CHAPTER XIV
STRATEGY
An hour or two later that afternoon Wayward and Constance Palliser, Gussie Vetchen, and Livingston Cuyp gazed with variously mingled sentiments upon the torpid saurians belonging to one Alligator Joe in an enclosure rather remote from the hotel.
Vetchen bestowed largess upon the small, freckled boy attendant; and his distinguished disapproval upon the largest lady-crocodile which, with interlocked but grinning jaws, slumbered under a vertical sun in monochromatic majesty.
“One perpetual and gigantic simper,” he said, disgusted.
“Rather undignified for a thing as big as that to lay eggs like a hen,” observed Cuyp, not intending to be funny.
Wayward and Miss Palliser had wandered off together to inspect the pumps. Vetchen, always inquisitive, had discovered a coy manatee in one tank, and was all for poking it with his walking-stick until he saw its preposterous countenance emerge from the water.
“Great heavens,” he faltered, “it looks like a Dutch ancestor of Cuyp’s!”
Cuyp, intensely annoyed, glanced at his watch.
“Where the mischief did Miss Suydam and Malcourt go?” he asked Wayward. “I say, Miss Palliser, you don’t want to wait here any longer, do you?”
“They’re somewhere in the labyrinth,” said Wayward. “Their chair went that way, didn’t it, boy?”
“Yeth, thir,” said the small and freckled attendant.
So the party descended the wooden incline to where their sleepy black chairmen lay on the grass, waiting; and presently the two double chairs wheeled away toward that amusing maze of jungle pathways cut through the impenetrable hammock, and popularly known as the labyrinth.
But Miss Suydam and Mr. Malcourt were not in the labyrinth. At that very moment they were slowly strolling along the eastern dunes where the vast solitude of sky and sea seemed to depress even the single white-headed eagle standing on the wet beach, head and tail adroop, motionless, fish-gorged. No other living thing was in sight except the slim, blue dragon-flies, ceaselessly darting among the beach-grapes; nothing else stirred except those two figures on the dunes, moving slowly, heads bent as though considering the advisability of every step in the breaking sands. There was a fixed smile on the girl’s lips, but her eyes were mirthless, almost vacant.
“So you’ve decided to go?” she said.
“Portlaw decides that sort of thing for me.”
“It’s a case of necessity?”
Malcourt answered lightly: “He intends to go. Who can stop a fat and determined man? Besides, the season is over; in two weeks there will be nobody left except the indigenous nigger, the buzzards, and a few cast-off summer garments—”
“And a few cast-off winter memories,” she said. “You will not take any away with you, will you?”
“Do you mean clothes?”
“Memories.”
“I’ll take some.”
“Which?”
“All those concerning you.”
“Thank you, Louis.” They had got that far. And a trifle farther, for her hand, swinging next his, encountered it and their fingers remained interlocked. But there was no change of expression in her pretty, pale face as, head bent, shoulder to shoulder with him, she moved thoughtfully onward along the dunes, the fixed smile stamped on her lips.
“What are you going to do with your memories?” she asked. “Pigeon-hole and label them? Or fling them, like your winter repentance, in the Fire of Spring?”
“What are you going to do with yours, Virginia?”
“Nothing. They are not disturbing enough to destroy. Besides, unlike yours, they are my first memories of indiscretions, and they are too new to forget easily, too incredible yet to hurt. A woman is seldom hurt by what she cannot understand.”
He passed one arm around her supple waist; they halted; he turned her toward him.
“What is it you don’t understand?”
“This.”
“My kissing you? Like this?”
She neither avoided nor returned the caress, looking at him out of impenetrable eyes more green than blue like the deep sea under changing skies.
“Is this what you don’t understand, Virginia?”
“Yes; that — and your moderation.”
His smile changed, but it was still a smile.
“Nor I,” he said. “Like our friend, Warren Hastings, I am astonished. But there our resemblance ends.”
The eagle on the wet sands ruffled, shook his silvery hackles, and looked around at them. Then, head low and thrust forward, he hulked slowly toward the remains of the dead fish from which but now he had retired in the disgust of satiation.
Meanwhile Malcourt and Miss Suydam were walking cautiously forward again, selecting every footstep as though treading on the crumbling edges of an abyss.
“It’s rather stupid that I never suspected it,” she said, musing aloud.
“Suspected what?”
“The existence of this other woman called Virginia Suydam. And I might have been mercifully ignorant of her until I died, if you had not looked at me and seen us both at once.”
“We all are that way.”
“Not all women, Louis. Have you found them so? You need not answer. There is in you, sometimes, a flash of infernal chivalry; do you know it? I can forgive you a great deal for it; even for discovering that other and not very staid person, so easily schooled, easily taught to respond; so easily thrilled, easily beguiled, easily caressed. Why, with her head falling back on your shoulder so readily, and her lips so lightly persuaded, one can scarcely believe her to have been untaught through all these years of dry convention and routine, or unaware of that depravity, latent, which it took your unerring faith and skill to discover and develop.”
“How far have I developed it?”
She bent her delicate head: “I believe I have already admitted your moderation.”
He shivered, walking forward without looking at her for a pace or two, then halted.
“Would you marry me?” he asked.
“I had rather not. You know it.”
“Why? — once again.”
“Because of my strange respect for that other woman that I am — or was.”
“Which always makes me regret my — moderation,” he said, wincing under the lash of her words. “But I’m not considering you! I’m considering the peace of mind of that other woman — not yours!” He took her in his arms, none too gently. “Not yours. I’d show no mercy to you There is only one kind of mercy you’d understand. Look into my eyes and admit it.”
“Yes,” she said.
“But your other self understands!”
“Why don’t you destroy her?”
“And let her die in her contempt for me? You ask too much — Virginia-that-I-know. If that other Virginia-that-I-don’t-know loved me, I’d kill this one, not the other!”
“Do you care for that one, Louis?”
“What answer shall I make?”
“The best you can without lying.”
“Then” — and being in his arms their eyes were close— “then I think I could love her if I had a chance. I don’t know. I can deny myself. They say that is the beginning. But I seldom do — very seldom. And that is the best answer I can give, and the truest.”
“Thank you.... And so you are going to leave me?”
“I am going North. Yes.”
“What am I to do?”
“Return to your other self and forget me.”
“Thank you again.... Do you know, Louis, that you have never once by hint or by look or by silence suggested that it was I who deliberately offered you the first provocation? That is another flicker of that infernal chivalry of yours.”
“Does your other self approve?” he said, laughing.
“My other self is watching us both very closely, Louis. I — I wish, sometimes, she were dead! Louis! Louis! as I am now, here in your arms, I thought I had descended sufficiently to meet you on your own plane. But
— you seem higher up — at moments.... And now, when you are going, you tell my other self to call in the creature we let loose together, for it will have no longer any counterpart to caress.... Louis! I do love you; how can I let you go! Can you tell me? What am I to do? There are times — there are moments when I cannot endure it — the thought of losing the disgrace of your lips — your arms — the sound of your voice. Don’t go and leave me like this — don’t go—”
Miss Suydam’s head fell. She was crying.
The eagle on the wet beach, one yellow talon firmly planted on its offal, tore strip after strip from the quivering mass. The sun etched his tinted shadow on the sand.
When the tears of Miss Suydam had been appropriately dried, they turned and retraced their steps very slowly, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm around her thin waist, her own hand hanging loosely, trailing the big straw hat and floating veil.
They spoke very seldom — very, very seldom. Malcourt was too busy thinking; Virginia too stunned to realise that, it was, now, her other austere self, bewildered, humiliated, desperate, which was walking amid the solitude of sky and sea with Louis Malcourt, there beneath the splendour of the westering sun.
The eagle, undisturbed, tore at the dead thing on the beach, one yellow talon embedded in the offal.
Their black chair-boy lay asleep under a thicket of Spanish bayonet.
“Arise, O Ethiope, and make ready unto us a chariot!” said Malcourt pleasantly; and he guided Virginia into her seat while the fat darky climbed up behind, rubbing slumber from his rolling and enormous eyes.
Half-way through the labyrinth they met Miss Palliser and Wayward.
“Where on earth have you been?” asked Virginia, so candidly that Wayward, taken aback, began excuses. But Constance Palliser’s cheeks turned pink; and remained so during her silent ride home with Wayward.
Lately the world had not been spinning to suit the taste of Constance Palliser. For one thing Wayward was morose. Besides he appeared physically ill. She shrank from asking herself the reason; she might better have asked him for her peace of mind.
Another matter: Virginia, the circumspect, the caste-bound, the intolerant, the emotionless, was displaying the astounding symptoms peculiar to the minx! And she had neither the excuse of ignorance nor of extreme youth. Virginia was a mature maiden, calmly cognisant of the world, and coolly alive to the doubtful phases of that planet. And why on earth she chose to affiche herself with a man like Malcourt, Constance could not comprehend.
And another thing worried the pretty spinster — the comings, goings, and occult doings of her nephew with the most distractingly lovely and utterly impossible girl that fate ever designed to harass the soul of any young man’s aunt.
That Hamil was already in love with Shiela Cardross had become painfully plainer to her every time she saw him. True, others were in love with Miss Cardross; that state of mind and heart seemed to be chronic at Palm Beach. Gussie Vetchen openly admitted his distinguished consideration, and Courtlandt Classon toddled busily about Shiela’s court, and even the forlorn Cuyp had become disgustingly unfaithful and no longer wrinkled his long Dutch nose into a series of white corrugations when Wayward took Miss Palliser away from him. Alas! the entire male world seemed to trot in the wake of this sweet-eyed young Circe, emitting appealingly gentle and propitiating grunts.
“The very deuce is in that girl!” thought Constance, exasperated; “and the sooner Garry goes North the better. He’s madly unhappy over her.... Fascinating little thing! I can’t blame him too much — except that he evidently realises he can’t marry such a person—”
The chair rolled into the hotel grounds under the arch of jasmine. The orchestra was playing in the colonnade; tea had been served under the cocoa-nut palms; pretty faces and gay toilets glimmered familiarly as the chair swept along the edge of the throng.
“Tell the chair-boy that we’ll tea here, Jim,” said Miss Palliser, catching sight of her nephew and the guilty Circe under whose gentle thrall Hamil was now boldly imbibing a swizzle.
So Wayward nodded to the charioteer, the chair halted, and he and Constance disembarked and advanced across the grass to exchange amenities with friends and acquaintances. Which formalities always fretted Wayward, and he stood about, morose and ungracious, while Constance floated prettily here and there, and at last turned with nicely prepared surprise to encounter Shiela and Hamil seated just behind her.
The younger girl, rising, met her more than half-way with gloved hand frankly offered; Wayward turned to Hamil in subdued relief.
“Lord! I’ve been looking at those confounded alligators and listening to Vetchen’s and Cuyp’s twaddle! Constance wouldn’t talk; and I’m quite unfit for print. What’s that in your glass, Garry?”
“A swizzle—”
“Anything in it except lime-juice and buzz?”
“Yes—”
“Then I won’t have one. Constance! Are you drinking tea?”
“Do you want some?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes, I do — if you can give me some without asking how many lumps I take — like the inevitable heroine in a British work of fiction—”
“Jim, what a bear you are to-day!” And to Shiela, who was laughing: “He snapped and growled at Gussie Vetchen and he glared and glowered at Livingston Cuyp, and he’s scarcely vouchsafed a word to me this afternoon except the civility you have just heard. Jim, I will ask you how many lumps—”
“O Lord! Britain triumphant! Two — I think; ten if you wish, Constance — or none at all. Miss Cardross, you wouldn’t say such things to me, would you?”
“Don’t answer him,” interposed Constance; “if you do you’ll take him away, and I haven’t another man left! Why are you such a dreadful devastator, Miss Cardross?... Here’s your tea, James. Please turn around and occupy yourself with my nephew; I’d like a chance to talk to Miss Cardross.”
The girl had seated herself beside Miss Palliser, and, as Wayward moved over to the other table, she gave him a perverse glance, so humourous and so wholly adorable that Constance Palliser yielded to the charm with an amused sigh of resignation.
“My dear,” she said, “Miss Suydam and I are going North very soon, and we are coming to see your mother at the first opportunity.”
“Mother expects you,” said the girl simply. “I did not know that she knew Miss Suydam — or cared to.”
Something in the gentle indifference of the words sent the conscious blood pulsing into Miss Palliser’s cheeks. Then she said frankly:
“Has Virginia been rude to you?”
“Yes — a little.”
“Unpardonably?”
“N-no. I always can pardon.”
“You dear!” said Constance impulsively. “Listen; Virginia does snippy things at times. I don’t know why and she doesn’t either. I know she’s sorry she was rude to you, but she seems to think her rudeness too utterly unpardonable. May I tell her it isn’t?”
“If you please,” said Shiela quietly.
Miss Palliser looked at her, then, succumbing, took her hand in hers.
“No wonder people like you, Miss Cardross.”
“Do you?”
“How could I escape the popular craze?” laughed Miss Palliser, a trifle embarrassed.
“That is not an answer,” returned Shiela, the smile on her red lips faintly wistful. And Constance surrendered completely.
“You sweet, cunning thing,” she said, “I do like you. You are perfectly adorable, for one reason; for the other, there is something — a nameless something about you—”
“Quite — nameless,” said the girl under her breath.
A little flash of mist confused Miss Palliser’s eyesight for a moment; her senses warned her, but her heart was calling.
“Dear,” she said, “I could love you very easily.”
Shiela looked her straight in the eyes.
“What you give I can return; no more, no less—”
But already Cons
tance Palliser had lifted the girl’s smooth hand to her lips, murmuring: “Pride! pride! It is the last refuge for social failures, Shiela. And you are too wise to enter there, too sweet and wholesome to remain. Leave us our obsolete pride, child; God knows we need something in compensation for all that you possess.”
Later they sipped their tea together. “I always wanted you to like me,” said the girl. Her glance wandered toward Hamil so unconsciously that Constance caught her breath. But the spell was on her still; she, too, looked at Hamil; admonition, prejudice, inculcated precept, wavered hazily.
“Because I care so much for Mr. Hamil,” continued the girl innocently.
For one instant, in her inmost intelligence, Miss Palliser fiercely questioned that innocence; then, convinced, looked questioningly at the girl beside her. So questioningly that Shiela answered:
“What?” — as though the elder woman had spoken.
“I don’t know, dear.... Is there anything you — you cared to ask me? — say to me? — tell me? — perhaps—”
“About what?”
So fearless and sweet and true the gaze that met her own that Constance hesitated.
“About Mr. Hamil?”
The girl looked at her; understood her; and the colour mounted to her temples.
“No,” she said slowly, “there is nothing to tell anybody.... There never will be.”
“I wish there were, child.” Certainly Constance must have gone quite mad under the spell, for she had Shiela’s soft hands in hers again, and was pressing them close between her palms, repeating: “I am sorry; I am, indeed. The boy certainly cares for you; he has told me so a thousand times without uttering a word. I have known it for weeks — feared it. Now I wish it. I am sorry.”
“Mr. Hamil — understands—” faltered Shiela; “I — I care so much for him — so much more than for any other man; but not in the way you — you are kind enough to — wish—”
“Does he understand?”
“Y-yes. I think so. I think we understand each other — thoroughly. But” — she blushed vividly— “I — did not dream that you supposed—”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 385
