“That must please him,” suggested Selwyn gravely.
“It does. Boots says you are not going to business to-day. So I thought I’d call you up.”
“Thank you,” said Selwyn.
“You are welcome. What are you doing over there in Boots’s house?”
“Looking at the fire, Drina, and listening to the purring of three fat tabby-cats.”
“Oh! Mother and Eileen have gone somewhere. I haven’t anything to do for an hour. Can’t you come around?”
“Why, yes, if you want me.”
“Yes, I do. Of course I can’t have Boots, and I prefer you next. The children are fox-hunting, and it bores me. Will you come?”
“Yes. When?”
“Now. And would you mind bringing me a box of mint-paste? Mother won’t object. Besides, I’ll tell her, anyway, after I’ve eaten them.”
“All right!” said Selwyn, laughing and hanging up the receiver.
On his way to the Gerards’ he bought a box of the confection dear to Drina. But as he dropped the packet into his overcoat-pocket, the memory of the past rose up suddenly, halting him. He could not bear to go to the house without some little gift for Eileen, and it was violets now as it was in the days that could never dawn again — a great, fragrant bunch of them, which he would leave for her after his brief play-hour with Drina was ended.
The child was glad to see him, and expressed herself so, coming across to the chair where he sat and leaning against him, one arm on his shoulder.
“Do you know,” she said, “that I miss you ever so much? Do you know, also, that I am nearly fourteen, and that there is nobody in this house near enough my age to be very companionable? I have asked them to send me to school, and mother is considering it.”
She leaned against his shoulder, curly head bent, thoughtfully studying the turquoise ring on her slim finger. It was her first ring. Nina had let Boots give it to her.
“What a tall girl you are growing into!” he said, encircling her waist with one arm. “Your mother was like you at fourteen. . . . Did she ever tell you how she first met your father? Well, I’ll tell you then. Your father was a schoolboy of fifteen, and one day he saw the most wonderful little girl riding a polo pony out of the Park. Her mother was riding with her. And he lost his head, and ran after her until she rode into the Academy stables. And in he went, headlong, after her, and found her dismounted and standing with her mother; and he took off his hat, and he said to her mother: ‘I’ve run quite a long way to tell you who I am: I am Colonel Gerard’s son, Austin. Would you care to know me?’
“And he looked at the little girl, who had curls precisely like yours, and the same little nose and mouth. And that little girl, who is now your mother, said very simply: ‘Won’t you come home to luncheon with us? May he, mother? He has run a very long way to be polite to us.’
“And your mother’s mother looked at the boy for a moment, smiling, for he was the image of his father, who had been at school with her. Then she said: ‘Come to luncheon and tell me about your father. Your father once came a thousand miles to see me, but I had started the day before on my wedding-trip.’
“And that is how your father first met your mother, when she was a little girl.”
Drina laughed: “What a funny boy father was to run after a strange girl on a polo pony! . . . Suppose — suppose he had not seen her, and had not run after her. . . . Where would I be now, Uncle Philip? . . . Could you please tell me?”
“Still aloft among the cherubim, sweetheart.”
“But — whose uncle would you be? And who would Boots have found for a comrade like me? . . . It’s a good thing that father ran after that polo pony. . . . Probably God arranged it. Do you think so?”
“There is no harm in thinking it,” he said, smiling.
“No; no harm. I’ve known for a long while that He was taking care of Boots for me until I grow up. Meanwhile, I know some very nice Harvard freshmen and two boys from St. Paul and five from Groton. That helps, you know.”
“Helps what?” asked Selwyn, vastly amused.
“To pass the time until I am eighteen,” said the child serenely, helping herself to another soft, pale-green chunk of the aromatic paste. “Uncle Philip, mother has forbidden me — and I’ll tell her and take my punishment — but would you mind telling me how you first met my Aunt Alixe?”
Selwyn’s arm around her relaxed, then tightened.
“Why do you ask, dear?” he said very quietly.
“Because I was just wondering whether God arranged that, too.”
Selwyn looked at her a moment. “Yes,” he said grimly; “nothing happens by chance.”
“Then, when God arranges such things, He does not always consider our happiness.”
“He gives us our chance, Drina.”
“Oh! Did you have a chance? I heard mother say to Eileen that you had never had a chance for happiness. I thought it was very sad. I had gone into the clothes-press to play with my dolls — you know I still do play with them — that is, I go into some secret place and look at them at times when the children are not around. So I was in there, sitting on the cedar-chest, and I couldn’t help hearing what they said.”
She extracted another bonbon, bit into it, and shook her head:
“And mother said to Eileen: ‘Dearest, can’t you learn to care for him?’ And Eileen—”
“Drina!” he interrupted sharply, “you must not repeat things you overhear.”
“Oh, I didn’t hear anything more,” said the child, “because I remembered that I shouldn’t listen, and I came out of the closet. Mother was standing by the bed, and Eileen was lying on the bed with her hands over her eyes; and I didn’t know she had been crying until I said: ‘Please excuse me for listening,’ and she sat up very quickly, and I saw her face was flushed and her eyes wet. . . . Isn’t it possible for you to marry anybody, Uncle Philip?”
“No, Drina.”
“Not even if Eileen would marry you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You could not understand, dear. Even your mother cannot quite understand. So we won’t ever speak of it again, Drina.”
The child balanced a bonbon between thumb and forefinger, considering it very gravely.
“I know something that mother does not,” she said. And as he betrayed no curiosity:
“Eileen is in love. I heard her say so.”
He straightened up sharply, turning to look at her.
“I was sleeping with her. I was still awake, and I heard her say: ‘I do love you — I do love you.’ She said it very softly, and I cuddled up, supposing she meant me. But she was asleep.”
“She certainly meant you,” said Selwyn, forcing his stiffened lips into a smile.
The child shook her head, looking down at the ring which she was turning on her finger:
“No; she did not mean me.”
“H-how do you know?”
“Because she said a man’s name.”
The silence lengthened; he sat, tilted a little forward, blank gaze focussed on the snowy window; Drina, standing, leaned back into the hollow of his arm, absently studying her ring.
A few moments later her music-teacher arrived, and Drina was obliged to leave him.
“If you don’t wait until I have finished my music,” she said, “you won’t see mother and Eileen. They are coming to take me to the riding-school at four o’clock.”
He said that he couldn’t stay that day; and when she had gone away to the schoolroom he walked slowly to the window and looked out across the snowy Park, where hundreds of children were floundering about with gaily painted sleds. It was a pretty scene in the sunshine; crimson sweaters and toboggan caps made vivid spots of colour on the white expanse. Beyond, through the naked trees, he could see the drive, and the sleighs with their brilliant scarlet plumes and running-gear flashing in the sun. Overhead was the splendid winter blue of the New York sky, in which, at a vast height, sea-birds circled.
> Meaning to go — for the house and its associations made him restless — he picked up the box of violets and turned to ring for a maid to take charge of them — and found himself confronting Eileen, who, in her furs and gloves, was just entering the room.
“I came up,” she said; “they told me you were here, calling very formally upon Drina, if you please. What with her monopoly of you and Boots, there seems to be no chance for Nina and me.”
They shook hands pleasantly; he offered her the box of violets, and she thanked him and opened it, and, lifting the heavy, perfumed bunch, bent her fresh young face to it. For a moment she stood inhaling the scent, then stretched out her arm, offering their fragrance to him.
“The first night I ever knew you, you sent me about a wagon-load of violets,” she said carelessly.
He nodded pleasantly; she tossed her muff on to the library table, stripped off her gloves, and began to unhook her fur coat, declining his aid with a quick shake of her head.
“It is easy — you see!” — as the sleeves slid from her arms and the soft mass of fur fell into a chair. “And, by the way, Drina said that you couldn’t wait to see Nina,” she continued, turning to face a mirror and beginning to withdraw the jewelled pins from her hat, “so you won’t for a moment consider it necessary to remain just because I wandered in — will you?”
He made no reply; she was still busy with her veil and hat and her bright, glossy hair, the ends of which curled up at the temples — a burnished frame for her cheeks which the cold had delicately flushed to a wild-rost tint. Then, brushing back the upcurled tendrils of her hair, she turned to confront him, faintly smiling, brows lifted in silent repetition of her question.
“I will stay until Nina comes, if I may,” he said slowly.
She seated herself. “You may,” she said mockingly; “we don’t allow you in the house very often, so when you do come you may remain until the entire family can congregate to inspect you.” She leaned back, looking at him; then look and manner changed, and she bent impulsively forward:
“You don’t look very well, Captain Selwyn; are you?”
“Perfectly. I” — he laughed— “I am growing old; that is all.”
“Do you say that to annoy me?” she asked, with a disdainful shrug, “or to further impress me?”
He shook his head and touched the hair at his temples significantly.
“Pooh!” she retorted. “It is becoming — is that what you mean?”
“I hope it is. There’s no reason why a man should not grow old gracefully—”
“Captain Selwyn! But of course you only say it to bring out that latent temper of mine. It’s about the only thing that does it, too. . . . And please don’t plague me — if you’ve only a few moments to stay. . . . It may amuse you to know that I, too, am exhibiting signs of increasing infirmity; my temper, if you please, is not what it once was.”
“Worse than ever?” he asked in pretended astonishment.
“Far worse. It is vicious. Kit-Ki took a nap on a new dinner-gown of mine, and I slapped her. And the other day Drina hid in a clothes-press while Nina was discussing my private affairs, and when the little imp emerged I could have shaken her. Oh, I am certainly becoming infirm; so if you are, too, comfort yourself with the knowledge that I am keeping pace with you through the winter of our discontent.”
At the mention of the incident of which Drina had already spoken to him, Selwyn raised his head and looked at the girl curiously. Then he laughed.
“I am wondering,” he said in a bantering voice, “what secrets Drina heard. I think I’d better ask her—”
“You had better not! Besides, I said nothing at all.”
“But Nina did.”
She nodded, lying there, arms raised, hands clasping the upholstered wings of the big chair, and gazing at him out of indolent, amused eyes.
“Would you like to know what Nina was saying to me?” she asked.
“I’d rather hear what you said to her.”
“I told you that I said nothing.”
“Not a word?” he insisted.
“Not a word.”
“Not even a sound?”
“N — well — I won’t answer that.”
“Oho!” he laughed. “So you did make some sort of inarticulate reply! Were you laughing or weeping?”
“Perhaps I was yawning. How do you know?” she smiled.
After a moment he said, still curious: “Why were you crying, Eileen?”
“Crying! I didn’t say I was crying.”
“I assume it.”
“To prove or disprove that assumption,” she said coolly, amused, “let us hunt up a motive for a possible display of tears. What, Captain Selwyn, have I to cry about? Is there anything in the world that I lack? Anything that I desire and cannot have?”
“Is there?” he repeated.
“I asked you, Captain Selwyn.”
“And, unable to reply,” he said, “I ask you.”
“And I,” she retorted, “refuse to answer.”
“Oho! So there is, then, something you lack? There is a motive for possible tears?”
“You have not proven it,” she said.
“You have not denied it.”
She tipped back her head, linked her fingers under her chin, and looked at him across the smooth curve of her cheeks.
“Well — yes,” she admitted, “I was crying — if you insist on knowing. Now that you have so cleverly driven me to admit that, can you also force me to tell you why I was so tearful?”
“Certainly,” he said promptly; “it was something Nina said that made you cry.”
They both laughed.
“Oh, what a come-down!” she said teasingly. “You knew that before. But can you force me to confess to you what Nina was saying? If you can you are the cleverest cross-examiner in the world, for I’d rather perish than tell you—”
“Oh,” he said instantly, “then it was something about love!”
He had not meant to say it; he had spoken too quickly, and the flush of surprise on the girl’s face was matched by the colour rising to his own temples. And, to retrieve the situation, he spoke too quickly again — and too lightly.
“A girl would rather perish than admit that she is in love?” he said, forcing a laugh. “That is rather a clever deduction, I think. Unfortunately, however, I happen to know to the contrary, so all my cleverness comes to nothing.”
The surprise had faded from her face, but the colour remained; and with it something else — something in the blue eyes which he had never before encountered there — the faintest trace of recoil, of shrinking away from him.
And she herself did not know it was there — did not quite realise that she had been hurt. Surprise that he had chanced so abruptly, so unerringly upon the truth had startled and confused her; but that he had made free of the truth so lightly, so carelessly, laughingly amused, left her without an answering smile.
That it had been an accident — a chance surmise which perhaps he himself did not credit — which he could not believe — made it no easier for her. For the first time in his life he had said something which left her unresponsive, with a sense of bruised delicacy and of privacy invaded. A tinge of fear of him crept in, too. She did not misconstrue what he had said under privilege of a jest, but after what had once passed between them she had not considered that love, even in the abstract, might serve as a mocking text for any humour or jesting sermon from a man who had asked her what he once asked — the man she had loved enough to weep for when she had refused him only because she lacked what he asked for. Knowing that she loved him in her own innocent fashion, scarcely credulous that he ever could be dearer to her, yet shyly wistful for whatever more the years might add to her knowledge of a love so far immune from stress or doubt or the mounting thrill of a deeper emotion, she had remained confidently passive, warmly loyal, reverencing the mystery of the love he offered, though she could not understand it or respond.
And now — now
a chance turn; of a word — a trend to an idle train of thought, jestingly followed! — and, without warning, they had stumbled on a treasured memory, too frail, too delicately fragile, to endure the shock.
And now fear crept in — fear that he had forgotten, had changed. Else how could he have spoken so? . . . And the tempered restraint of her quivered at the thought — all the serenity, the confidence in life and in him began to waver. And her first doubt crept in upon her.
She turned her expressionless face from him and, resting her cheek against the velvet back of the chair, looked out into the late afternoon sunshine.
All the long autumn without him, all her long, lonely, leisure hours in the golden weather, his silence, his withdrawal into himself, and his work, hitherto she had not misconstrued, though often she confused herself in explaining it. Impatience of his absence, too, had stimulated her to understand the temporary state of things — to know that time away from him meant for her only existence in suspense.
Very, very slowly, by degrees imperceptible, alone with memories of him and of their summer’s happiness already behind her, she had learned that time added things to what she had once considered her full capacity for affection.
Alone with her memories of him, at odd moments during the day — often in the gay clamour and crush of the social routine — or driving with Nina, or lying, wide-eyed, on her pillow at night, she became conscious that time, little by little, very gradually but very surely, was adding to her regard for him frail, new, elusive elements that stole in to awake an unquiet pulse or stir her heart into a sudden thrill, leaving it fluttering, and a faint glow gradually spreading through her every vein.
She was beginning to love him no longer in her own sweet fashion, but in his; and she was vaguely aware of it, yet curiously passive and content to put no question to herself whether it was true or false. And how it might be with him she evaded asking herself, too; only the quickening of breath and pulse questioned the pure thoughts unvoiced; only the increasing impatience of her suspense confirmed the answer which now, perhaps, she might give him one day while the blessed world was young.
At the thought she moved uneasily, shifting her position in the chair. Sunset, and the swift winter twilight, had tinted, then dimmed, the light in the room. On the oak-beamed ceiling, across the ivory rosettes, a single bar of red sunlight lay, broken by rafter and plaster foliation. She watched it turn to rose, to ashes. And, closing her eyes, she lay very still and motionless in the gray shadows closing over all.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 360
