Complete weird tales of.., p.624
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 624
“It is in me to give it — a pure, devoted, lofty, untroubled friendship, absolutely free of lesser and material sentiments. Am I sufficiently frank? I want such a friendship. I need it. I have never before offered it to any man — the kind I mean to give you if you wish.
“I believe it would satisfy you; I am convinced that yours would satisfy me. You don’t know how I have missed such a friendship in you. I have wanted it from the very beginning of our acquaintance. But I had — problems — to solve, first; and I had to let our friendship lie dormant. Now I have solved my perplexities, and all my leisure is for you again, if you will. Do you want it?
“Think over what I have written. Keep my letter for a week and then write me. Does my offer not deserve a week’s consideration?
“Meanwhile please keep away from deep water. I do not wish you to drown.
“Strelsa Leeds.
“P. S. — Lord Dankmere is here. He is insufferable. He told Mrs. Sprowl that you and he were going into the antique-picture business. You wouldn’t think of going into anything whatever with a man of that sort, would you? Or was it merely a British jest?”
He wrote at once:
“I have your letter and will keep it a week before replying. But — are you engaged?”
She answered:
“The papers have had me engaged to Barent Van Dyne, to Langly Sprowl, to Sir Charles. You may take your choice if you are determined to have me engaged to somebody. No doubt you think my being engaged would make our future friendship safer. I’ll attend to it immediately if you wish me to.”
Evidently she was in a gay and contrary humour when she wrote so flippantly to him. And he replied in kind and quite as lightly. Then, at the week’s end he wrote her again that he had considered her letter, and that he accepted the friendship she offered, and gave her his in return.
She did not reply.
He wrote her again a week later, but had no answer. Another week passed, and, slowly into his senses crept the dread of deep waters closing around him. And after another week he began to wonder, dully, how long it would take a man to drown if he made no struggle.
Meanwhile several dozen crates and packing cases had arrived at the Custom House for the Earl of Dankmere; and, in process of time were delivered at the real-estate office of R. S. Quarren, littering his sleeping quarters and office and overflowing into the extension and backyard.
“All stacked up pell-mell in the back yard and regarded in amazement by the neighbours.”
It was the first of June and ordinarily hot when Lord Dankmere and Quarren, stripped to their shirts and armed with pincers, chisels and hammers, attacked the packing cases in the backyard, observed from the back fences by several astonished cats.
His lordship was not expert at manual labour; neither was Quarren; and some little blood was shed from the azure veins of Dankmere and the ruddier integument of the younger man as picture after picture emerged from its crate, some heavily framed, some merely sagging on their ancient un-keyed stretchers.
There were primitives on panels, triptychs, huge canvases in frames carved out of solid wood; pictures in battered Italian frames — some floridly Florentine, some exquisitely inlaid on dull azure and rose — pictures in Spanish frames, Dutch frames, English frames, French frames of the last century; portraits, landscapes, genre, still life — battle pictures, religious subjects, allegorical canvases, mythological — all stacked up pell-mell in the backyard and regarded in amazement by the neighbours, and by two young men who alternately smoked and staunched their wounds under the summer sky.
“Dankmere,” said Quarren at last, “did your people send over your entire collection?”
“No; but I thought it might be as well to have plenty of rubbish on hand in case a demand should spring up.... What do they look like to you, Quarren — I mean what’s your first impression?”
“They look all right.”
“Really?”
“Certainly. They seem to be genuine enough as far as I can see.”
“But are they otherwise any good?”
“I think so. I’ll go over each canvas very carefully and give you my opinion for what it’s worth. But, for Heaven’s sake, Dankmere, where are we going to put all these canvases?”
“I suppose,” said the Earl gloomily, “I’ll be obliged to store what you haven’t room for. And as I gradually grow poorer and poorer the day will arrive when I can’t pay storage; and they’ll sell ’em under my nose at auction, Quarren. And first I know the papers will blossom out with: ‘A Wonderful Rembrandt discovered in a junk-shop! Ancient picture bought for five dollars and pronounced a gem by experts! Lucky purchaser refuses a hundred thousand dollars cash!’”
Quarren laughed and turned away into the house; and Dankmere followed, gloomily predicting his own approaching financial annihilation.
From his office Quarren telephoned a picture dealer to send men with heavy wire, hooks, ladders and other paraphernalia; then he and Dankmere made their toilets, resumed their coats, and returned to the sunny office to await events.
After a few moments the Earl said abruptly:
“Would you care to go into this venture with me, Quarren?”
“I?” said Quarren, surprised.
“Yes. Will you?”
“Why, I have my own business, Dankmere — —”
“Is it enough to keep you busy?”
“No — not yet — but I — —”
“Then, like a good fellow, help me sell these damned pictures. I haven’t any money to offer you, Quarren, but if you’ll be willing to hang the pictures around your office here and in the back parlour and the extension, and if you’ll talk the merry talk to the lunatics who may come in to look at ’em and tell ’em what the bally pictures are and fix the proper prices — why — why, I’ll make any arrangement with you that you please. Say a half interest, now. Would that be fair?”
“Fair? Of course! It’s far too liberal an offer — but I — —”
“It’s worth that to me, Quarren — if you can see your way to helping me out — —”
“But my help isn’t worth half what these pictures might very easily bring — even at public auction — —”
“Why not? I’d have to pay an auctioneer, an expert to appraise them — an art dealer to hang them in his gallery for a couple of weeks — either that or rent a place by the year. The only way I can recompense you for your wall space, for talking art talk to visitors, for fixing prices, is to offer you half of what we make. Why not? You pay a pretty stiff rent here, don’t you? You also pay a servant. You pay for heat and light, don’t you? So if you’ll turn this floor into a combination gallery of sorts — art and real estate, you see — we’ll go into business, egad! What? The Dankmere galleries! What? By gad I’ll have a sign made to hang out there beside your shingle — only I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for it, Quarren, and recompense yourself after we sell the first picture.”
“But, Dankmere,” he protested, very much amused, “I don’t want to become a picture dealer.”
“What’s the harm? Take a shot at it, old chap! A young man can’t collect too many kinds of experience. Take me for example! — I’ve sold dogs and hunters on commission, gone shares in about every rotten scheme anybody ever suggested to me, financed a show, and acted in it — as you know — and, by gad! — here I am now a dealer in old masters! Be a good fellow and come in with me. What?”
“I don’t really know enough about antique pictures to — —”
“What’s the odds! Neither do I! My dear sir, we must lie like gentlemen for the honour of the Dankmere gallery! What? Along comes a chap walking slowly and painfully for the weight of the money in his pockets— ‘Ho!’ says he— ‘a genuine Van Dyck!’ ‘Certainly,’ you say, very coldly. And, ‘How much?’ says he, shivering for fear he mayn’t get it. ‘Three hundred thousand dollars,’ you say, trying not to yawn in his face — —”
Quarren could no longer control his laughter: Dankmere blinked at him amiably.
“We’ll hang them anyhow, Dankmere,” he said. “As long as there is so little business in the office I don’t mind looking after your pictures for you — —”
“Yours, too,” urged the Earl.
“No; I can’t accept anything — —”
“Then it’s all off!” exclaimed Dankmere, turning a bright red. “I’m blessed if I’ll accept charity! — even if I am hunting heiresses. I’ll marry money if I can, but I’m damned if I hold out a tin cup for coppers!”
“If you feel that way,” began Quarren, very much embarrassed, “I’ll do whatever would make you feel comfortable — —”
“Half interest or it’s all off! A Dankmere means what he says — now and then.”
“One-third interest, then — —”
“A half! — by gad! There’s a good fellow!”
“No; one-third is all I’ll accept.”
“Oh, very well. It may amount to ten dollars — it may amount to ten thousand — and ten times that, perhaps. What?”
“Perhaps,” said Quarren, smiling. “And, if you’re going out, Dankmere, perhaps you had better order a sign painted — anything you like, of course. Because I’m afraid I couldn’t leave these pictures here indefinitely and we might as well make plans to get rid of some of them as soon as possible.”
“Right-o! I’m off to find a painter. Leave it to me, Quarren. And when the picture-hangers come, have them hung in a poor light — I mean the pictures — God knows they need it — the dimmer the light the better. What? Take care of yourself, old chap. There’s money in sight, believe me!”
And the lively little Earl trotted out, swinging his stick and setting his straw hat at an angle slightly rakish.
No business came to the office that sunny afternoon; neither did the picture-hangers. And Quarren, uneasy, and not caring to leave Dankmere’s ancestral collection of pictures in the back yard all night lest the cats and a possible shower knock a little superfluous antiquity into them, had just started to go out and hire somebody to help him carry the canvases into the basement, when the office door opened in his very face and Molly Wycherly came in, breezily.
“Why, Molly!” he exclaimed, surprised; “this is exceedingly nice of you — —”
“Oh, Ricky, I’m glad to see you! But I don’t want to buy a house or sell one or anything. I’m very unhappy — and I’m glad to see you — —”
She pressed his hand with both her gloved ones; he closed the door and returned to the office; and she seated herself on top of his desk.
“You dear boy,” she said; “you are thin and white and you don’t look very happy either. Are you?”
“Why, of course I’m happy — —”
“I don’t believe it! Anyway, I was passing, and I saw your shingle swinging, and I made the chauffeur stop on the impulse of the moment.... How are you, Ricky dear?”
“First rate. You are even unusually pretty, Molly.”
“I don’t feel so. Strelsa and I came into town for the afternoon — on the most horrid kind of business, Ricky.”
“I’m sorry — —”
“You will be sorrier when you hear that about all of Strelsa’s money was in that miserable Adamant Trust Company which is causing so much scandal. You didn’t know Strelsa’s money was in it, did you?”
“No,” he said gravely.
“Isn’t it dreadful? The child doesn’t know whether she will ever get a penny or not. Some of those disgusting men have run away, one shot himself — you read about it! — and now they are trying to pretend that the two creatures they have arrested are insane and irresponsible. I don’t care whether they are or not; I’d like to kill them. How does their insanity concern Strelsa? For three weeks she hasn’t known what to think, what to expect — and even her lawyers can’t tell her. I hate lawyers. But I think the chances are that her pretty house will be for sale before long.... Wouldn’t it be too tragic if it came into your office — —”
“Don’t say such things, Molly,” he said, bending his head over the desk and fumbling with his pen.
“Well, I knew you’d be sympathetic. It’s a shame — a crime! — it’s absolutely disgusting the way that men gamble with other people’s money and cheat and lie and — and — oh, it’s a perfectly rotten world and I’m tired of it!”
“Where is Mrs. Leeds?” he asked in a low voice.
“At Witch-Hollow — in town for this afternoon to see her stupid lawyers. They don’t do anything. They say they can’t just yet. They’re lazy or — something worse. That’s my opinion. We go out on the five-three train — Strelsa and I — —”
“Is she — much affected?”
“No; and that’s the silly part of it. It would simply wreck me. But she hasn’t wept a single tear.... I suppose she’ll have to marry, now—” Mrs. Wycherly glanced askance at Quarren, but his face remained gravely expressionless.
“Ricky dear?”
“Yes.”
“I had a frightful row, on your account, with Mrs. Sprowl.”
“I’m sorry. Why?”
“I told her I was going to ask you and Strelsa to Witch-Hollow.”
Quarren said calmly:
“Don’t do it then, Molly. There’s no use of your getting in wrong with Mrs. Sprowl.”
Mrs. Wycherly laughed:
“Oh, I found a way around. I asked Mrs. Sprowl and Sir Charles at the same time.”
“What do you mean?” he said, turning a colourless face to hers.
“What I say. Ricky dear, I suppose that Strelsa will have to marry a wealthy man, now — and I believe she realises it, too — but I — I wanted her to marry you, some day — —”
He swung around again, confronting her.
“You darling!” he said under his breath.
Mrs. Wycherly’s lip trembled and she dabbed at her eyes.
“I wish I could express my feelings like Mrs. Sprowl, but I can’t,” she said naïvely. “Sir Charles will marry her, now; I know perfectly well he will — unless Langly Sprowl — —”
Quarren drew his breath sharply.
“Not that man,” she said.
“God knows, Ricky. He’s after Strelsa every minute — and he can make himself agreeable. The worst of it is that Strelsa does not believe what she hears about him. Women are that way, often. The moment the whole world pitches into a man, women are inclined to believe him a martyr — and end by discrediting every unworthy story concerning him.... I don’t know, but I think it is already a little that way with Strelsa.... He’s a clever brute — and oh! what a remorseless man!... I said that once to Strelsa, and she said very warmly that I entirely misjudged him.... I wish Mary Ledwith would come back and bring things to a crisis — I do, indeed.”
Quarren said, calmly;
“You don’t think Mrs. Leeds is engaged to Sprowl, do you?”
“No.... I don’t think so. Sometimes I don’t know what to think of Strelsa. I’m certain that she was not engaged to him four weeks ago when she was at Newport.”
Quarren gazed out into the sunlit street. It was just four weeks ago that her letters ceased. Had she stopped writing because of worry over the Adamant Trust? Or was there another reason?
“I suppose,” said Molly, dabbing at her eyes, “that Strelsa can’t pick and choose now. I suppose she’s got to marry for sordid and sensible and material reasons. But if only she would choose Sir Charles — I think I could be almost reconciled to her losing you — —”
Quarren laughed harshly.
“An irreparable loss to any woman,” he said. “I doubt that Mrs. Leeds survives losing me.”
“Ricky! She cares a great deal for you! So do I. And Strelsa does care for you — —”
“Not too rashly I hope,” he said with another disagreeable laugh.
“Oh, that isn’t like you, Ricky! You’re not the sneering, fleering nasty kind. If you are badly hurt, take it better than that — —”
“I can’t!” he said between set teeth. “I care for her; she knows it. I guess she knows, too, that what she once said to me started me into what I’m doing now — working, waiting, living like a dog — doing my best to keep my self-respect and obtain hers—” He choked, regained his self-control, and went on quietly:
“Why do you think I dropped out of everything? To try to develop whatever may be in me — so that I could speak to her as an equal and not as the court jester and favourite mountebank of the degenerate gang she travels with — —”
“Ricky!”
“I beg your pardon,” he said sullenly.
“I am not offended, you poor boy.... I hadn’t realised that you were so much in love with her — so deeply concerned — —”
“I have always been.... She knows it....” He cleared his eyes and turned a dazed gaze on the sunny street once more.
“If I could—” he stopped; a hopeless look came into his eyes. Then he slowly shook his head.
“Oh, Ricky! Ricky! Can’t you do something? Can’t you make a lot of money very quickly? You see Strelsa has simply got to marry money. Be fair; be just to her. A girl can’t exist without money, can she? You know that, don’t you?”
“I’ve heard your world say so.”
“You know it’s true!”
“I don’t know what is true. I don’t know truth from falsehood. I suppose that love requires money to keep it nourished — as roses require manure — —”
“Ricky!”
“I’m speaking of your world — —”
“My world! The entire world knows that money is necessary — except perhaps a silly sentimentalist here and there — —”
“Yes, there are one or two — here and there,” he said. “But they’re all poor — and prejudiced.”
Molly applied her handkerchief to her eyes, viciously.
“I hope you are not one, Ricky. I’m sure I’m not fool enough to expect a girl who has been accustomed to everything to be contented without anything.”
