Kitabı oku: «Perkins, the Fakeer», sayfa 5

CHAPTER IX.
AFTERNOON CALLERS

 
Still in dreams it comes upon me that I once on wings did soar;
But or e'er my flight commences this my dream must all be o'er.
 

--From the Persian.

As I look back upon it now, that afternoon wears the aspect of a variegated nightmare, from which I could not awaken.

"What will madame wear this afternoon?" Suzanne had asked me when I had returned to my apartments above-stairs.

I kicked viciously at the empty air with one of Caroline's dainty feet. The time had come, evidently, for Suzanne to change my costume again. Should I take a ride or a walk, or remain at home? If I went out for a ride, I should have only my own bitter thoughts for company. If I took a stroll up the Avenue, almost anything unpleasant might happen to me. If I stayed in the house, I must receive callers. No one of these alternatives was alluring, but I was forced to choose the latter. For a number of rather vague reasons, I did not dare to cut off my line of communication with Caroline. She had become, as it were, a flying column not yet out of touch with headquarters.

"And she ought to be shot for disobedience to orders," I mused, aloud.

"Pardon me, madame?" exclaimed Suzanne, interrogatively.

"N'importe, girl," I answered, testily. "I shall remain at home, Suzanne. Give orders down-stairs that I have a headache and can receive no one."

"But Madame is looking so much better!" protested Suzanne. "And the débutantes will call to-day. It is madame's afternoon."

"Well, do your worst, then," I grumbled, discontentedly. "Can you get me some cloves, Suzanne?"

An hour later, I entered the drawing-room after a perilous descent from the second story, to confront three young women, who, I had gathered from Suzanne, held Caroline in high esteem as a chaperon. I had committed their names to memory before leaving the dressing-room, but the effort to get down-stairs without spraining my wife's ankles had obliterated from my mind all traces of its recent acquisition. I stood, flushing painfully, gazing into the smiling faces of three handsome, modish girls who were wholly strangers to their vicarious hostess.

"Oh, