Complete weird tales of.., p.456
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 456
Young Mallett stirred, passed a rather bony hand over his shaven upper lip, and said abruptly: “I never expected you’d grow up like this. You’ve turned into a different kind of girl. Once you were chubby of cheek and limb. Do you remember how you used to fight?”
“Did I?”
“Certainly. You hit me twice in the eye because I lost my temper sparring with Scott. Your hands were small but heavy in those days.... I imagine they’re heavier now.”
She laughed, clasped both pretty hands over her knee, and tilted back against the palm, regarding him from dark, velvety eyes.
“You were a curiously fascinating child,” he said. “I remember how fast you could run, and how your hair flew — it was thick and dark, with rather sunny high lights; and you were always running — always on the go.... You were a remarkably just girl; that I remember. You were absolutely fair to everybody.”
“I was a very horrid little scrub,” she said, watching him over her gently waving fan, “with a dreadful temper,” she added.
“Have you it now?”
“Yes. I get over it quickly. Do you find Scott very much changed?”
“Well, not as much as you. Do you find Naïda changed?”
“Not nearly as much as you.”
They smiled. The slight embarrassment born of polite indifference brightened into amiable interest, tinctured by curiosity.
“Duane, have you been studying painting all these years?”
“Yes. What have you been doing all these years?”
“Nothing.” A shadow fell across her face. “It has been lonely — until recently. I began to live yesterday.”
“You used to tell me you were lonely,” he nodded.
“I was. You and Naïda were godsends.” Something of the old thrill stirred her recollection. She leaned forward, looking at him curiously; the old memory of him was already lending him something of the forgotten glamour.
“How tall you are!” she said; “how much thinner and — how very impressively grown-up you are, Duane. I didn’t expect you to be entirely a man so soon — with such a — an odd — expression — —”
He asked, smiling: “What kind of an expression have I, Geraldine?”
“Not a boyish one; entirely a man’s eyes and mouth and voice — a little too wise, as though, deep inside, you were tired of something; no, not exactly that, but as though you had seen many things and had lived some of them — —”
She checked herself, lips softly apart; and the memory of what she had heard concerning him returned to her.
Confused, she continued to laugh lightly, adding: “I believe I was afraid of you at first. Ought I to be, still? You know more than I do — you know different kinds of things: your face and voice and manner show it. I feel humble and ignorant in the presence of so distinguished a European artist.”
They were laughing together now without a trace of constraint; and she was aware that his interest in her was unfeigned and unmistakably the interest of a man for a woman, that he was looking at her as other men had now begun to look at her, speaking as other men spoke, frankly interested in her as a woman, finding her agreeable to look at and talk to.
In the unawakened depths of her a conviction grew that her old playmate must be classed with other men — man in the abstract — that indefinite and interesting term, hinting of pleasures to come and possibilities unimagined.
“Did you paint pictures all the time you were abroad?” she asked.
“Not every minute. I travelled a lot, went about, was asked to shoot in England and Austria.... I had a good time.”
“Didn’t you work hard?”
“No. Isn’t it disgraceful!”
“But you exhibited in three salons. What were your pictures?”
“I did a portrait of Lady Bylow and her ten children.”
“Was it a success?”
He coloured. “They gave me a second medal.”
“Oh, I am so glad!” she exclaimed warmly. “And what were your others?”
“A thing called ‘The Witch.’ Rather painful.”
“What was it?”
“Life size. A young girl arrested in bed. Her frightened beauty is playing the deuce with the people around. I don’t know why I did it — the painting of textures — her flesh, and the armour of the Puritan guard, the fur of the black cat — and — well, it was academic and I was young.”
“Did they reward you?”
“No.”
“What was the third picture?”
“Oh, just a girl,” he said carelessly.
“Did they give you a prize for it?”
“Y-yes. Only a mention.”
“Was it a portrait?”
“Yes — in a way.”
“What was it? Just a girl?”
“Yes.”
“Who was she?”
“Oh, just a girl — —”
“Was she pretty?”
“Yes. Shall we dance this next — —”
“No. Was she a model?”
“She posed — —”
Geraldine, lips on the edge of her spread fan, regarded him curiously.
“That is a very romantic life, isn’t it?” she murmured.
“What?”
“Yours. I don’t know much about it; Kathleen took me to hear ‘La Bohême’; and I found Murger’s story in the library. I have also read ‘Trilby.’ Did you — were you — was life like that when you studied in the Latin Quarter?”
He laughed. “Not a bit. I never saw that species of life off the stage.”
“Oh, wasn’t there any romance?” she asked forlornly.
“Well — as much as you find in New York or anywhere.”
“Is there any romance in New York?”
“There is anywhere, isn’t there? If only one has the instinct to recognise it and a capacity to comprehend it.”
“Of course,” she murmured, “there are artists and studios and models and poverty everywhere.... I suppose that without poverty real romance is scarcely possible.”
He was still laughing when he answered:
“Financial conditions make no difference. Romance is in one’s self — or it is nowhere.”
“Is it in — you?” she asked audaciously.
He made no pretence of restraining his mirth.
“Why, I don’t know, Geraldine. Lots of people have the capacity for it. Poverty, art, a studio, a velvet jacket, and models are not essentials.... You ask if it is in me. I think it is. I think it exists in anybody who can glorify the commonplace. To make people look with astonished interest at something which has always been too familiar to arrest their attention — only your romancer can accomplish this.”
“Please go on,” she said as he ended. “I’m listening very hard. You are glorifying commonplaces, you know.”
They both laughed; he, a little red, disconcerted, piqued, and withal charmed at her dainty thrust at himself.
“I was talking commonplaces,” he admitted, “but how was I to know enough not to? Women are usually soulfully receptive when a painter opens a tin of mouldy axioms.... I didn’t realise I was encountering my peer — —”
“You may be encountering more than that,” she said, the excitement of her success with him flushing her adorably.
“Oh, I’ve heard how terribly educated you and Scott are. No doubt you can floor me on anything intellectual. See here, Geraldine, it’s simply wicked! — you are so soft and pretty, and nobody could suspect you of knowing such a lot and pouncing out on a fellow for trying a few predigested platitudes on you — —”
“I don’t know anything, Duane! How perfectly horrid of you!”
“Well, you’ve scared me!”
“I haven’t. You’re laughing at me. You know well enough that I don’t know the things you know.”
“What are they, in Heaven’s name?”
“Things — experiences — matters that concern life — the world, men, everything!”
“You wouldn’t be interesting if you knew such things,” he said. She thought there was the same curious hint of indifference, something of listlessness, almost fatigue in the expression of his eyes. And again, apparently apropos of nothing, she found herself thinking of what Kathleen had said about this man.
“I don’t understand you,” she said, looking at him.
He smiled, and the ghost of a shadow passed from his eyes.
“I was talking at random.”
“I don’t think you were.”
“Why not?”
She shook her head, drawing a long, quiet breath. Silent, lips resting in softly troubled curves, she thought of what Kathleen had said about this man. What had he done to disgrace himself?
A few moments later she rose with decision.
“Come,” she said, unconsciously imperious.
He looked across the room and saw Dysart.
“But I haven’t begun to tell you—” he began; and she interrupted smilingly:
“I know enough about you for a while; I have learned that you are a very wonderful young man and that I’m inclined to like you. You will come to see me, won’t you?... No, I can’t remain here another second. I want to go to Kathleen. I want you to ask her to dance, too.... Please don’t urge me, Duane. I — this is my first dinner dance — yes, my very first. And I don’t intend to sit in corners — I wish to dance; I desire to be happy. I want to see lots and lots of men, not just one.... You don’t know all the lonely years I must make up for every minute now, or you wouldn’t look at me in such a sulky, bullying way.... Besides — do you think I find you a compensation for all those delightful people out yonder?”
He glanced up and saw Dysart still watching them. Suddenly he dropped his hand over hers.
“Perhaps you may find that compensation in me some day,” he said. “How do you know?”
“What a silly thing to say! Don’t paw me, Duane; you hurt my hand. Look at what you’ve done to my fan!”
“It came between us. I’m sorry for anything that comes between us.”
Both were smiling fixedly; he said nothing for a moment; their gaze endured until she flinched.
“Silly,” she said, “you are trying to tyrannise over me as you did when we were children. I remember now — —”
“You did the bullying then.”
“Did I? Then I’ll continue.”
“No, you won’t; it’s my turn.”
“I will if I care to!”
“Try it.”
“Very well. Take me to Kathleen.”
“Not until I have the dances I want!”
Again their eyes met in silence. Dark little lights glimmered in hers; his narrowed. The fixed smile died out.
“The dances you want!” she repeated. “How do you propose to secure them? By crushing my fingers or dragging me about by my hair? I want to tell you something, Duane: these blunt, masterful men are very amusing on the stage and in fiction, but they’re not suitable to have tagging at heel — —”
“I won’t do any tagging at heel,” he said; “don’t count on it.”
“I have no inclination to count on you at all,” she retorted, thoroughly irritated.
“You will have it some day.”
“Oh! Do you think so?”
“Yes.... I didn’t mean to speak the way I did. Won’t you give me a dance or two?”
“No. I had no idea how horrid you could be.... I was told you were.... Now I can believe it. Take me to Kathleen; do you hear me?”
After a step or two he said, not looking at her:
“I’m really sorry, Geraldine. I’m not a brute. Something about that fellow Dysart upset me.”
“Please don’t talk about it any more.”
“No.... Only I am glad to see you again, and I do care for your regard.”
“Then earn it,” she said unevenly, as her anger subsided. “I don’t know very much about men in the world, but I know enough to understand when they’re offensive.”
“Was I?”
“Yes.... Because you carried me away with a high hand, you thought it the easiest way to take with me on every occasion.... Duane, do you know, in some ways, we are somewhat alike? And that is why we used to fight so.”
“I believe we are,” he said slowly. “But — I was never able to keep away from you.”
“Which makes our outlook rather stormy, doesn’t it?” she said, turning to him with all of her old sweet friendly manner. “Do let us agree, Duane. Mercy on us! we ought to adore each other — unless we have forgotten the quarrelsome but adorable friendship of our childhood. I thought you were the perfection of all boys.”
