Complete weird tales of.., p.1018
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1018
“Miss Kurtz, sorr.”
“Oh. She seems stupid. Where did you dig her up?”
“A fri’nd o’ mine riccominds her highly, sorr.”
“Is that so? Who is he? One of your German pedlar friends at Grogan’s? Be careful, Soane. You Sinn Feiners are headed for trouble.”
He turned and mounted the stairs. Soane looked after him with an uneasy expression, partly humorous.
“Ah, then, Mr. Barres,” he said, “don’t be botherin’ afther the likes of us poor Irish. Is there anny harrm in a sup o’ beer av a Dootchman pays?”
Barres looked back at him:
“A one-eyed Dutchman?”
“Ah, g’wan, sorr, wid yer hokin’ an’ jokin’! Is it graft ye say? An’ how can ye say it, sorr, knowin’ me as ye do, Misther Barres?”
The impudent grin on the Irishman’s face was too much for the young man. He continued to mount the stairs, laughing.
CHAPTER X
HER EVENING
AS HE ENTERED the studio he heard the telephone ringing. Presently Selinda marched in:
“A lady, sir, who will not giff her name, desires to spik to Mr. Barres.”
“I don’t talk to anonymous people,” he said curtly.
“I shall tell her, sir?”
“Certainly. Did you make Miss Dulcie comfortable?”
“Yess, sir.”
“That’s right. Now, take that dress of Miss Dulcie’s, go out to some shop on Fifth Avenue, buy a pretty party gown of similar dimensions, and bring it back with you. Take a taxi both ways. Wait — take her stockings and slippers, too, and buy her some fine ones. And some underwear suitable.” He went to a desk, unlocked it, and handed the maid a flat packet of bank-notes. “Be sure the things are nice,” he insisted.
Selinda, starched, immaculate, frosty-eyed, marched out. She returned a few moments later, wearing jacket and hat.
“Sir, the lady on the telephone hass called again. The lady would inquire of Mr. Barres if perhaps he has recollection of the Fountain of Marie de Médicis.”
Barres reddened with surprise and pleasure:
“Oh! Yes, indeed, I’ll speak to that lady. Hang up the service receiver, Selinda.” And he stepped to the studio telephone.
“Nihla?” he exclaimed in a low, eager voice.
“C’est moi, Thessa! Have you a letter from me?”
“No, you little wretch! Oh, Thessa, you’re certainly a piker! Fancy my not hearing one word from you since April! — not a whisper, not a sign to tell me that you are alive — —”
“Garry, hush! It was not because I did not wish to see you — —”
“Yes, it was! You knew bally well that I hadn’t your address and that you had mine! Is that what you call friendship?”
“You don’t understand what you are saying. I wanted to see you. It has been impossible — —”
“You are not singing and dancing anywhere in New York. I watched the papers. I even went to the Palace of Mirrors to enquire if you had signed with them there.”
“Wait! Be careful, please! — —”
“Why?”
“Be careful what you say over the telephone. For my sake, Garry. Don’t use my former name or say anything to identify me with any place or profession. I’ve been in trouble. I’m in trouble still. Had you no letter from me this morning?”
“No.”
“That is disquieting news. I posted a letter to you last night. You should have had it in your morning mail.”
“No letter has come from you. I had no letters at all in the morning mail, and only one or two important business letters since.”
“Then I’m deeply worried. I shall have to see you unless that letter is delivered to you by evening.”
“Splendid! But you’ll have to come to me, Thessa. I’ve invited a few people to dine here and dance afterwards. If you’ll dine with us, I’ll get another man to balance the table. Will you?”
After a moment she said:
“Yes. What time?”
“Eight! This is wonderful of you, Thessa!” he said excitedly. “If you’re in trouble we’ll clear it up between us. I’m so happy that you will give me this proof of friendship.”
“You dear boy,” she said in a troubled voice. “I should be more of a friend if I kept away from you.”
“Nonsense! You promise, don’t you?”
“Yes ... Do you realise that to-night another summer moon is to witness our reunion?... I shall come to you once more under a full June moon.... And then, perhaps, no more.... Never.... Unless after the world ends I come to you through shadowy outer space — a ghost drifting — a shred of mist across the moon, seeking you once more! — —”
“My poor child,” he said laughing, “you must be in no end of low spirits to talk that way.”
“It does sound morbid. But I have plenty of courage, Garry. I shall not snivel on the starched bosom of your evening shirt when we meet. Donc, à bientôt, monsieur. Soyez tranquille! You shall not be ashamed of me among your guests.”
“Fancy!” he laughed happily. “Don’t worry, Thessa. We’ll fix up whatever bothers you. Eight o’clock! Don’t forget!”
“I am not likely to,” she said.
* * * * *
Until Selinda returned from her foray along Fifth Avenue, Barres remained in the studio, lying in his armchair, still possessed by the delightful spell, still excited by the prospect of seeing Thessalie Dunois again, here, under his own roof.
But when the slant-eyed and spotlessly blond Finn arrived, he came back out of his retrospective trance.
“Did you get some pretty things for Miss Soane?” he enquired.
“Yess, sir, be-ootiful.” Selinda deposited on the table a sheaf of paid bills and the balance of the bank-notes. “Would Mr. Barres be kind enough to inspect the clothes for Miss Soane?”
“No, thanks. You say they’re all right?”
“Yess, sir. They are heavenly be-ootiful.”
“Very well. Tell Aristocrates to lay out my clothes after you have dressed Miss Dulcie. There will be two extra people to dinner. Tell Aristocrates. Is Miss Dulcie still asleep?”
“Yess, sir.”
“All right. Wake her in time to dress her so she can come out here and give me a chance — —” He glanced at the clock “Better wake her now, Selinda. It’s time for her to dress and evacuate my quarters. I’ll take forty winks here until she’s ready.”
* * * * *
Barres lay dozing on the sofa when Dulcie came in.
Selinda, enraptured by her own efficiency in grooming and attiring the girl, marched behind her, unable to detach herself from her own handiwork.
From crown to heel the transfiguration was absolute — from the point of her silk slipper to the topmost curl on the head which Selinda had dressed to perfection.
For Selinda had been a lady’s maid in great houses, and also had a mania for grooming herself with the minute and thorough devotion of a pedigreed cat. And Dulcie emerged from her hands like some youthful sea-nymph out of a bath of foam, snowy-sweet as some fresh and slender flower.
With a shy courage born with her own transfiguration, she went to Barres, where he lay on the sofa, and bent over him.
She had made no sound; perhaps her nearness awoke him, for he opened his eyes.
“Dulcie!” he exclaimed.
“Do I please you?” she whispered.
He sat up abruptly.
“You wonderful child!” he said, frankly astonished. Whereupon he got off the sofa, walked all around her inspecting her.
“What a get-up! What a girl!” he murmured. “You lovely little thing, you astound me! Selinda, you certainly know a thing or two. Take it from me, you do Miss Soane and yourself more credit in your way than I do with paint and canvas.”
Dulcie blushed vividly; the white skin of Selinda also reddened with pleasure at her master’s enthusiasm.
“Tell Aristocrates to fix my bath and lay out my clothes,” he said. “I’ve guests coming and I’ve got to hustle!” And to Dulcie: “We’re going to have a little party in honour of your graduation. That’s what I have to tell you, dear. Does it please you? Do your pretty clothes please you?”
The girl, overwhelmed, could only look at him. Her lips, vivid and slightly parted, quivered as her breath came irregularly. But she found no words — nothing to say except in the passionate gratitude of her grey eyes.
“You dear child,” he said gently. Then, after a moment’s silence, he eased the tension with his quick smile: “Wonder-child, go and seat yourself very carefully, and be jolly careful you don’t rumple your frock, because I want you to astonish one or two people this evening.”
Dulcie found her voice:
“I — I’m so astonished at myself that I don’t seem real. I seem to be somebody else — long ago!” She stepped close to him, opened her locket for his inspection, holding it out to him as far as the chain permitted. It framed a miniature of a red-haired, grey-eyed girl of sixteen.
“Your mother, Dulcie?”
“Yes. How perfectly it fits into my locket! I carry it always in my purse.”
“It might easily be yourself, Dulcie,” he said in a low voice. “You are her living image.”
“Yes. That is what astonishes me. To-night, for the first time in my life, it occurred to me that I look like this girl picture of my mother.”
“You never thought so before?”
“Never.” She stood looking down at the laughing face in the locket for a few moments, then, lifting her eyes to his:
“I’ve been made over, in a day, to look like this.... You did it!”
“Nonsense! Selinda and her curling iron did it.”
They laughed a little.
“No,” she said, “you have made me. You began to make me all over three months ago — oh, longer ago than that! — you began to remake me the first time you ever spoke to me — the first time you opened your door to me. That was nearly two years ago. And ever since I have been slowly becoming somebody quite new — inside and outside — until to-night, you see, I begin to look like my mother.” She smiled at him, drew a deep breath, closed the locket, dropped it on her breast.
“I mustn’t keep you,” she said. “I wanted to show the picture — so you can understand what you have done for me to make me look like that.”
* * * * *
When Barres returned to the studio, freshened and groomed for the evening, he found Dulcie at the piano, playing the little song she had sung that morning, and singing the words under her breath. But she ceased as he came up, and swung around on the piano-stool to confront him with the most radiant smile he had ever seen on a human face.
“What a day this has been!” she said, clasping her hands tightly. “I simply cannot make it seem real.”
He laughed:
“It isn’t ended yet, either. There’s a night to every day, you know. And your graduation party will begin in a few moments.”
“I know. I’m fearfully excited. You’ll stay near me, won’t you?”
“You bet! Did I tell you who are coming? Well, then, you won’t feel strange, because I’ve merely asked two or three men who live in Dragon Court — men you see every day — Mr. Trenor, Mr. Mandel, and Mr. Westmore.”
“Oh,” she said, relieved.
“Also,” he said, “I have asked Miss Souval — that tall, pretty girl who sometimes sits for Mr. Trenor — Damaris Souval. You remember her?”
“Yes.”
“Also,” he continued, “Mr. Mandel wishes to bring a young married woman who has developed a violent desire for the artistic and informal, but who belongs in the Social Register.” He laughed. “It’s all right if Corot Mandel wants her. Her name is Mrs. Helmund — Elsena Helmund. Mr. Trenor is painting her.”
Dulcie’s face was serious but calm.
“And then, to even the table,” concluded Barres smilingly, “I invited a girl I knew long ago in Paris. Her name is Thessalie Dunois; and she’s very lovely to look upon, Dulcie. I am very sure you will like her.”
There was a silence; then the electric bell rang in the corridor, announcing the arrival of the first guest. As Barres rose, Dulcie laid her hand on his arm — a swift, involuntary gesture — as though the girl were depending on his protection.
The winning appeal touched him and amused him, too.
“Don’t worry, dear,” he said. “You’ll have the prettiest frock in the studio — if you need that knowledge to reassure you — —”
The corridor door opened and closed. Somebody went into his bedroom with Selinda — that being the only available cloak-room for women.
CHAPTER XI
HER NIGHT
“THESSALIE DUNOIS! THIS is charming of you!” said Barres, crossing the studio swiftly and taking her hand in both of his.
“I’m so glad to see you, Garry—” she looked past him across the studio at Dulcie, and her voice died out for a moment. “Who is that girl?” she enquired under her breath.
“I’ll present you — —”
“Wait. Who is she?”
“Dulcie Soane — —”
“Soane?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you about her later — —”
“In a moment, Garry.” Thessalie looked across the room at the girl for a second or two longer, then turned a troubled, preoccupied gaze on Barres. “Have you a letter from me? I posted it last night.”
“Not yet.”
The doorbell rang. He could hear more guests entering the corridor beyond. A faint smile — the forced smile of courage — altered Thessalie’s features now, until it became a fixed and pretty mask.
“Contrive to give me a moment alone with you this evening,” she whispered. “My need is great, Garry.”
“Whenever you say! Now?”
