Complete weird tales of.., p.318
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 318
“I don’t know, child. Why?”
“Nothing. I wondered.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Mortimer said so.”
“Then I suppose he is. I’ll ask Kemp if you like. Why? Isn’t it all right to build them?”
“I suppose so. Howard is in it somehow. In fact Howard’s company is behind Mr. Siward’s, I believe.”
Grace Ferrall turned and looked at the girl beside her, laughing outright.
“Oh, Howard doesn’t do mysterious financial things to nice young men because they draw impudent pictures of him running after his dog — or for any other reason. That, dear, is one of those skilfully developed portions of an artistic plot; and plots exist only in romance. So do villains; and besides, my cousin isn’t one. Besides that, if Howard is in that thing, no doubt Kemp and I are too. So your nice young man is in very safe company.”
“You draw such silly inferences,” said Sylvia coolly; but there was a good deal of colour in her cheeks; and she knew it and pulled her big motor veil across her face, fastening it under her chin. All of which amused Grace Ferrall infinitely until the subtler significance of the girl’s mental processes struck her, sobering her own thoughts. Sylvia, too, had grown serious in her preoccupation; and the partie-à-deux terminated a few minutes later in a duet of silence over the tea-cups in the gun-room.
The weather had turned warm and misty; one of those sudden sea-coast changes had greyed the blue in the sky, spreading a fine haze over land and water, effacing the crisp sparkle of the sea, dulling the westering sun.
A few moments later Sylvia, glancing over her shoulder, noticed that a fine misty drizzle had clouded the casements. That meant that her usual evening stroll on the cliffs with Quarrier, before dressing for dinner, was off. And she drew a little breath of unconscious relief as Marion Page walked in, her light woollen shooting-jacket, her hat, shoes, and the barrels of the fowling-piece tucked under her left arm-pit, all glimmering frostily with powdered rain drops.
She said something to Grace Ferrall about the mist promising good point-shooting in the morning, took the order book from a servant, jotted down her request to be called an hour before sunrise, filled in the gun-room records with her score — the species and number bagged, and the number of shells used — and accepting the tea offered, drew out a tiny cigarette-case of sweet-bay wood heavily crusted with rose-gold.
“With whom were you shooting?” asked Grace, as Marion dropped one well-shaped leg over the other and wreathed her delicately tanned features in smoke.
“Stephen Siward and Blinky. They’re at it yet, but I had some letters to write.” She glanced leisurely at Sylvia and touched the ash-tray with the whitening end of her cigarette. “That dog you let Mr. Siward have is a good one. I’m taking him to Jersey next week for the cock-shooting.”
Sylvia returned her calm gaze blankly.
An unreasonable and disagreeable shock had passed through her.
“My North Carolina pointers are useless for close work,” observed Marion indifferently; and she leaned back, watching the blue smoke curling upward from her cigarette.
Sylvia, distrait, but with downcast eyes on fire under the fringed lids, was thinking of the cheque Siward had given her for Sagamore. The transaction, for her, had been a business one on the surface only. She had never meant to use the cheque. She had laid it away among a few letters, relics, pleasant souvenirs of the summer. To her the affair had been softened by a delicate hint of intimacy, — the delight he was to take in something that had once been hers had given her a faint taste of the pleasure of according pleasure to a man. And this is what he had done!
The drizzle had turned to fog, through which rain was now pelting the cliffs; people were returning from the open; a motor-car came whizzing into the drive, and out of it tumbled Rena and Eileen and the faithful Pages, the girls irritable and ready for tea, and the boys like a pair of eager, wagging, setter puppies, pleased with everything and everybody, utterly oblivious to the sombre repose brooding above the tea-table.
Their sister calmly refused them the use of her cigarettes. Eileen presented her pretty shoulder, Rena nearly yawned at them, but, nothing dampened, they recounted a number of incidents with reciprocal enthusiasm to Sylvia, who was too inattentive to smile, and to Grace Ferrall, who smiled the more sweetly through sheer inattention.
Then Alderdene came in, blinking a greeting through his foggy goggles, sloppy, baggy, heavy shoes wheezing, lingered in the vicinity long enough to swallow his “peg” and acquire a disdainful opinion of his shooting from Marion, and then took himself off, leaving the room noisy with his laugh, which resembled the rattle of a startled kingfisher.
In ones and twos the guests reported as the dusk-curtained fog closed in on Shotover. Quarrier came, dry as a chip under his rain-coat, but his silky beard was wet with rain, and moisture powdered his long, soft eyelashes and white skin; and his flexible, pointed fingers, as he drew off his gloves, seemed startling in their whiteness through the gathering gloom.
“I suppose our evening walk is out of the question,” he said, standing by Sylvia, who had nodded a greeting and then turned her head rather hastily to see who had entered the room. It was Siward, only a vague shape in the gloom, but perfectly recognisable to her. At the same moment Marion Page rose leisurely and strolled toward the billiard-room.
“Our walk?” repeated Sylvia absently— “it’s raining, you know.” Yet only a day or two ago she had walked to church with Siward through the rain, the irritated Major feeling obliged to go with them. Her eyes followed Siward’s figure, suddenly dark against the door of the lighted billiard-room, then brilliantly illuminated, as he entered, nodded acceptance to Mortimer’s invitation, and picked up the cue just laid aside by Agatha Caithness, who had turned to speak to Marion. Then Mortimer’s bulk loomed nearer; voices became gay and animated in the billiard-room. Siward’s handsome face was bent toward Agatha Caithness in gay challenge; Mortimer’s heavy laugh broke out; there came the rattle of pool-balls, and the dull sound of cue-butts striking the floor; then, crack! and the game began, with Marion Page and Siward fighting Mortimer and Miss Caithness for something or other.
Quarrier had been speaking for some time before Sylvia became aware of it — something about a brisk walk in the morning somewhere; and she nodded impatiently, watching Marion’s supple waist-line as she bent far over the illuminated table for a complicated shot at the enemy.
His fiancée’s inattention was not agreeable to Quarrier. A dozen things had happened since his arrival which had not been agreeable to him: her failure to meet him at the Fells Crossing, and the reason for her failure; and her informal acquaintance with Siward, whose presence at Shotover he had not looked for, and her sudden intimacy with the man he had never particularly liked, and whom within six months he had come to detest and to avoid.
These things — the outrageous liberty Siward had permitted himself in caricaturing him, the mortifying caprice of Sylvia for Siward on the day of the Shotover cup-drive — had left indelible impressions in a cold and rather heavy mind, slow to waste effort in the indulgence of any vital emotion.
In a few years indifference to Siward had changed to passive disapproval; that, again, to an emotionless dislike; and when the scandal at the Patroons Club occurred, for the first time in his life he understood what it was to fear the man he disliked. For if Siward had committed the insane imprudence which had cost him his title to membership, he had also done something, knowingly or otherwise, which awoke in Quarrier a cold, slow fear; and that fear was dormant, but present, now, and it, for the time being, dictated his attitude and bearing toward the man who might or might not be capable of using viciously a knowledge which Quarrier believed that he must possess.
For that reason, when it was not possible to avoid Siward, his bearing toward him was carefully civil; for that reason he dampened Major Belwether’s eagerness to tell everybody all he knew about the shamelessly imprudent girl who had figured with Siward in the scandal, but whose identity the press had not discovered.
Silence was always desirable to Quarrier; silence concerning all matters was a trait inborn and congenially cultivated to a habit by him in every affair of life — in business, in leisure, in the methodical pursuits of such pleasures as a limited intellect permitted him, in personal and family matters, in public questions and financial problems.
He listened always, but never invited confidences; he had no opinion to express when invited. And he became very, very rich.
And over it all spread a thin membrane of vanity, nervous, not intellectual, sensitiveness; for all sense of humour was absent in this man, whose smile, when not a physical effort, was automatically and methodically responsive to certain fixed cues. He smiled when he said “Good morning,” when declining or accepting invitations, when taking his leave, when meeting anybody of any financial importance, and when everybody except himself had begun to laugh in a theatre or a drawing-room. This limit to any personal manifestation he considered a generous one. And perhaps it was.
A sudden rain-squall, noisy against the casements, had darkened the room; then the electric lights broke out with a mild candle-like lustre, and Quarrier, standing beside Sylvia’s chair, discovered it to be empty.
It was not until he had dressed for dinner that he saw her again, seated on the stairs with Marion Page — a new appearance of intimacy for both women, who heretofore had found nothing except a passing civility in common.
Marion was discussing dog-breeding with that cool, crude, direct insouciance so unpleasant to some men. Sylvia was attentive, curious, and instinctively shrinking by turns, secretly dismayed at the overplainness of terms employed in kennel lore by the girl at her side.
The conversation veered toward the Sagamore pup. Marion explained that Siward was too busy to do any Southern shooting, which was why he was glad to have her polish Sagamore on Jersey woodcock.
“I thought it was not good for a dog to be used by anybody except his master,” said Sylvia carelessly.
“Only second-raters suffer. Besides, I have shot enough, now, with Mr. Siward to use his dog as he does.”
“He is an agreeable shooting companion, smiled Sylvia.
“He is perfect,” answered Marion coolly. “The only test for a thoroughbred is the field. He rings true.”
They exchanged carefully impersonal views on Siward’s good qualities for a moment or two; then Marion said bluntly: “Do you know anything in particular about that Patroons Club affair?”
“No,” said Sylvia, “nothing in particular.”
“Neither do I; and I don’t care to; I mean, that I don’t care what he did; and I wish that gossiping old Major would stop trying to hint it to me.”
“My uncle!”
“Oh! I forgot. Beg your pardon, you know, but—”
“I’m not offended,” observed Sylvia, with a shrug of her pretty, bare shoulders.
Marion laughed. “Such a gadabout! Besides, I’m no prude, but he and Leroy Mortimer have no business to talk to unmarried women the way they do. No matter how worldly wise we are, men have no right to suppose we are.”
“Pooh!” shrugged Sylvia. “I have no patience to study out double-entendre, so it never shocks me. Besides—”
She was going to add that she was not at all versed in doubtful worldly wisdom, but decided not to, as it might seem to imply disapproval of Marion’s learning. So she went on: “Besides, what have innuendoes to do with Mr. Siward?”
“I don’t know whether I care to understand them. The Major hinted that the woman — the one who figured in it — is — rather exclusively Mr. Siward’s ‘property.’”
“Exclusively?” repeated Sylvia curiously. “She’s a public actress, isn’t she?”
“If you call the manoeuvres of a newly fledged chorus girl acting, yes, she is. But I don’t believe Mr. Siward figures in that unfashionable rôle. Why, there are too many women of his own sort ready for mischief.” Marion turned to Sylvia, her eyes hard with a cynicism quite lost on the other. “That sort of thing might suit Leroy Mortimer, but it doesn’t fit Mr. Siward,” she concluded, rising as their hostess appeared from above and the butler from below.
And all through dinner an indefinitely unpleasant remembrance of the conversation lingered with Sylvia, and she sat silent for minutes at a time, returning to actualities with a long, curious side-glance across at Siward, and an uncomprehending smile of assent for whatever Quarrier or Major Belwether had been saying to her.
Cards she managed to avoid after dinner, and stood by Quarrier’s chair for half an hour, absently watching the relentless method and steady adherence to rule which characterised his Bridge-playing, the eager, unslaked brutality of Mortimer, the set, selfish face of his pretty wife, the chilled intensity of Miss Caithness.
And Grace Ferrall’s phrase recurred to her, “Nobody ever has enough money!” — not even these people, whose only worry was to find investment for the surplus they were unable to spend. Something of the meanness of it all penetrated her. Were these the real visages of these people, whose faces otherwise seemed so smooth and human? Was Leila Mortimer aware of the shrillness of her voice? Did Agatha Caithness realise how pinched her mouth and nose had grown? Did even Leroy Mortimer dream how swollen the pouches under his eyes were; how red and puffy his hands, shuffling a new pack; how pendulous and dreadful his red under-lip when absorbedly making up his cards?
Instinctively she moved a step forward for a glimpse of Quarrier’s face. The face appeared to be a study in blankness. His natural visage was emotionless and inexpressive enough, but this face, from which every vestige of colour had fled, fascinated her with its dead whiteness; and the hair brushed high, the long, black lashes, the silky beard, struck her as absolutely ghastly, as though they had been glued to a face of wax.
She turned on her heel, restless, depressed, inclined for companionship. The Page boys had tempted Rena and Eileen to the billiard-room; Voucher, Alderdene, and Major Belwether were huddled over a table, immersed in Preference; Katharyn Tassel and Grace Ferrall sat together looking over the announcements of Sylvia’s engagement in a batch of New York papers just arrived; Ferrall was writing at a desk, and Siward and Marion were occupied in the former’s sketch for an ideal shooting vehicle, to be built on the buckboard principle, with a clever arrangement for dogs, guns, ammunition, and provisions. Siward’s profile, as it bent in the lamplight over the paper, was very engaging. The boyish note predominated as he talked while he drew, his eyes now smiling, now seriously intent on the sketch which was developing so swiftly under his facile pencil.
Marion’s clean-cut blond head was close to his, her supple body twisted in her seat, one bare arm hanging over the back of the chair. Something in her attitude seemed to exclude intrusion; her voice, too, was hushed in comment, though his was pitched in his naturally agreeable key.
Sylvia had taken a hesitating step toward them, but halted, turning irresolutely; and suddenly over her crept a sensation of isolation — something of that feeling which had roused her at midnight from her bed and driven her to Grace Ferrall for a refuge from she knew not what.
The rustle of her silken dinner gown was scarcely perceptible as she turned. Siward, moving his head slightly, glanced up, then brought his sketch to a brilliant finish.
“Don’t you think something of this sort is practicable?” he asked pleasantly, including Mrs. Ferrall and Katharyn Tassel in a general appeal which brought them into the circle of two. Grace Ferrall leaned forward, looking over Marion’s shoulder, and Siward rose and stepped back, with a quick glance into the hall — in time to catch a glimmer of pale blue and lace on the stairs.
“I suppose my cigarettes are in my room as usual,” he said aloud to himself, wheeling so that he could not have time to see Marion’s offer of her little gold-encrusted case, or notice her quickly raised eyes, bright with suspicion and vexation. For she, too, had observed Sylvia’s distant entrance, had been perfectly aware of Siward’s cognizance of Sylvia’s retreat; and when Siward went on sketching she had been content. Now she could not tell whether he had deliberately and skillfully taken his congé to follow Sylvia, or whether, in his quest for his cigarettes, chance might meddle, as usual. Even if he returned, she could not know with certainty how much of a part hazard had played on the landing above, where she already heard the distant sounds of Sylvia’s voice mingling with Siward’s, then a light footfall or two, and silence.
He had greeted her in his usual careless, happy fashion, just as she had reached her chamber door; and she turned at the sound of his voice, confused, unsmiling, a little pale.
“Is it headache, or are you too in quest of cigarettes?” he asked, as he stopped in passing her where she stood, one slender hand on the knob of her door.
“I don’t smoke, you know,” she said, looking up at him with a cool little laugh. “It isn’t headache either. I was — boring myself, Mr. Siward.”
“Is there any virtue in me as a remedy?”
“Oh, I have no doubt you have lots of virtues.... Perhaps you might do as a temporary remedy — first aid to the injured.” She laughed again, uncertainly. “But you are on a quest for cigarettes.”
“And you?”
“A rendezvous — with the Sand-Man.... Good night.”
“Good night... if you must say it.”
“It’s polite to say something... isn’t it?”
“It would be polite to say, ‘With pleasure, Mr. Siward!’”
“But you haven’t invited me to do anything — not even to accept a cigarette. Besides, you didn’t expect to meet me up here?”
The trailing accent made it near enough a question for him to say, “Yes, I did.”
“How could you?”
“I saw you leave the room.”
“You were sketching for Marion Page. Do you wish me to believe that you noticed me—”
“ — And followed you? Yes, I did follow you.” She looked at him, then past him toward a corner of the wide hall where a maid in cap and apron sat pretending to be sewing. “Careful!” she motioned with smiling lips, “servants gossip.... Good night, again.”