“I thought there was no girl to equal you, Geraldine.”
She turned audaciously, not quite knowing what she was saying:
“Think so now, Duane! It will be good for us both.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Not — seriously,” she said.... “And, Duane, please don’t be too serious with me. I am — you make me uncertain — you make me uncomfortable. I don’t know just what to say to you or just how it will be taken. You mustn’t be — that way — with me; you won’t, will you?”
He was silent for a moment; then his face lighted up. “No,” he said, laughing; “I’ll open another can of platitudes.... You’re a dear to forgive me.”
Dancing had been general before the cotillion; débutantes continued to arrive in shoals from other dinners, a gay, rosy, eager throng, filling drawing-rooms, conservatory, and library with birdlike flutter and chatter, overflowing into the breakfast-room, banked up on the stairs in bright-eyed battalions.
The cotillion, led by Jack Dysart dancing alone, was one of those carefully thought out intellectual affairs which shakes New York society to its intellectual foundations.
In one figure Geraldine came whizzing into the room in a Palm Beach tricycle-chair trimmed with orchids and propelled by Peter Tappan; and from her seat amid the flowers she distributed favours — live white cockatoos, clinging, flapping, screeching on gilded wands; fans spangled with tiny electric jewels; parasols of pink silk set with incandescent lights; crystal cages containing great, pale-green Luna moths alive and fluttering; circus hoops of gilt filled with white tissue paper, through which the men jumped.
There was also a Totem-pole figure — and other things, including supper and champagne, and the semi-obscurity of conservatory and stairs; and there was the usual laughter to cover heart-aches, and the inevitable torn gowns and crushed flowers; and a number of young men talking too loud and too much in the cloak-room, and Rosalie Dysart admitting to Scott Seagrave in the conservatory that nobody really understood her; and Delancy Grandcourt edging about the outer borders of the flowery, perfumed vortex, following Geraldine and losing her a hundred times.
On one of these occasions she was captured by Duane Mallett and convoyed to the supper-room, where later she became utterly transfigured into a laughing, blushing, sparkling, delicious creature, small ears singing with her first venturesome glass of champagne.
All the world seemed laughing with her; life itself was only an endless bubble of laughter, swelling the gay, unending chorus; life was the hot breeze from scented fans stirring a thousand roses; life was the silken throng and its whirling and its feverish voices crying out to her to live!
Her childhood’s playmate had come back a stranger, but already he was being transformed, through the magic of laughter, into the boy she remembered; awkwardness of readjusting her relations with him had entirely vanished; she called him dear Duane, laughed at him, chatted with him, appealed, contradicted, rebuked, tyrannised, until the young fellow was clean swept off his feet.
Then Dysart came, and for the second time the note of coquetry was struck, clearly, unmistakably, through the tension of a moment’s preliminary silence; and Duane, dumb, furious, yielded her only when she took Dysart’s arm with a finality that became almost insolent as she turned and looked back at her childhood’s comrade, who followed, scowling at Dysart’s graceful back.
Confused by his hurt and his anger, which seemed out of all logical proportion to the cause of it, he turned abruptly and collided with Grandcourt, who had edged up that far, waiting for the opportunity of which Dysart, as usual, robbed him.
Grandcourt apologised, muttering something about Mrs. Severn wishing him to find Miss Seagrave. He stood, awkwardly, looking after Geraldine and Dysart, but not offering to follow them.
“Lot of débutantes here — the whole year’s output,” he said vaguely. “What a noisy supper-room — eh, Mallett? I’m rather afraid champagne is responsible for some of it.”
Duane started forward, halted.
“Did you say Mrs. Severn wants Miss Seagrave?”
“Y — yes.... I’d better go and tell her, hadn’t I?”
He flushed heavily, but made no movement to follow Geraldine and Dysart, who had now entered the conservatory and disappeared.
For a full minute, uncomfortably silent, the two men stood side by side; then Duane said in a constrained voice:
“I’ll speak to Miss Seagrave, if you’ll find her brother and Mrs. Severn”; and walked slowly toward the palm-set rotunda.
When he found them — and he found them easily, for Geraldine’s overexcited laughter warned and guided him — Dysart, her fan in his hands, looked up at Duane intensely annoyed, and the young girl tossed away a half-destroyed rose and glanced up, the laughter dying out from lips and eyes.
“Kathleen sent for you,” said Duane drily.
“I’ll come in a minute, Duane.”
“In a moment,” repeated Dysart insolently, and turned his back.
The colour surged into Mallett’s face; he turned sharply on his heel.
“Wait!” said Geraldine; “Duane — do you hear me?”
“I’ll take you back,” began Dysart, but she passed in front of him and laid her hand on Mallett’s arm.
“Won’t you wait for me, Duane?”
And suddenly things seemed to be as they had been in their childhood, the resurgence swept them both back to the old and stormy footing again.
“Duane!”
“What?”
“I tell you to wait for me — here!” She stamped her foot.
He scowled — but waited. She turned on Dysart:
