Works of robert w chambe.., p.636
Works of Robert W Chambers, page 636
Presently the near whistle of the Connecticut Express brought him to his feet. He lifted the astonishingly gifted infant and walked out; and when the express rolled past and stopped, he set it on the day-coach platform beside its stolid parent, and waved to it an impressive adieu.
At the same moment, descending from the train, a tall young girl, in waterproofs, witnessed the proceedings, recognised Desboro, and smiled at the little ceremony taking place.
“Yours?” she inquired, as, hat off, hand extended, he came forward to welcome her — and the next moment blushed at her impulsive informality.
“Oh, all kids seem to be mine, somehow or other,” he said. “I’m awfully glad you came. I was afraid you wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t believe you really existed, for one thing. And then the weather — —”
“Do you suppose mere weather could keep me from the Desboro collection? You have much to learn about me.”
“I’ll begin lessons at once,” he said gaily, “if you don’t mind giving them. Do you?”
She smiled non-committally, and looked around her at the departing vehicles.
“We have a limousine waiting for us behind the station,” he said. “It’s five muddy miles.”
“I had been wondering all the way up in the train just how I was to get to Silverwood — —”
“You didn’t suppose I’d leave you to find your way, did you?”
“Business people don’t expect limousines,” she said, with an unmistakable accent that sounded priggish even to herself — so prim, indeed, that he laughed outright; and she finally laughed, too.
“This is very jolly, isn’t it?” he remarked, as they sped away through the rain.
She conceded that it was.
“It’s going to be a most delightful day,” he predicted.
She thought it was likely to be a busy day.
“And delightful, too,” he insisted politely.
“Why particularly delightful, Mr. Desboro?”
“I thought you were looking forward with keen pleasure to your work in the Desboro collection!”
She caught a latent glimmer of mischief in his eye, and remained silent, not yet quite certain that she liked this constant running fire of words that always seemed to conceal a hint of laughter at her expense.
Had they been longer acquainted, and on a different footing, she knew that whatever he said would have provoked a response in kind from her. But friendship is not usually born from a single business interview; nor is it born perfect, like a fairy ring, over night. And it was only last night, she made herself remember, that she first laid eyes on Desboro. Yet it seemed curious that whatever he said seemed to awaken in her its echo; and, though she knew it was an absurd idea, the idea persisted that she already began to understand this young man better than she had ever understood any other of his sex.
He was talking now at random, idly but agreeably, about nothing in particular. She, muffled in the fur robe, looked out through the limousine windows into the rain, and saw brown fields set with pools in every furrow, and squares of winter wheat, intensely green.
And now the silver birch woods, which had given the house its name, began to appear as outlying clumps across the hills; and in a few moments the car swung into a gateway under groves of solemnly-dripping Norway spruces, then up a wide avenue, lined with ranks of leafless, hardwood trees and thickets of laurel and rhododendron, and finally stopped before a house made of grayish-brown stone, in the rather inoffensive architecture of early eighteen hundred.
Mrs. Quant, in best bib and tucker, received them in the hallway, having been instructed by Desboro concerning her attitude toward the expected guest. But when she became aware of the slender youth of the girl, she forgot her sniffs and misgivings, and she waddled, and bobbed, and curtsied, overflowing with a desire to fondle, and cherish, and instruct, which only fear of Desboro choked off.
But as soon as Jacqueline had followed her to the room assigned, and had been divested of wet outer-clothing, and served with hot tea, Mrs. Quant became loquacious and confidential concerning her own personal ailments and sorrows, and the history and misfortunes of the Desboro family.
Jacqueline wished to decline the cup of tea, but Mrs. Quant insisted; and the girl yielded.
“Air you sure you feel well, Miss Nevers?” she asked anxiously.
“Why, of course.”
“Don’t be too sure,” said Mrs. Quant ominously. “Sometimes them that feels bestest is sickest. I’ve seen a sight of sickness in my day, dearie — typod, mostly. You ain’t never had typod, now, hev you?”
