustrous comrades; but the first shake of her
head dislodged it again, and there it was, threatening him, as usual,
from its soft, warm ambush against her cheek.
"Can't you do anything with it?" he asked, sympathetically, as she
seated herself and poured the tea.
"Do anything with what?"
"That lock of hair. It's loose again, and it will do murder some day."
She laughed with scarcely a trace of confusion, and handed him his cup.
"That's the first thing I noticed about you," he added.
"That lock of hair? I can't do anything with it. Isn't it horribly
messy?"
"It's dangerous."
"How absurd!"
"Are you ever known as 'Stray Lock' among your intimates?"
"I should think not," she said scornfully. "It sounds like a children's
picture-book story."
"But you look like one."
"Mr. Desboro!" she protested. "Haven't you any common sense?"
"You look," he said reflectively, "as though you came from the same
bookshelf as 'Gold Locks,' 'The Robber Kitten,' and 'A Princess Far
Away,' and all those immortal volumes of the 'days that are no more.'
Would you mind if I label you 'Stray Lock,' and put you on the shelf
among the other immortals?"
Her frank laughter rang out sweetly:
"I very _much_ object to being labeled and shelved--particularly
shelved."
"I'll promise to read you every day----"
"No, thank you!"
"I'll promise to take you everywhere with me----"
"In your pocket? No, thank you. I object to being either shelved or
pocketed--to be consulted at pleasure--or when you're bored."
They both had been laughing a good deal, and were slightly excited by
their game of harmless _double entendre_. But now, perhaps it was
becoming a trifle too obvious, and Jacqueline checked herself to glance
back mentally and see how far she had gone along the path of friendship.
She could not determine; for the path has many twists and turnings, and
she had sped forward lightly and swiftly, and was still conscious of the
exhilaration of the pace in his gay and irresponsible company.
Her smile changed and died out; she leaned back in her leather chair,
gazing absently at the fiery reflections crimsoning the andirons on the
hearth, and hearing afar, on some distant roof, the steady downpour of
the winter rain.
Subtly the quiet and warmth of the room invaded her with a sense of
content, not due, perhaps, to them alone. And dreamily conscious that
this might be so, she lifted her eyes and looked across the table at
him.
"I wonder," she said, "if this _is_ all right?"
"What?"
"Our--situation--here."
"Situations are what we make them."
"But," she asked candidly, "could you call this a business situation?"
He laughed unrestrainedly, and finally she ventured to smile, secretly
reassured.
[Illustration: "'Are business and friendship incompatible?'"]
"Are business and friendship incompatible?" he inquired.
"I don't know. Are they? I have to be careful in the shop, with younger
customers and clerks. To treat them with more than pleasant civility
would spoil them for business. My father taught me that. He served in
the French Army."
"Do you think," he said gravely, "that you are spoiling me for business
purposes?"
She smiled: "I was thinking--wondering whether you did not more
accurately represent the corps of officers and I the line. I am only a
temporary employee of yours, Mr. Desboro, and some day you may be angry
at what I do and you may say, 'Tonnerre de Dieu!' to me--which I
wouldn't like if we were friends, but which I'd otherwise endure."
"We're friends already; what are you going to do about it?"
She knew it was so now, for better or worse, and she looked at him
shyly, a little troubled by what the end of this day had brought her.
Silent, absent-eyed, she began to wonder what such men as he really
thought of a girl of her sort. It could happen that his attitude toward
her might become like that of the only men of his kind she had ever
encountered--wealthy clients of her father, young and old, and all of
them inclined to offer her attentions which instinct warned her to
ignore.
As for Desboro, even from the beginning she felt that his attitude
toward her depended upon herself; and, warranted or not, this sense of
security with him now, left her leisure to study him. And she concluded
that probably he was like the other men of his class whom she had
known--a receptive opportunist, inevitably her antagonist at heart, but
not to be feared except under deliberate provocation from her. And that
excuse he would never have.
Aware of his admiration almost from the very first, perplexed, curious,
uncertain, and disturbed by turns, she was finally convinced that the
matter lay entirely with her; that she might accept a little, venture a
little in safety; and, perfectly certain of herself, enjoy as much of
what his friendship offered as her own clear wits and common sense
permitted. For she had found, so far, no metal in any man unalloyed. Two
years' experience alone with men had educated her; and whatever the
alloy in Desboro might be that lowered his value, she thought it less
objectionable than the similar amalgam out of which were fashioned the
harmless youths in whose noisy company she danced, and dined, and
bathed, and witnessed Broadway "shows"; the Eddies and Joes of the
metropolis, replicas in mind and body of clothing advertisements in
street cars.
Her blue eyes, wandering from the ruddy andirons, were arrested by the
clock. What had happened? Was the clock still going? She listened, and
heard it ticking.
"Is _that_ the right time?" she demanded incredulously.
He said, so low she could scarcely hear him: "Yes, Stray Lock. Must I
close the story book and lay it away until another day?"
She rose, brushing the bright strand from her cheek; he stood up, pulled
the tassel of an old-time bell rope, and, when the butler came, ordered
the car.
She went away to her room, where Mrs. Quant swathed her in rain garments
and veils, and secretly pressed into her hand a bottle containing "a
suffusion" warranted to discourage any insidious advances of typod.
"A spoonful before meals, dearie," she whispered hoarsely; "and don't
tell Mr. James--he'd be that disgusted with me for doin' of a Christian
duty. I'll have some of my magic drops ready when you come to-morrow,
and you can just lock the door and set and rock and enj'y them onto a
lump of sugar."
A little dismayed, but contriving to look serious, Jacqueline thanked
her and fled. Desboro put her into the car and climbed in beside her.
"You needn't, you know," she protested. "There are no highwaymen, are
there?"
"None more to be dreaded than myself."
"Then why do you go to the station with me?"
He did not answer. She presently settled into her corner, and he wrapped
her in the fur robe. Neither spoke; the lamplight flashed ahead through
the falling rain; all else was darkness--the widest world of darkness,
it seemed to her fancy, that she ever looked out upon, for it seemed to
leave this man and herself alone in the centre of things.
Conscious of him beside her, she was curiously content not to look at
him or to disturb the silence encompassing them. The sense of speed, the
rush through obscurity, seemed part of it--part of a confused and
pleasurable irresponsibility.
Later, standing under the dripping eaves of the station platform with
him, watching the approaching headlight of the distant locomotive, she
said:
"You have made it a very delightful day for me. I wanted to thank you."
He was silent; the distant locomotive whistled, and the vista of wet
rails began to glisten red in the swift approach.
"I don't want you to go to town alone on that train," he said abruptly.
"What?" in utter surprise.
"Will you let me go with you, Miss Nevers?"
"Nonsense! I wander about everywhere alone. Please don't spoil it all.
Don't even go aboard to find a seat for me."
The long train thundered by, brakes gripping, slowed, stopped. She
sprang aboard, turned on the steps and offered her hand:
"Good-bye, Mr. Desboro."
"To-morrow?" he asked.
"Yes."
They exchanged no further words; she stood a moment on the platform, as
the cars glided slowly past him and on into the rainy night. All the way
to New York she remained motionless in the corner of the seat, her cheek
resting against her gloved palm, thinking of what had happened--closing
her blue eyes, sometimes, to bring it nearer and make more real a day of
life already ended.