The Business of Life Page 4

  CHAPTER III

  At eleven o'clock the next morning Miss Nevers had not arrived atSilverwood.

  It was still raining hard, the brown Westchester fields, the leaflesstrees, hedges, paths, roads, were soaked; pools stood in hollows withthe dead grass awash; ditches brimmed, river and brook ran amber riot,and alder swamps widened into lakes.

  The chances were now that she would not come at all. Desboro had metboth morning trains, but she was not visible, and all the passengers haddeparted leaving him wandering alone along the dripping platform.

  For a while he stood moodily on the village bridge beyond, listening tothe noisy racket of the swollen brook; and after a little it occurred tohim that there was laughter in the noises of the water, like the mirthof the gods mocking him.

  "Laugh on, high ones!" he said. "I begin to believe myself the ass thatI appear to you."

  Presently he wandered back to the station platform, where he idledabout, playing with a stray and nondescript dog or two, and caressingthe station-master's cat; then, when he had about decided to get intohis car and go home, it suddenly occurred to him that he might telephoneto New York for information. And he did so, and learned that Miss Nevershad departed that morning on business, for a destination unknown, andwould not return before evening.

  Also, the station-master informed him that the morning express nowdeposited passengers at Silverwood Station, on request--an innovation ofwhich he had not before heard; and this put him into excellent spirits.

  "Aha!" he said to himself, considerably elated. "Perhaps I'm not such anass as I appear. Let the high gods laugh!"

  So he lighted a cigarette, played with the wastrel dogs some more,flattered the cat till she nearly rubbed her head off against his legs,took a small and solemn child onto his knee and presented it with asilver dollar, while its overburdened German mother publicly nourishedanother.

  "You are really a remarkable child," he gravely assured the infant onhis knee. "You possess a most extraordinary mind!"--the child not havinguttered a word or betrayed a vestige of human expression upon itsslightly soiled features.

  Presently the near whistle of the Connecticut Express brought him to hisfeet. He lifted the astonishingly gifted infant and walked out; and whenthe express rolled past and stopped, he set it on the day-coach platformbeside its stolid parent, and waved to it an impressive adieu.

  At the same moment, descending from the train, a tall young girl, inwaterproofs, witnessed the proceedings, recognised Desboro, and smiledat the little ceremony taking place.

  "Yours?" she inquired, as, hat off, hand extended, he came forward towelcome her--and the next moment blushed at her impulsive informality.

  "Oh, all kids seem to be mine, somehow or other," he said. "I'm awfullyglad you came. I was afraid you wouldn't."

  "Why?"

  "Because I didn't believe you really existed, for one thing. And thenthe weather----"

  "Do you suppose mere _weather_ could keep me from the Desborocollection? You have much to learn about me."

  "I'll begin lessons at once," he said gaily, "if you don't mind givingthem. Do you?"

  She smiled non-committally, and looked around her at the departingvehicles.

  "We have a limousine waiting for us behind the station," he said. "It'sfive muddy miles."

  "I had been wondering all the way up in the train just how I was to getto Silverwood----"

  "You didn't suppose I'd leave you to find your way, did you?"

  "Business people don't expect limousines," she said, with anunmistakable 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 throughthe 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 inthe 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 wordsthat always seemed to conceal a hint of laughter at her expense.

  Had they been longer acquainted, and on a different footing, she knewthat whatever he said would have provoked a response in kind from her.But friendship is not usually born from a single business interview; noris it born perfect, like a fairy ring, over night. And it was only lastnight, she made herself remember, that she first laid eyes on Desboro.Yet it seemed curious that whatever he said seemed to awaken in her itsecho; and, though she knew it was an absurd idea, the idea persistedthat she already began to understand this young man better than she hadever understood any other of his sex.

  He was talking now at random, idly but agreeably, about nothing inparticular. She, muffled in the fur robe, looked out through thelimousine windows into the rain, and saw brown fields set with pools inevery 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 fewmoments the car swung into a gateway under groves of solemnly-drippingNorway spruces, then up a wide avenue, lined with ranks of leafless,hardwood trees and thickets of laurel and rhododendron, and finallystopped before a house made of grayish-brown stone, in the ratherinoffensive architecture of early eighteen hundred.

  Mrs. Quant, in best bib and tucker, received them in the hallway, havingbeen instructed by Desboro concerning her attitude toward the expectedguest. But when she became aware of the slender youth of the girl, sheforgot her sniffs and misgivings, and she waddled, and bobbed, andcurtsied, overflowing with a desire to fondle, and cherish, andinstruct, which only fear of Desboro choked off.

  But as soon as Jacqueline had followed her to the room assigned, and hadbeen divested of wet outer-clothing, and served with hot tea, Mrs. Quantbecame loquacious and confidential concerning her own personal ailmentsand 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 thatfeels 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 andgit it!"

  Jacqueline promised gravely; but Mrs. Quant was now fairly launched onher favourite topic.

  "I've been forty-two years in this place--and Quant--my man--he was headfarmer here when he was took. Typod, it was, dearie--and you won't nevergit it if you'll listen to me--and Quant, a man that never quarreledwith his vittles, but he was for going off without 'em that morning. Sezhe, 'Cassie, I don't feel good this mornin'!'--and a piece of pie and apork chop layin' there onto his plate. 'My vittles don't set right,' sezhe; 'I ain't a mite peckish.' Sez I, 'Quant, you lay right down, anddon'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 naturalbone-setter. And those was my very words, dearie, 'a mild form oftypod.' And I was right and he was took. And when folks ain't well, it'smostly that they've got a mild form of typod which some callmalairy----"

  There was no stopping her; Jacqueline tasted her hot tea and listenedsympathetically to that woman of many sorrows. And, sipping her tea, shewas obliged to assist at the obsequies of Quant, the nativity of youngDesboro, the dissolution of his grandparents and parents, and many, manyminor details, such as the freezing of water-pipes in 1907, the menaceof the chestnut blight, mysterious maladies whi
ch had affected cattleand chickens on the farm--every variety of death, destruction,dissolution, and despondency that had been Mrs. Quant's portion towitness.

  And how she gloried in detailing her dismal career; and presentlypessimistic prophecies for the future became plainer as her undammedeloquence 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'sbeen 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; buthe won't swaller the teas and broths and suffusions I bring him, andhe'll be took like everybody else one of these days, dearie--which hewouldn'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 glancesmet in the suppressed amusement of mutual comprehension, and heconducted 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 allday, dodging infusions and broths and red flannel! Warm your hands atthe blaze, Miss Nevers, and I'll find the armoury keys. It will be alittle colder in there."

  She spread her hands to the flames, conscious of his subtle change ofmanner toward her, now that she was actually under his roof--and likedhim for it--not in the least surprised that she was comprehending stillanother phase of this young man's most interesting personality.

  For, without reasoning, her slight misgivings concerning him werevanishing; instinct told her she might even permit herself a friendliermanner, and she looked up smilingly when he came back swinging a bunchof keys.

  "These belong to the Quant," he explained, "--honest old soul! Every gemand ivory and lump of jade in the collection is at her mercy, for hereare 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 theeastern wing; unlocked a pair of massive doors, and swung them wide.And, beside him, she walked into the armoury of the famous Desborocollection.

  Straight ahead of her, paved with black marble, lay a lane through adouble rank of armed and mounted men in complete armour; and she couldscarcely 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 feellike some legendary princess of long ago, passing her chivalry in reviewas I move between these double ranks. What a _wonderful_ collection! AllSpanish 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 actuallyhere to take it away."

  "But I'm not going to put it into a magic pocket and flee to New Yorkwith it!"

  She spoke gaily, and his face, which had become a little grave, relaxedinto its habitual expression of careless good humour.

  They had slowly traversed the long lane, and now, turning, came backthrough groups of men-at-arms, pikemen, billmen, arquebussiers,crossbowmen, archers, halbardiers, slingers--all the multitudinous armsof a polyglot service, each apparently equipped with his proper weaponand properly accoutred for trouble.

  Once or twice she glanced at the trophies aloft on the walls, everygroup bunched behind its shield and radiating from it under the droopingremnants of banners emblazoned with arms, crests, insignia, devices, andquarterings long since forgotten, except by such people as herself.

  "Now and then she ... halted on tip-toe to lift someslitted visor"]

  She moved gracefully, leisurely, pausing now and then before somepanoplied manikin, Desboro sauntering beside her. Now and then shestopped to inspect an ancient piece of ordnance, wonderfully wrought andchased, now and then halted on tip-toe to lift some slitted visor andpeer into the dusky cavern of the helmet, where a painted face staredback 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 andrheumatic now, and I don't let him exert himself. I think he sleeps allwinter, 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 waslaughing at her.

  "I know you didn't," he said. "But I can't afford two armourers. That'sthe reason I'm disposing of these tin-clothed tenants of mine--toeconomise and cut expenses."

  She moved on, evidently desiring to obtain a general impression ofthe task before her, now and then examining the glass-encased labels atthe feet of the figures, and occasionally shaking her head. Already theerrant lock curled across her cheek.

  "What's the trouble?" he inquired. "Aren't these gentlemen correctlyticketed?"

  "Some are not. That suit of gilded mail is not Spanish; it's German. Itis not very difficult to make such a mistake sometimes."

  Steam heat had been put in, but the vast hall was chilly except close tothe long ranks of oxidised pipes lining the walls. They stood a moment,leaning against them and looking out across the place, all glitteringwith the mail-clad figures.

  "I've easily three weeks' work before me among these mounted figuresalone, to say nothing of the men on foot and the trophies andartillery," she said. "Do you know it is going to be rather expensivefor you, Mr. Desboro?"

  This did not appear to disturb him.

  "Because," she went on, "a great many mistakes have been made inlabelling, and some mistakes in assembling the complete suits of mailand in assigning weapons. For example, that mounted man in front of youis wearing tilting armour and a helmet that doesn't belong to it. That'sa childish mistake."

  "We'll put the proper lid on _him_," said Desboro. "Show it to me andI'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 Itrundle it in?"

  He went out into the hallway and presently came back pushing a clankingextension ladder with a railed top to it. Then he affixed the crank andbegan 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, yousee."

  "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--" andstopped herself short, unwilling to drift into personalities.

  "It's the interest that is lacking in me," he said, "--or perhaps theincentive."

  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 inmyself. Tell me, is there anything I can do for your comfort before Igo? And shall I go and leave you to abstruse and intellectualmeditation, or do I disturb you by tagging about at your heels?"

  His easy, light tone relieved her. She looked around her at the armedfigures:

  "You don't disturb me. I was trying to think where to begin. To-morrowI'll bring up some reference books----"


  "Perhaps you can find what you want in my grandfather's library. I'llshow 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 examiningthe sword belonging to a rather battered suit of armour when he returnedwith the book.

  "You see," she said, "you _are_ useful. I did well to suggest that youremain here. Now, look, Mr. Desboro. This is German armour, and here isa 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 thehexagonal, 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 closedhis lips suddenly and began to examine another sword. It belonged to theonly female equestrian figure in the collection--a beautifully shapedsuit of woman's armour, astride a painted war-horse, the cuirass ofMilan 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 swordacross 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 readyfor luncheon?"

  "Quite, thank you. But you _said_ that you didn't know much about thiscollection. 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 peacewith me; my desire is always war!")

  Her clear young voice repeating the old sword's motto seemed to ring alittle through the silence--as though it were the clean-cut voice of theblade itself.

  "What a fine motto," he said guilelessly. "And you interpret it asthough 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; mydesire 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, andknew in an instant he had divined her attitude toward himself, andtoward to her own self, too--war on them both, lest they succumb to thefriendship that threatened. Silent, preoccupied, she went back with himthrough the armoury, through the hallway, into a rather commonplacedining-room, where a table had already been laid for two.

  Desboro jingled a small silver bell, and presently luncheon wasannounced. She ate with the healthy appetite of the young, and hepretended to. Several cats and dogs of unaristocratic degree camepurring and wagging about the table, and he indulged them with animpartiality that interested her, playing no favourites, butallotting to each its portion, and serenely chastising the greedy.

  "What wonderful impartiality!" she ventured. "I couldn't do it; I'd besure 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 theothers to console you. It's pleasanter to like impartially."

  She was occupied with her fruit cup; presently she glanced up at him:

  "Is that your policy?"

  "Isn't it a safe one?"

  "Yes. Is it yours?"

  "Wisdom suggests it to me--has always urged it. I'm not sure that italways works. For example, I prefer champagne to milk, but I try notto."

  "You always contrive to twist sense into nonsense."

  "You don't mind, do you?"

  "No; but don't you ever take anything seriously?"

  "Myself."

  "I'm afraid you don't."

  "Indeed, I do! See how my financial mishaps sent me flying to you forhelp!"

  She said: "You don't even take seriously what you call your financialmishaps."

  "But I take the remedy for them most reverently and most thankfully."

  "The remedy?"

  "You."

  A slight colour stained her cheeks; for she did not see just how toavoid the footing they had almost reached--the understanding which,somehow, had been impending from the moment they met. Intuition hadwarned her against it. And now here it was.

  How could she have avoided it, when it was perfectly evident from thefirst that he found her interesting--that his voice and intonation andbearing were always subtly offering friendship, no matter what he saidto her, whether in jest or earnest, in light-hearted idleness or in allthe decorum of the perfunctory and commonplace.

  To have made more out of it than was in it would have been no sillierthan to priggishly discountenance his harmless good humour. To be primwould have been ridiculous. Besides, everything innocent in her found aninstinctive pleasure, even in her own misgivings concerning this man andthe unsettled problem of her personal relations with him--unsolved withher, at least; but he appeared to have settled it for himself.

  As they walked back to the armoury together, she was trying to think itout; and she concluded that she might dare be toward him asunconcernedly friendly as he would ever think of being toward her. Andit gave her a little thrill of pride to feel that she was equipped tocarry through her part in a light, gay, ephemeral friendship with onebelonging to a world about which she knew nothing at all.

  That ought to be her attitude--friendly, spirited, pretending to a_savoir faire_ only surmised by her own good taste--lest he find herstupid and narrow, ignorant and dull. And it occurred to her veryforcibly that she would not like that.

  So--let him admire her.

  His motives, perhaps, were as innocent as hers. Let him say theunexpected and disconcerting things it amused him to say. She knew wellenough how to parry them, once her mind was made up not to entirelyignore them; and that would be much better. That, no doubt, was themanner in which women of his own world met the easy badinage of men; andshe determined to let him discover that she was interesting if she choseto be.

  She had produced her note-book and pencil when they entered the armoury.He carried Grenville's celebrated monograph, and she consulted it fromtime to time, bending her dainty head beside his shoulder, and turningthe pages of the volume with a smooth and narrow hand that fascinatedhim.

  From time to time, too, she made entries in her note-book, such as:"Armet, Spanish, late XV century. Tilting harness probably made byHelmschmid; espaliers, manteau d'armes, coude, left cuisse and colleretmissing. War armour, Milanese, XIV century; probably made by theNegrolis; rere-brace, gorget, rondel missing; sword made probably byMartinez, Toledo. Armour made in Germany, middle of XVI century,probably designed by Diego de Arroyo; cuisses laminated."

  They stopped before a horseman, clad from head to spurs in superb mail.On a ground of blackened steel the pieces were embossed with goldgrotesqueries; the cuirass was formed by overlapping horizontal plates,the three upper ones composing a gorget of solid gold. Nymphs, satyrs,gods, goddesses and cupids in exquisite design and composition framedthe "lorica"; cuisses and tassettes carried out the lorica pattern;coudes, arm-guards, and genouilleres were dolphin masks, gilded.

  "Parade armour," she said under her breath, "not war armour, as it hasbeen labelled. It is armour de luxe, and probably royal, too. Do you seethe collar of the Golden Fleece on the gorget? And there hangs thefleece itself, borne by two cupids as a canopy for Venus rising from thesea. That is probably Sigman's XVI century work. Is it not royallymagnificent!"

  "Lord! What a lot of lore you seem to have acquired!" he said.

  "But I was trained to this profession by the ablest teacher inAmerica--" her voice fell charmingly, "--by my father. Do you wonderthat I know a little about it?"

  They moved on in silence to where a man-at-arms stood leaning bothclasped hands over the gilded pommel of a sword.

&n
bsp; She said quickly: "That sword belongs to parade armour! How stupid togive it to this pikeman! Don't you see? The blade is diamond sectioned;Horn of Solingen's mark is on the ricasse. And, oh, what a wonderfulhilt! It is a miracle!"

  The hilt was really a miracle; carved in gold relief, Italianrenaissance style, the guard centre was decorated with black arabesqueson a gold ground; quillons curved down, ending in cupid's heads ofexquisite beauty.

  The guard was engraved with a cartouche enclosing the Three Graces; andfrom it sprang a beautiful counter-guard formed out of two lovelyCaryatids united. The grip was made of heliotrope amethyst inset withgold; the pommel constructed by two volutes which encompassed a tinynaked nymph with emeralds for her eyes.

  "What a masterpiece!" she breathed. "It can be matched only in the RoyalArmoury of Madrid."

  "Have you been abroad, Miss Nevers?"

  "Yes, several times with my father. It was part of my education inbusiness."

  He said: "Yours is a French name?"

  "Father was French."

  "He must have been a very cultivated man."

  "Self-cultivated."

  "Perhaps," he said, "there once was a _de_ written before 'Nevers.'"

  She laughed: "No. Father's family were always bourgeois shopkeepers--asI am."

  He looked at the dainty girl beside him, with her features and slenderlimbs and bearing of an aristocrat.

  "Too bad," he said, pretending disillusion. "I expected you'd tell mehow your ancestors died on the scaffold, remarking in laudable chorus,'_Vive le Roi!_'"

  She laughed and sparkled deliciously: "Alas, no, monsieur. But, _mafoi!_ Some among them may have worked the guillotine for Sanson ordrummed for Santerre.

  "You seem to me to symbolise all the grace and charm that perished onthe Place de Greve."

  She laughed: "Look again, and see if it is not their Nemesis I moreclosely resemble."

  And as she said it so gaily, an odd idea struck him that she _did_embody something less obvious, something more vital, than the symbol ofan aristocratic regime perishing en masse against the blood-red sky ofParis.

  He did not know what it was about her that seemed to symbolise all thatis forever young and fresh and imperishable. Perhaps it was only theevolution of the real world he saw in her opening into blossom anddisclosing such as she to justify the darkness and woe of the longtravail.

  She had left him standing alone with Grenville's book open in his hands,and was now examining a figure wearing a coat of fine steel mail, with ablack corselet protecting back and breast decorated with _horizontal_bands.

  "Do you notice the difference?" she asked. "In German armour the bandsare vertical. This is Milanese, and I think the Negrolis made it. Seehow exquisitely the morion is decorated with these lions' heads in goldfor cheek pieces, and these bands of gold damascene over theskull-piece, that meet to form Minerva's face above the brow! I'm sureit's the Negrolis work. Wait! Ah, here is the inscription! 'P. Iacobi etFratr Negroli Faciebant MDXXXIX.' Bring me Grenville's book, please."

  She took it, ran over the pages rapidly, found what she wanted, and thenstepped forward and laid her white hand on the shoulder of another grim,mailed figure.

  "This is foot-armour," she said, "and does not belong with that morion.It's neither Milanese nor yet of Augsburg make; it's Italian, but whomade it I don't know. You see it's a superb combination of parade armourand war mail, with all the gorgeous design of the former and thesmoothness and toughness of the latter. Really, Mr. Desboro, thisinvestigation is becoming exciting. I never before saw such a suit offoot-armour."

  "Perhaps it belonged to the catcher of some ancient baseball club," hesuggested.

  She turned, laughing, but exasperated: "I'm not going to let you remainnear me," she said. "You annihilate every atom of romance; you are ananachronism here, anyway."

  "I know it; but you fit in delightfully with tournaments and pageantsand things----"

  "Go up on that ladder and sit!" resolutely pointing.

  He went. Perched aloft, he lighted a cigarette and surveyed theprospect.

  "Mark Twain killed all this sort of thing for me," he observed.

  She said indignantly: "It's the only thing I never have forgiven him."

  "He told the truth."

  "I know it--I know it. But, oh, how could he write what he did aboutKing Arthur's Court! And what is the use of truth, anyway, unless itleaves us ennobling illusions?"

  Ennobling illusions! She did not know it; but except for them she neverwould have existed, nor others like her that are yet to come in myriads.

  Desboro waved his cigarette gracefully and declaimed:

  "The knights are dust, Their good swords bust; Their souls are up the spout we trust--"

  "Mr. Desboro!"

  "Mademoiselle?"

  "That silly parody on a noble verse is not humorous."

  "Truth seldom is. The men who wore those suits of mail were everythingthat nobody now admires--brutal, selfish, ruthless----"

  "Mr. Desboro!"

  "Mademoiselle?"

  "Are there not a number of such gentlemen still existing on earth?"

  "New York's full of them," he admitted cheerfully, "but they concealwhat they really are on account of the police."

  "Is that all that five hundred years has taught men--concealment?"

  "Yes, and five thousand," he muttered; but said aloud: "It hasn'tanything to do with admiring the iron hats and clothes they wore. Ifyou'll let me come down I'll admire 'em----"

  "No."

  "I want to carry your book for you."

  "No."

  "--And listen to everything you say about the vertical stripes on theirDutch trousers----"

  "Very well," she consented, laughing; "you may descend and examine thesegold inlaid and checkered trousers. They were probably made for afashionable dandy by Alonso Garcia, five hundred years ago; and you willobserve that they are still beautifully creased."

  So they passed on, side by side, while she sketched out her preliminarywork. And sometimes he was idly flippant and irresponsible, andsometimes she thrilled unexpectedly at his quick, warm response to someimpulsive appeal that he share her admiration.

  Under the careless surface, she divined a sort of perverse intelligence;she was certain that what appealed to her he, also, understood when hechose to; because he understood so much--much that she had not evenimagined--much of life, and of the world, and of the men and women init. But, having lived a life so full, so different from her own, perhapshis interest was less easily aroused; perhaps it might be even a littlefatigued by the endless pageant moving with him amid scenes ofbrightness and happiness which seemed to her as far away from herselfand as unreal as scenes in the painted arras hanging on the walls.

  They had been speaking of operas in which armour, incorrectly designedand worn, was tolerated by public ignorance; and, thinking of the"horseshoe," where all that is wealthy, and intelligent, and wonderful,and aristocratic in New York is supposed to congregate, she had mentallyplaced him there among those elegant and distant young men who are to beseen sauntering from one gilded box to another, or, gracefully posed,decorating and further embellishing boxes already replete with jeweledand feminine beauty; or in the curtained depths, mysterious silhouettesmotionless against the dull red glow.

  And, if those gold-encrusted boxes had been celestial balconies, full ofblessed damosels leaning over heaven's edge, they would have seemed nofarther away, no more accessible to her, than they seemed from where shesometimes sat or stood, all alone, to listen to Farrar and Caruso.

  * * * * *

  The light in the armoury was growing a little dim. She bent more closelyover her note-book, the printed pages of Mr. Grenville, and theshimmering, inlaid, and embossed armour.

  "Shall we have tea?" he suggested.

  "Tea? Oh, thank you, Mr. Desboro; but when the light fails, I'll have togo."

  It was failing fast. She used the delicate tips of her fingers mor
eoften in examining engraved, inlaid, and embossed surfaces.

  "I never had electricity put into the armoury," he said. "I'm sorrynow--for your sake."

  "I'm sorry, too. I could have worked until six."

  "There!" he said, laughing. "You have admitted it! What are you going todo for nearly two hours if you don't take tea? Your train doesn't leaveuntil six. Did you propose to go to the station and sit there?"

  Her confused laughter was very sweet, and she admitted that she hadnothing to do after the light failed except to fold her hands and waitfor the train.

  "Then won't you have tea?"

  "I'd--rather not!"

  He said: "You could take it alone in your room if you liked--and rest alittle. Mrs. Quant will call you."

  She looked up at him after a moment, and her cheeks were very pink andher eyes brilliant.

  "I'd rather take it with you, Mr. Desboro. Why shouldn't I say so?"

  No words came to him, and not much breath, so totally unexpected was herreply.

  Still looking at him, the faint smile fading into seriousness, sherepeated:

  "Why shouldn't I say so? Is there any reason? You know better than Iwhat a girl alone may do. And I really would like to have some tea--andhave it with you."

  He didn't smile; he was too clever--perhaps too decent.

  "It's quite all right," he said. "We'll have it served in the librarywhere there's a fine fire."

  So they slowly crossed the armoury and traversed the hallway, where sheleft him for a moment and ran up stairs to her room. When she rejoinedhim in the library, he noticed that the insurgent lock of hair had beendeftly tucked in among its lustrous comrades; but the first shake of herhead dislodged it again, and there it was, threatening him, as usual,from its soft, warm ambush against her cheek.

  "Can't you do anything with it?" he asked, sympathetically, as sheseated herself and poured the tea.

  "Do anything with what?"

  "That lock of hair. It's loose again, and it will do murder some day."

  She laughed with scarcely a trace of confusion, and handed him his cup.

  "That's the first thing I noticed about you," he added.

  "That lock of hair? I can't do anything with it. Isn't it horriblymessy?"

  "It's dangerous."

  "How absurd!"

  "Are you ever known as 'Stray Lock' among your intimates?"

  "I should think not," she said scornfully. "It sounds like a children'spicture-book story."

  "But you look like one."

  "Mr. Desboro!" she protested. "Haven't you any common sense?"

  "You look," he said reflectively, "as though you came from the samebookshelf as 'Gold Locks,' 'The Robber Kitten,' and 'A Princess FarAway,' and all those immortal volumes of the 'days that are no more.'Would you mind if I label you 'Stray Lock,' and put you on the shelfamong the other immortals?"

  Her frank laughter rang out sweetly:

  "I very _much_ object to being labeled and shelved--particularlyshelved."

  "I'll promise to read you every day----"

  "No, thank you!"

  "I'll promise to take you everywhere with me----"

  "In your pocket? No, thank you. I object to being either shelved orpocketed--to be consulted at pleasure--or when you're bored."

  They both had been laughing a good deal, and were slightly excited bytheir game of harmless _double entendre_. But now, perhaps it wasbecoming a trifle too obvious, and Jacqueline checked herself to glanceback mentally and see how far she had gone along the path of friendship.

  She could not determine; for the path has many twists and turnings, andshe had sped forward lightly and swiftly, and was still conscious of theexhilaration of the pace in his gay and irresponsible company.

  Her smile changed and died out; she leaned back in her leather chair,gazing absently at the fiery reflections crimsoning the andirons on thehearth, and hearing afar, on some distant roof, the steady downpour ofthe winter rain.

  Subtly the quiet and warmth of the room invaded her with a sense ofcontent, not due, perhaps, to them alone. And dreamily conscious thatthis might be so, she lifted her eyes and looked across the table athim.

  "I wonder," she said, "if this _is_ all right?"

  "What?"

  "Our--situation--here."

  "Situations are what we make them."

  "But," she asked candidly, "could you call this a business situation?"

  He laughed unrestrainedly, and finally she ventured to smile, secretlyreassured.

  "'Are business and friendship incompatible?'"]

  "Are business and friendship incompatible?" he inquired.

  "I don't know. Are they? I have to be careful in the shop, with youngercustomers and clerks. To treat them with more than pleasant civilitywould spoil them for business. My father taught me that. He served inthe French Army."

  "Do you think," he said gravely, "that you are spoiling me for businesspurposes?"

  She smiled: "I was thinking--wondering whether you did not moreaccurately represent the corps of officers and I the line. I am only atemporary employee of yours, Mr. Desboro, and some day you may be angryat what I do and you may say, 'Tonnerre de Dieu!' to me--which Iwouldn't like if we were friends, but which I'd otherwise endure."

  "We're friends already; what are you going to do about it?"

  She knew it was so now, for better or worse, and she looked at himshyly, a little troubled by what the end of this day had brought her.

  Silent, absent-eyed, she began to wonder what such men as he reallythought of a girl of her sort. It could happen that his attitude towardher might become like that of the only men of his kind she had everencountered--wealthy clients of her father, young and old, and all ofthem inclined to offer her attentions which instinct warned her toignore.

  As for Desboro, even from the beginning she felt that his attitudetoward her depended upon herself; and, warranted or not, this sense ofsecurity with him now, left her leisure to study him. And she concludedthat probably he was like the other men of his class whom she hadknown--a receptive opportunist, inevitably her antagonist at heart, butnot to be feared except under deliberate provocation from her. And thatexcuse he would never have.

  Aware of his admiration almost from the very first, perplexed, curious,uncertain, and disturbed by turns, she was finally convinced that thematter lay entirely with her; that she might accept a little, venture alittle in safety; and, perfectly certain of herself, enjoy as much ofwhat his friendship offered as her own clear wits and common sensepermitted. For she had found, so far, no metal in any man unalloyed. Twoyears' experience alone with men had educated her; and whatever thealloy in Desboro might be that lowered his value, she thought it lessobjectionable than the similar amalgam out of which were fashioned theharmless youths in whose noisy company she danced, and dined, andbathed, and witnessed Broadway "shows"; the Eddies and Joes of themetropolis, replicas in mind and body of clothing advertisements instreet cars.

  Her blue eyes, wandering from the ruddy andirons, were arrested by theclock. What had happened? Was the clock still going? She listened, andheard it ticking.

  "Is _that_ the right time?" she demanded incredulously.

  He said, so low she could scarcely hear him: "Yes, Stray Lock. Must Iclose the story book and lay it away until another day?"

  She rose, brushing the bright strand from her cheek; he stood up, pulledthe tassel of an old-time bell rope, and, when the butler came, orderedthe car.

  She went away to her room, where Mrs. Quant swathed her in rain garmentsand veils, and secretly pressed into her hand a bottle containing "asuffusion" warranted to discourage any insidious advances of typod.

  "A spoonful before meals, dearie," she whispered hoarsely; "and don'ttell Mr. James--he'd be that disgusted with me for doin' of a Christianduty. I'll have some of my magic drops ready when you come to-morrow,and you can just lock the door and set and rock and enj'y them onto alump of sugar."

  A little dismayed, but contriving to look
serious, Jacqueline thankedher and fled. Desboro put her into the car and climbed in beside her.

  "You needn't, you know," she protested. "There are no highwaymen, arethere?"

  "None more to be dreaded than myself."

  "Then why do you go to the station with me?"

  He did not answer. She presently settled into her corner, and he wrappedher in the fur robe. Neither spoke; the lamplight flashed ahead throughthe falling rain; all else was darkness--the widest world of darkness,it seemed to her fancy, that she ever looked out upon, for it seemed toleave this man and herself alone in the centre of things.

  Conscious of him beside her, she was curiously content not to look athim or to disturb the silence encompassing them. The sense of speed, therush through obscurity, seemed part of it--part of a confused andpleasurable irresponsibility.

  Later, standing under the dripping eaves of the station platform withhim, watching the approaching headlight of the distant locomotive, shesaid:

  "You have made it a very delightful day for me. I wanted to thank you."

  He was silent; the distant locomotive whistled, and the vista of wetrails began to glisten red in the swift approach.

  "I don't want you to go to town alone on that train," he said abruptly.

  "What?" in utter surprise.

  "Will you let me go with you, Miss Nevers?"

  "Nonsense! I wander about everywhere alone. Please don't spoil it all.Don't even go aboard to find a seat for me."

  The long train thundered by, brakes gripping, slowed, stopped. Shesprang aboard, turned on the steps and offered her hand:

  "Good-bye, Mr. Desboro."

  "To-morrow?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  They exchanged no further words; she stood a moment on the platform, asthe cars glided slowly past him and on into the rainy night. All the wayto New York she remained motionless in the corner of the seat, her cheekresting against her gloved palm, thinking of what had happened--closingher blue eyes, sometimes, to bring it nearer and make more real a day oflife already ended.