“Typhoid?”
“Yes’m, typod!”
“No, I never did.”
“Then you take an old woman’s advice, Miss Nevers, and don’t you go and git it!”
Jacqueline promised gravely; but Mrs. Quant was now fairly launched on her favourite topic.
“I’ve been forty-two years in this place — and Quant — my man — he was head farmer here when he was took. Typod, it was, dearie — and you won’t never git it if you’ll listen to me — and Quant, a man that never quarreled with his vittles, but he was for going off without ’em that morning. Sez he, ‘Cassie, I don’t feel good this mornin’!’ — and a piece of pie and a pork chop layin’ there onto his plate. ‘My vittles don’t set right,’ sez he; ‘I ain’t a mite peckish.’ Sez I, ‘Quant, you lay right down, and don’t you stir a inch! You’ve gone and got a mild form of typod,’ sez I, knowing about sickness as I allus had a gift, my father bein’ a natural bone-setter. And those was my very words, dearie, ‘a mild form of typod.’ And I was right and he was took. And when folks ain’t well, it’s mostly that they’ve got a mild form of typod which some call malairy — —”
There was no stopping her; Jacqueline tasted her hot tea and listened sympathetically to that woman of many sorrows. And, sipping her tea, she was obliged to assist at the obsequies of Quant, the nativity of young Desboro, the dissolution of his grandparents and parents, and many, many minor details, such as the freezing of water-pipes in 1907, the menace of the chestnut blight, mysterious maladies which had affected cattle and chickens on the farm — every variety of death, destruction, dissolution, and despondency that had been Mrs. Quant’s portion to witness.
And how she gloried in detailing her dismal career; and presently pessimistic prophecies for the future became plainer as her undammed eloquence flowed on:
“And Mr. James, he ain’t well, neither,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “He don’t know it, and he won’t listen to me, dearie, but I know he’s got a mild form of typod — he’s that unwell the mornings when he’s been out late in the city. Say what you’re a mind to, typod is typod! And if you h’ain’t got it you’re likely to git it most any minute; but he won’t swaller the teas and broths and suffusions I bring him, and he’ll be took like everybody else one of these days, dearie — which he wouldn’t if he’d listen to me — —”
“Mrs. Quant,” came Desboro’s voice from the landing.
“Y — yes, sir,” stammered that guilty and agitated Cassandra.
Jacqueline set aside her teacup and came to the stairs; their glances met in the suppressed amusement of mutual comprehension, and he conducted her to the hallway below, where a big log fire was blazing.
“What was it — death, destruction, and general woe, as usual?” he asked.
“And typod,” she whispered. “It appears that you have it!”
“Poor old soul! She means all right; but imagine me here with her all day, dodging infusions and broths and red flannel! Warm your hands at the blaze, Miss Nevers, and I’ll find the armoury keys. It will be a little colder in there.”
She spread her hands to the flames, conscious of his subtle change of manner toward her, now that she was actually under his roof — and liked him for it — not in the least surprised that she was comprehending still another phase of this young man’s most interesting personality.
For, without reasoning, her slight misgivings concerning him were vanishing; instinct told her she might even permit herself a friendlier manner, and she looked up smilingly when he came back swinging a bunch of keys.
“These belong to the Quant,” he explained, “ — honest old soul! Every gem and ivory and lump of jade in the collection is at her mercy, for here are the keys to every case. Now, Miss Nevers, what do you require? Pencil and pad?”
“I have my note-book, thanks — a new one in your honour.”
He said he was flattered and led the way through a wide corridor to the eastern wing; unlocked a pair of massive doors, and swung them wide. And, beside him, she walked into the armoury of the famous Desboro collection.
Straight ahead of her, paved with black marble, lay a lane through a double rank of armed and mounted men in complete armour; and she could scarcely suppress a little cry of surprise and admiration.
“This is magnificent!” she exclaimed; and he saw her cheeks brighten, and her breath coming faster.
“It is fine,” he said soberly.
“It is, indeed, Mr. Desboro! That is a noble array of armour. I feel like some legendary princess of long ago, passing her chivalry in review as I move between these double ranks. What a wonderful collection! All Spanish and Milanese mail, isn’t it? Your grandfather specialised?”
“I believe he did. I don’t know very much about the collection, technically.”
“Don’t you care for it?”
“Why, yes — more, perhaps, than I realised — now that you are actually here to take it away.”
“But I’m not going to put it into a magic pocket and flee to New York with it!”
She spoke gaily, and his face, which had become a little grave, relaxed into its habitual expression of careless good humour.
They had slowly traversed the long lane, and now, turning, came back through groups of men-at-arms, pikemen, billmen, arquebussiers, crossbowmen, archers, halbardiers, slingers — all the multitudinous arms of a polyglot service, each apparently equipped with his proper weapon and properly accoutred for trouble.
Once or twice she glanced at the trophies aloft on the walls, every group bunched behind its shield and radiating from it under the drooping remnants of banners emblazoned with arms, crests, insignia, devices, and quarterings long since forgotten, except by such people as herself.
“Now and then she ... halted on tip-toe to lift some slitted visor”
She moved gracefully, leisurely, pausing now and then before some panoplied manikin, Desboro sauntering beside her. Now and then she stopped to inspect an ancient piece of ordnance, wonderfully wrought and chased, now and then halted on tip-toe to lift some slitted visor and peer into the dusky cavern of the helmet, where a painted face stared back at her out of painted eyes.
“Who scours all this mail?” she asked.
“Our old armourer. My grandfather trained him. But he’s very old and rheumatic now, and I don’t let him exert himself. I think he sleeps all winter, like a woodchuck, and fishes all summer.”
“You ought to have another armourer.”
“I can’t turn Michael out to starve, can I?”
She swung around swiftly: “I didn’t mean that!” and saw he was laughing at her.
“I know you didn’t,” he said. “But I can’t afford two armourers. That’s the reason I’m disposing of these tin-clothed tenants of mine — to economise and cut expenses.”
She moved on, evidently desiring to obtain a general impression of the task before her, now and then examining the glass-encased labels at the feet of the figures, and occasionally shaking her head. Already the errant lock curled across her cheek.
“What’s the trouble?” he inquired. “Aren’t these gentlemen correctly ticketed?”
“Some are not. That suit of gilded mail is not Spanish; it’s German. It is not very difficult to make such a mistake sometimes.”
Steam heat had been put in, but the vast hall was chilly except close to the long ranks of oxidised pipes lining the walls. They stood a moment, leaning against them and looking out across the place, all glittering with the mail-clad figures.
“I’ve easily three weeks’ work before me among these mounted figures alone, to say nothing of the men on foot and the trophies and artillery,” she said. “Do you know it is going to be rather expensive for you, Mr. Desboro?”
This did not appear to disturb him.
“Because,” she went on, “a great many mistakes have been made in labelling, and some mistakes in assembling the complete suits of mail and in assigning weapons. For example, that mounted man in front of you is wearing tilting armour and a helmet that doesn’t belong to it. That’s a childish mistake.”
“We’ll put the proper lid on him,” said Desboro. “Show it to me and I’ll put it all over him now.”
“It’s up there aloft with the trophies, I think — the fifth group.”
“There’s a ladder on wheels for a closer view of the weapons. Shall I trundle it in?”
He went out into the hallway and presently came back pushing a clanking extension ladder with a railed top to it. Then he affixed the crank and began to grind until it rose to the desired height.
“All I ask of you is not to tumble off it,” he said. “Do you promise?”
She promised with mock seriousness: “Because I need all my brains, you see.”
“You’ve a lot of ‘em, haven’t you, Miss Nevers?”
“No, not many.”
He shrugged: “I wonder, then, what a quantitative analysis of mine might produce.”
She said: “You are as clever as you take the trouble to be—” and stopped herself short, unwilling to drift into personalities.
“It’s the interest that is lacking in me,” he said, “ — or perhaps the incentive.”
She made no comment.
“Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know.”
“ — And don’t care,” he added.
She flushed, half turned in protest, but remained silent.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “I didn’t mean to force your interest in myself. Tell me, is there anything I can do for your comfort before I go? And shall I go and leave you to abstruse and intellectual meditation, or do I disturb you by tagging about at your heels?”
His easy, light tone relieved her. She looked around her at the armed figures:
“You don’t disturb me. I was trying to think where to begin. To-morrow I’ll bring up some reference books — —”
“Perhaps you can find what you want in my grandfather’s library. I’ll show you where it is when you are ready.”
“I wonder if he has Grenville’s monograph on Spanish and Milanese mail?”
“I’ll see.”
He went away and remained for ten minutes. She was minutely examining the sword belonging to a rather battered suit of armour when he returned with the book.
“You see,” she said, “you are useful. I did well to suggest that you remain here. Now, look, Mr. Desboro. This is German armour, and here is a Spanish sword of a different century along with it! That’s all wrong, you know. Antonius was the sword-maker; here is his name on the hexagonal, gilded iron hilt— ‘Antonius Me Fecit’.”
“You’ll put that all right,” he said confidently. “Won’t you?”
“That’s why you asked me here, isn’t it?”
He may have been on the point of an indiscreet rejoinder, for he closed his lips suddenly and began to examine another sword. It belonged to the only female equestrian figure in the collection — a beautifully shaped suit of woman’s armour, astride a painted war-horse, the cuirass of Milan plates.
“The Countess of Oroposa,” he said. “It was her peculiar privilege, after the Count’s death, to ride in full armour and carry a naked sword across her knees when the Spanish Court made a solemn entry into cities. Which will be about all from me,” he added with a laugh. “Are you ready for luncheon?”
“Quite, thank you. But you said that you didn’t know much about this collection. Let me see that sword, please.”
“She took it ... then read aloud the device in verse”
He drew it from its scabbard and presented the hilt. She took it, studied it, then read aloud the device in verse:
“‘Paz Comigo Nunca Veo Y Siempre Guera Dese.’” (“There is never peace with me; my desire is always war!”)
Her clear young voice repeating the old sword’s motto seemed to ring a little through the silence — as though it were the clean-cut voice of the blade itself.
“What a fine motto,” he said guilelessly. “And you interpret it as though it were your own.”
“I like the sound of it. There is no compromise in it.”
“Why not assume it for your own? ‘There is never peace with me; my desire is always war!’ Why not adopt it?”
“Do you mean that such a militant motto suits me?” she asked, amused, and caught the half-laughing, half malicious glimmer in his eyes, and knew in an instant he had divined her attitude toward himself, and toward to her own self, too — war on them both, lest they succumb to the friendship that threatened. Silent, preoccupied, she went back with him through the armoury, through the hallway, into a rather commonplace dining-room, where a table had already been laid for two.
Desboro jingled a small silver bell, and presently luncheon was announced. She ate with the healthy appetite of the young, and he pretended to. Several cats and dogs of unaristocratic degree came purring and wagging about the table, and he indulged them with an impartiality that interested her, playing no favourites, but allotting to each its portion, and serenely chastising the greedy.
“What wonderful impartiality!” she ventured.
“I couldn’t do it; I’d be sure to prefer one of them.”
“Why entertain preference for anything or anybody?”
“That’s nonsense.”
“No; it’s sense. Because, if anything happens to one, there are the others to console you. It’s pleasanter to like impartially.”
She was occupied with her fruit cup; presently she glanced up at him:
