Complete weird tales of.., p.452
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 452
“Nobody was licked by anybody,” announced Geraldine. “Do get something to eat, Scott; Naïda and I are starving!”
After some hesitation the boys touched gloves respectfully, and Scott shook off his mitts, and started for the kitchen.
And there, to his horror and surprise, he was confronted by Mrs. Severn, black hat, crape veil, and gloves still on, evidently that instant arrived from those occult and, as the children supposed, distant bournes of Staten Island, where the supreme mystery of all had been at work.
“Oh, Scott!” she exclaimed tremulously, “what on earth has happened? What is all this that Mrs. Farren and Howker have been telling me?”
The boy stood petrified. Then there surged over him the memory of his brief happiness in these new companions — a happiness now to be snatched away ere scarcely tasted. Into the child’s dirty, disfigured face came a hunted expression; he looked about for an avenue of escape, and Kathleen Severn caught him at the same instant and drew him to her.
“What is it, Scott? Tell me, darling!”
“Nothing.... Yes, there is something. I opened the front door and let a strange boy and girl in to play with us, and I’ve just been fighting with him, and we were having such good times — I—” his voice broke— “I can’t bear to have them go — so soon — —”
Kathleen looked at him for a moment, speechless with consternation. Then:
“Where are they, Scott?”
“In the — the hedge.”
“Out there?”
“Yes.”
“Who are they?”
“Their names are Duane Mallett and Naïda Mallett. We got them to run away from their nurse. Duane’s such a bully fellow.” A sob choked him.
“Come with me at once,” said Kathleen.
Behind the rhododendrons smiling peace was extending its pinions; Duane had produced a pocketful of jack-stones, and the three children were now seated on the grass, Naïda manipulating the jacks with soiled but deft fingers.
Duane was saying to Geraldine:
“It’s funny that you didn’t know you were rich. Everybody says so, and all the nurses in the Park talk about it every time you and Scott walk past.”
“If I’m rich,” said Geraldine, “why don’t I have more money?”
“Don’t they let you have as much as you want?”
“No — only twenty-five cents every month.... It’s my turn, Naïda! Oh, bother! I missed. Go on, Duane — —”
And, glancing up, her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth as Kathleen Severn, in her mourning veil and gown, came straight up to where they sat.
“Geraldine, dear, the grass is too damp to sit on,” said Mrs. Severn quietly. She turned to the youthful guests, who had hastily risen.
“You are Naïda Mallett, it seems; and you are Duane? Please come in now and wash and dress properly, because I am going to telephone to your mother and ask her if you may remain to luncheon and play in the nursery afterward.”
Dazed, the children silently followed her; one of her arms lay loosely about the shoulders of her own charges; one encircled Naïda’s neck. Duane walked cautiously beside his sister.
In the house the nurses took charge; Geraldine, turning on the stairs, looked back at Kathleen Severn.
“Are you really going to let them stay?”
“Yes, I am, darling.”
“And — and may we play together all alone in the nursery?”
“I think so.... I think so, dear.”
She ran back down the stairs and impetuously flung herself into Kathleen’s arms; then danced away to join the others in the blessed regions above.
Mrs. Severn moved slowly to the telephone, and first called up and reassured Mrs. Mallett, who, however, knew nothing about the affair, as the nurse was still scouring the Park for her charges.
Then Mrs. Severn called up the Half Moon Trust Company and presently was put into communication with Colonel Mallett, the president. To him she told the entire story, and added:
“It was inevitable that the gossip of servants should enlighten the children sooner or later. The irony of it all is that this gossip filtered in here through your son, Duane. That is how the case stands, Colonel Mallett; and I have used my judgment and permitted the children this large liberty which they have long needed, believe me, long, long needed. I hope that your trust officer, Mr. Tappan, will approve.”
“Good Lord!” said Colonel Mallett over the wire. “Tappan won’t stand for it! You know that he won’t, Mrs. Severn. I suppose, if he consults us, we can call a directors’ meeting and consider this new phase of the case.”
“You ought to; the time is already here when the children should no longer suffer such utter isolation. They must make acquaintances, they must have friends, they should go to parties like other children — they ought to be given outside schooling sooner or later. All of which questions must be taken up by your directors as soon as possible, because my children are fast getting out of hand — fast getting away from me; and before I know it I shall have a young man and a young girl to account for — and to account to, colonel — —”
“I’ll sift out the whole matter with Mr. Tappan; I’ll speak to Mr. Grandcourt and Mr. Beekman to-night. Until you hear from us, no more visitors for the children. By the way, is that matter — the one we talked over last month — definitely settled?”
“Yes. I can’t help being worried by the inclination she displays. It frightens me in such a child.”
“Scott doesn’t show it?”
“No. He hates anything like that.”
“Do the servants thoroughly understand your orders?”
“I’m a little troubled. I have given orders that no more brandied peaches are to be made or kept in the house. The child was perfectly truthful about it. She admitted filling her cologne bottle with the syrup and sipping it after she was supposed to be asleep.”
“Have you found out about the sherry she stole from the kitchen?”
“Yes. She told me that for weeks she had kept it hidden and soaked a lump of sugar in it every night.... She is absolutely truthful, colonel. I’ve tried to make her understand the danger.”
“All right. Good-bye.” Kathleen Severn hung up the receiver with a deep indrawn breath.
From the nursery above came a joyous clamour and trampling and shouting.
Suddenly she covered her face with her black-gloved hands.
* * *
CHAPTER II. IN TRUST
THE ENFRANCHISEMENT OF the Seagrave twins proceeded too slowly to satisfy their increasing desire for personal liberty and their fast-growing impatience of restraint.
Occasionally, a few carefully selected and assorted children were permitted to visit them in relays, and play in the nursery for limited periods without the personal supervision of Kathleen or the nurses; but no serious innovation was attempted, no radical step taken without authority from old Remsen Tappan, the trust officer of the great Half Moon Trust Company.
There could be no arguing with Mr. Tappan.
Shortly before Anthony Seagrave died he had written to his old friend Tappan:
“If I live, I shall see to it that my grandchildren know nothing of the fortune awaiting them until they become of age — which will be after I am ended. Meanwhile, plain food and clothing, wholesome home seclusion from the promiscuity of modern child life, and an exhaustive education in every grace, fashion, and accomplishment of body and intellect is the training I propose for the development in them of the only thing in the world worth cultivating — unterrified individualism.
“The ignorance which characterises the conduct of modern institutes of education reduces us all to one mindless level, reproducing ad nauseam what is known as ‘average citizens.’ This nation is already crawling with them; art, religion, letters, government, business, human ideals remain embryonic because the ‘average citizen’ can conceive nothing higher, can comprehend nothing loftier even when the few who have escaped the deadly levelling grind of modern methods of education attempt to teach the masses to think for themselves.
“That is bad enough in itself — but add to cut-and-dried pedagogy the outrageous liberty which modern pupils are permitted in school and college, and add to that the unheard-of luxury in which they live — and the result is stupidity and utter ruin.
“My babies must have discipline, system, frugality, and leisure for individual development drilled into them. I do not wish them to be ignorant of one single modern grace and accomplishment; mind and body must be trained together like a pair of Morgan colts.
“But I will not have them victims of pedagogy; I will not have them masters of their time and money until they are of age; I will not permit them to choose companions or pursuits for their leisure until they are fitted to do so.
“If there is in them, latent, any propensity toward viciousness — any unawakened desire for that which has been my failing — hard work from dawn till dark is the antidote. An exhausted child is beyond temptation.