“No. I want to talk to that young girl first.”
They walked over to where Dulcie stood by the piano, silent and self-possessed.
“Thessa,” he said, “this is Miss Soane, who graduated from high school to-day, and in whose honour I am giving this little party.” And to Dulcie he said: “Miss Dunois and I were friends when I lived in France. Please tell her about your picture, which you and I are doing.” He turned as he finished speaking, and went forward to welcome Esmé Trenor and Damaris Souval, who happened to arrive together.
“Oh, the cunning little girl over there!” exclaimed the tall and lovely Damaris, greeting Barres with cordial, outstretched hands. “Where did you find such an engaging little thing?”
“You don’t recognise her?” he asked, amused.
“I? No. Should I?”
“She’s Dulcie Soane, the girl at the desk down-stairs!” said Barres, delighted. “This is her party. She has just graduated from high school, and she — —”
“Belongs to Barres,” interrupted Esmé Trenor in his drawling voice. “Unusual, isn’t she, Damaris? — logical anatomy, ornamental, vague development; nice lines, not obvious — like yours, Damaris,” he added impudently. Then waving his lank hand with its over-polished nails: “I like the indefinite accented with one ripping value. Look at that hair! — lac and burnt orange rubbed in, smeared, then wiped off with the thumb! You follow the intention, Barres?”
“You talk too much, Esmé,” interrupted Damaris tartly. “Who is that lovely being talking to the little Soane girl, Garry?”
“A friend of my Paris days — Thessalie Dunois — —” Again he checked himself to turn and greet Corot Mandel, subtle creator and director of exotic spectacles — another tall and rather heavily built man, with a mop of black and shiny hair, a monocle, and sanguine features slightly oriental.
With Corot Mandel had come Elsena Helmund — an attractive woman of thoroughbred origin and formal environment, and apparently fed up with both. For she frankly preferred “grades” to “registered stock,” and she prowled through every art and theatrical purlieu from the Mews to Westchester, in eternal and unquiet search for an antidote to the sex-ennui which she erroneously believed to be an intellectual necessity for self-expression.
“Who is that winning child with red hair?” she enquired, nodding informal recognition to the other guests, whom she already knew. “Don’t tell me,” she added, elevating a quizzing glass and staring at Dulcie, “that this engaging infant has a history already! It isn’t possible, with that April smile in her child eyes!”
“You bet she hasn’t a history, Elsena,” said Barres, frowning; “and I’ll see that she doesn’t begin one as long as she’s in my neighbourhood.”
Corot Mandel, who had been heavily inspecting Dulcie through his monocle, now stood twirling it by its frayed and greasy cord:
“I could do something for her — unless she’s particularly yours, Barres?” he suggested. “I’ve seldom seen a better type in New York.”
“You idiot. Don’t you recognise her? She’s Dulcie Soane! You could have picked her yourself if you’d had any flaire.”
“Oh, hell,” murmured Mandel, disgusted. “And I thought I possessed flaire. Your private property, I suppose?” he added sourly.
“Absolutely. Keep off!”
“Watch me,” murmured Corot Mandel, with a wry face, as they moved forward to join the others and be presented to the little guest of the evening.
Westmore came in at the same moment — a short, blond, vigorous young man, who knew everybody except Thessalie, and proceeded to smash the ice in characteristic fashion:
“Dulcie! You beautiful child! How are you, duckey?” — catching her by both hands,— “a little salute for Nunky? Yes?” — kissing her heartily on both cheeks. “I’ve a gift for you in my overcoat pocket. We’ll sneak out and get it after dinner!” He gave her hands a hearty squeeze, turned to the others: “I ought to have been Miss Soane’s godfather. So I appointed myself as such. Where are the cocktails, Garry?”
Road-to-ruin cocktails were served — frosted orange juice for Dulcie. Everybody drank her health. Then Aristocrates gracefully condescended to announce dinner. And Barres took out Dulcie, her arm resting light as a snowflake on his sleeve.
There were flowers everywhere in the dining-room; table, buffet, curtains, lustres were gay with early blossoms, exhaling the haunting scent of spring.
