I
Rachel Leven stopped on the landing and laid both hands on the
banister. She was experiencing a new and curious sensation of
unreality, and her impulse to touch something solid was rather to
assure herself that her own personality had survived unchanged, than
from any physical need of support.
The contact of her sensitive fingers with the polished wood was almost
a relief; it convinced her that her sensations, so vague that they were
like a nebulous mist before her spiritual vision, were not actualities
at all, but only a fleeting deflection from a commonplace mood, that
the uneasiness she had felt all the evening was a mere figment of her
imagination, a shadowy specter which had no place in this charming
_mise-en-scène_. For she was poignantly aware of the heavy perfume
of flowers, of the vivid gleam of electric lights that hung, like
huge, quivering dewdrops, in the midst of the tall fern fronds and
giant palms of the conservatory; while through the vista of greenery,
festooned with scarlet blooms of a climbing passion flower, she caught
a glimpse of the flashing wings of Johnstone Astry's parrots.
Looking at this exotic scene, Rachel told herself that it was no wonder
that her sensations were at once so varied and so unreal, since the
very air she breathed was fevered and artificial. The conservatory, the
imposing dining-room, the spacious hall, with its Doric columns, and
the long, really beautiful drawing-rooms, that opened on the terrace,
were all perfect in their way, yet none of them appealed to her but the
last. The paved terrace, with its white balustrade and its wide and
dignified prospect of the distant city and the classic, faintly bluish
dome of the Capitol, brought her a feeling of pleasure, the freedom of
space and the larger purposes of life; especially at sunset, when the
white shaft of the Monument pierced the pink mist like the uplifted
finger of a prostrate giant, admonishing the world.
But the luxury of the beautiful Georgian house, flagrantly extravagant
and yet perfectly harmonious in detail, was precisely the setting
for Rachel's sister, Eva Astry; some said--for rumor in Washington
is pungent--that she had married the house with Johnstone Astry and
the parrots thrown in. At least it interpreted her as houses seldom
interpret their owners, though it did not even suggest Astry the
student, the traveler, the millionaire. Yet the lavishness of the
place, its aimless, beautiful extravagance, a country house just
outside of Washington that was more costly than two town houses would
have been, furnished Rachel with an explanation of her impressions.
She argued to herself that it must be this very element of financial
exuberance, this thoughtless expenditure of millions, that seemed so
unreal to her; for the Levens had not been wealthy, only comfortably
off, and Eva had amazed a limited but critical circle by her successful
marriage. She had--to use the words of her paternal aunt, Drusilla
Leven--landed a millionaire "as easily as old Josh Sterrit used to land
carp." Rachel, more intimately acquainted with Eva's mental attitude
at the time of her _coup d'état_, had remained determinedly silent.
Even now she did not admit to herself her own feeling in regard to her
sister's marriage. From her vantage-ground on the landing, appraising
the beauty and luxury of her surroundings, she was still keenly aware
that the price would have been too heavy for her to pay. Shut in, as
she was to-night, by the warm and perfumed atmosphere of the house,
oppressed by the littleness of that curiously complex social world that
made up her sister's life, Rachel felt more than her usual repugnance
to her task of entertaining the Astrys' guests.
She had stolen up-stairs after dinner for a little respite, but not
even a convenient headache furnished a plausible excuse for a continued
absence. As she descended, therefore, she heard the continuous ripple
of talk, like a shallow but persistent fountain, and knew that Mrs.
Billop was still entertaining little Mrs. Van Citters. The two were
seated on a sofa inconveniently near the table where their host,
Johnstone Astry, was playing bridge with Dr. Macclesfield, young
Mrs. Prynne, the new and pretty widow, and Paul Van Citters, who had
inherited a Knickerbocker descent that was too long for his short body,
and a social responsibility that rested heavily on his comfortable,
commonplace soul.
As Rachel entered, her brother-in-law glanced up from his cards,
nodding to her with the casual manner of their relationship, while
the others remained apparently absorbed in the fact that the stakes
were five a point. Mrs. Billop went on giving Mrs. Van Citters classic
advice about the latter's sixteen-months' baby, but Rachel, avoiding
the eddies of this conversation, went over to the fire. For, although
it was spring and the blackberries in blossom, a sudden chill in the
night air had made a few logs desirable in the great fireplace. Rachel
stood with one foot on the low fender, observing the players, her soft
gown enfolding her slender figure as closely as the calyx of a flower;
for she had that indefinable gift that is called "style" and, without
great beauty, possessed an elusive and subtle charm. She stretched out
one slender hand toward the blaze, her face slightly averted, and the
shadowed beauty of her gray eyes eclipsed by their own thick-set, dark
lashes.
Astry, with his head bent over his cards, was secretly irritated; he
knew that the scene diverted Rachel, that her attitude was distinctly
that of a spectator, and he played with sudden indifference.
"Diamonds!" said Van Citters disgustedly. "Astry, why the deuce didn't
you make it hearts?"
Astry rose. "Rachel, come here and take my hand; Van Citters wants my
blood. I never make hearts trumps," he added, with his cool smile; "I'm
superstitious."
"Nonsense!" said Van Citters, "we might have got four tricks with our
eyes shut. Miss Leven, I'm a beastly player when I'm nervous, and
Astry's on my nerves."
"My dear Paul," retorted Astry, "you've no more nerves than a Dutch
clock; all you want is winding up and you'll tick till midnight. I'll
send in some whiskey and soda. Feel his pulse, Macclesfield."
The old doctor, who was sorting his cards, looked over his spectacles.
"Put out your tongue, Paul," he said dryly.
"Is Paul in trouble again?" asked Mrs. Van Citters, suddenly catching
the drift of the talk.
"He's lost fifty dollars, Pamela," laughed Astry.
"We'll go to the poorhouse," she lamented.
"What was it you said about my long suit, Paul?" asked Mrs. Prynne
sweetly, suddenly regarding him with her softest smile.
"He didn't advise you to tell everybody what you had in your hand,"
snapped Dr. Macclesfield; "it's Rachel's lead."
"I'll tell you all about that long suit when Dr. Macclesfield's gone to
bed, Lottie," said Van Citters coolly; "go on, Rachel."
Dr. Macclesfield grunted, looking over his spectacles at Rachel's lead.
She put down the card mechanically, her eyes unconsciously following
Astry's lean and striking figure as he moved deliberately down the long
rooms and passed out into the hall, where he stood a moment speaking
to Craggs, his confidential valet. Rachel could not see his face, but
she had a curious feeling that he was conscious of her presence at
the card-table. Her perceptions were as delicate and feeler-like as
the tendrils of some air-plant and they made her aware of a subtle
undercurrent, and she recalled that moment on the staircase when she
had been glad to feel the solid banister under her hands.
The game went on, Mrs. Prynne losing prettily and appealing to Van
Citters, Dr. Macclesfield irritable and exacting, as a good player
is under such conditions, while Rachel tried to give her undivided
attention to the hand, her seriousness almost adjusting the balance
of the pretty widow's frivolity. The four players began to be more
silent, yet, at the most critical moments, Mrs. Billop's voice broke in
with maternal advice to Pamela.
"When Sidney was teething, I gave him catnip tea," she said, with a
finality that disposed of the young mother's faintly suggested remedies.
Mrs. Prynne, having led the wrong card, was plunged into misery by Dr.
Macclesfield's scowl, while Rachel, who was now playing dummy, laid
her cards down on the table, but scarcely saw them. She was beginning
to wonder where Eva was, and she was aware that Dr. Macclesfield was
looking over her shoulder into the conservatory. The old man's shaggy
brows were bent and he was playing skilfully, scorning Mrs. Prynne.
Rachel stirred uneasily in her chair and glanced down unconsciously at
her own capable white hands as they lay idle in her lap. She felt a
keen and entirely impossible longing to look behind her and she heard
distinctly the distant click of billiard balls.
"Never use pins, sew them on," broke in Mrs. Billop's voice
impressively; "pins are dangerous. When Sidney was only two months
old--"
"Good Lord, why didn't he die?" murmured Dr. Macclesfield, with feeling.
It was then that Eva Astry came through the conservatory with Belhaven
and they appeared quietly at the threshold of the drawing-room. Eva,
who was really lovely, small, dimpled, and blond, was gowned in black
lace, and she had broken off a spray of scarlet passion flowers, which
she held trailing against her black draperies. The whiteness of her
brow and neck was almost dazzling, and her eyes were deeply violet with
a caressing expression that won many hearts. This expression was the
very acme of achievement; art, not emotion, had crystallized it, until
people always found in it precisely what they were looking for, which
is the secret of much personal success.
She walked across the room and put one arm around Rachel's neck, for
she was fond of contrasting her intensely blond beauty with Rachel's
ivory tints and shadowy brown hair.
"Where's Johnstone?" she asked carelessly, interrupting the game
without a twinge of conscience.
"I took his hand," Rachel replied quietly; "he went into the
conservatory."
She was conscious that the soft arm on her shoulder stirred a little as
she spoke, but her sister's laugh came readily.
"We thought it was the parrot, Jim."
Belhaven nodded, watching Macclesfield play, and Rachel noticed how
worn the man looked. In the last month he had aged perceptibly; he had
seemed peculiarly boyish, but there was nothing boyish now in the pale
cheek and haggard eyes. Rachel frowned; why did Eva play with men as a
cat plays with mice? She had apparently no deep feeling; she could skim
safely on the surface and even dip into dangerous shallows without so
much as moistening her delicate finger-tips, yet she could produce a
commotion in the pool quite out of proportion with her endeavors.
Rachel rose. "Won't you take my hand?" she said to Belhaven, "I'm
tired."
Dr. Macclesfield gave her a keen professional glance.
"Oh, no one can play any more," interposed Eva lightly. "I've sent for
refreshments and we're going to have conversation. Where are Sidney
and Count Massena and Colonel Sedley?" she added, going toward the
billiard-room.
As she pushed aside the portières and looked into the long narrow
room, she smiled a little at the picture that the three men made,
for Colonel Sedley was playing with the young _Chargé d'Affaires_ of
the Italian Embassy, while Sidney Billop stood looking on with that
vacant expression that Astry called his "frog stare." Count Massena,
graceful, olive-tinted, and astute, used his cue with an easy grace
and finish that might have been called diplomatic, while Sedley, red
and obviously short of breath, plunged at his ball with more zeal than
accuracy. Their hostess regarded them a moment unperceived and then she
allowed her presence to interrupt the game at precisely the moment when
they would all be most likely to observe the beauty of her delicate,
black-robed figure against the crimson draperies of the door.
However, at that very moment, there was the stir of rising from the
card-table and Dr. Macclesfield inadvertently stepped on Mrs. Prynne's
skirt. She sweetly accepted his apologies, looking at him with a
confiding smile that seemed to wreathe her mutilated gown in the roses
of poetical oblivion, although it was a recent arrival from Paris.
Mrs. Billop raised her lorgnon and studied Mrs. Prynne's porcelain
beauty with an impartial stare. Then she bent confidentially toward
Rachel.
"My dear," she whispered, "have you heard? She's engaged to John
Charter."