“If I pass forward, Tappan, before you — and it is likely because I am twenty years older and I have lived unwisely — I shall arrange matters in such shape that you can carry out something of what I have tried to begin, far better than I, old friend; for I am strong in theory and very weak in practice; they are such dear little things! And when they cry to be taken up — and a modern trained nurse says ‘No! let them cry!’ good God! Remsen, I sometimes sneak into their thoroughly modern and scientifically arranged nursery, which resembles an operating room in a brand-new hospital, and I take up my babies and rock them in my arms, terrified lest that modern and highly trained nurse discover my infraction of sanitary rule and precept.
“I don’t know; babies were born, and survived cradles and mothers’ arms and kisses long before sterilised milk and bacilli were invented.
“You see I am weak in more ways than one. But I do mean to give them every chance. It isn’t that these old arms ache for them, that this rather tired heart weakens when they cry for God knows what, and modern science says let them cry! — it is that, deep in me, Tappan, a heathenish idea persists that what they need more than hygienics and scientific discipline is some of that old-fashioned love — love which rocks them when it is not good for them — love which overfeeds them sometimes so that they yell with old-fashioned colic — love which ventures a bacilli-laden kiss. Friend, friend — I am very unfit! It will be well for them when I move on. Only try to love them, Tappan. And if you ever doubt, kill them with indulgence, rather than with hygiene!”
He died of pneumonia a few weeks later. He had no chance. Remsen Tappan picked up the torch from the fallen hand and, blowing it into a brisk blaze, shuffled forward to light a path through life for the highly sterilised twins.
So the Half Moon Trust became father and mother to the Seagrave children; and Mr. Tappan as dry nurse prescribed the brand of intellectual pap for them and decided in what manner it should be administered.
Now home tuition and the “culture of the indiwidool” was a personal hobby of Mr. Tappan, and promiscuous schools his abomination. Had not his own son, Peter Stuyvesant Tappan, been reared upon unsteady legs to magnificent physical and intellectual manhood under this theory?
So there was to be no outside education for the youthful Seagraves; from the nursery schoolroom no chance of escape remained. As they grew older they became wild to go to school; stories of schoolrooms and playgrounds and studies and teachers and jolly fellowship and vacations, brought to them from outside by happier children, almost crazed them with the longing for it.
It was hard for them when their little friends the Malletts were sent abroad to school; Naïda, now aged twelve, to a convent, and Duane, who was now fifteen, three years older than the Seagrave twins, accompanied his mother and a tutor, later to enter some school of art in Paris and develop whatever was in him. For like all parents, Duane’s had been terribly excited over his infantile efforts at picture-making — one of the commonest and earliest developed of talents, but which never fails to amaze and delight less gifted parents and which continues to overstock the world with mediocre artists.
So it was arranged that Colonel Mallett should spend every summer abroad with his wife to watch the incubation of Duane’s Titianesque genius and Naïda’s unbelievable talent for music; and when the children came to bid good-bye to the Seagrave twins, they seized each other with frantic embraces, vowing lifelong fidelity. Alas! it is those who depart who forget first; and at the end of a year, Geraldine’s and Scott’s letters remained unanswered.
At the age of thirteen, after an extraordinary meeting of the directors of the Half Moon Trust Company, it was formally decided that a series of special tutors should now be engaged to carry on to the bitter end the Tappan-Seagrave system of home culture; and the road to college was definitely closed.
“I want my views understood,” said Mr. Tappan, addressing the board of solemn-visaged directors assembled in session to determine upon the fate of two motherless little children. “Indiwidoolism is nurtured in excloosion; the elimination of the extraneous is necessary for the dewelopment of indiwidoolism. I regard the human indiwidool as sacred. Like a pearl” — he pronounced it “poil”— “it can grow in beauty and symmetry and purity and polish only when nourished in seclusion. Indiwidoolism is a poil without price; and the natal mansion, gentlemen — if I may be permitted the simulcritude — is its oyster.
“My old friend, Anthony Seagrave, shared with me this unalterable conwiction. I remember in the autumn of 1859 — —”
The directors settled themselves in their wadded arm-chairs; several yawned; some folded their hands over their ample stomachs. The June atmosphere was pleasantly conducive to the sort of after-luncheon introspection which is easily soothed by monotones of the human voice.
And while Mr. Tappan droned on and on, some of the directors watched him with one eye half open, thinking of other things, and some listened, both eyes half closed, thinking of nothing at all.
Many considered Mr. Tappan a very terrible old man, though why terrible, unless the most rigid honesty and bigoted devotion to duty terrifies, nobody seemed to know.
Long Island Dutch — with all that it implies — was the dull stock he rooted in. Born a poor farmer’s son, with a savage passion for learning, he almost destroyed his eyesight in lonely study under the flicker of tallow dips. All that had ever come to him of knowledge came in these solitary vigils. Miry and sweating from the plough he mastered the classics, law, chemistry, engineering; and finally emerging heavily from the reek of Long Island fertiliser, struck with a heavy surety at Fortune and brought her to her knees amidst a shower of gold. And all alone he gathered it in.
On Coenties Slip his warehouse still bore the legend: “R. Tappan: Iron.” All that he had ever done he had done alone. He knew of no other way; believed in no other way.
Plain living, plainer clothing, tireless thinking undisturbed — that had been his childhood; and it had suited him.
Never but once had he made any concession to custom and nature, and that was only when, desiring an heir, he was obliged to enter into human partnership to realise the wish.
His son was what his father had made him under the iron cult of solitary development; and now, the father, loyal in his own way to the memory of his old friend Anthony Seagrave, meant to do his full duty toward the orphaned grandchildren.
So it came to pass that tutors and specialists replaced Kathleen in the schoolroom; and these ministered to the twin “poils,” who were now fretting through their thirteenth year, mad with desire for boarding-school.
Four languages besides their own were adroitly stuffed into them; nor were letters, arts, and sciences neglected, nor the mundane and social patter, accomplishments, and refinements, including poise, pose, and deportment.
Specialists continued to guide them indoors and out; they rode every morning at eight with a specialist; they drove in the Park between four and five with the most noted of four-in-hand specialists; fencing, sparring, wrestling, swimming, gymnastics, were all supervised by specialists in those several very important and scientific arts; and specialists also taught them hygiene: how to walk, sit, breathe; how to masticate; how to relax after the manner of the domestic cat.
They had memory lessons; lessons in personal physiology, and in first aid to themselves.
Specialists cared for their teeth, their eyes, their hair, their skin, their hands and feet.
Everything that was taught them, done for them, indirectly educated them in the science of self-consideration and deepened an unavoidably natural belief in their own overwhelming importance. They had not been born so.
But in the house of Seagrave everything revolved around and centred in them; everything began for them and ended for them alone. They had no chance.
True, they were also instructed in theology and religion; they became well grounded in the elements of both, — laws, by-laws, theory, legends, proverbs, truisms, and even a few abstract truths. But there was no meaning in either to these little prisoners of self. Seclusion is an enemy to youth; solitude its destruction.
When the twins were fifteen they went to their first party. A week of superficial self-restraint and inward delirium was their preparation, a brief hour of passive bewilderment the realisation. Dazed by the sight and touch and clamor of the throng, they moved and spoke as in a vision. The presence of their own kind in such numbers confused them; overwhelmed, they found no voices to answer the call of happiness. Their capacity to respond was too limited.
As in a dream they were removed earlier than anybody else — taken away by a footman and a maid with decorous pomp and circumstance, carefully muffled in motor robes, and embedded in a limousine.
The daily papers, with that lofty purpose which always characterises them, recorded next morning the important fact that the famous Seagrave twins had appeared at their first party.
Between the ages of fifteen and sixteen the twins might have entered Harvard, for the entrance examinations were tried on both children, and both passed brilliantly.
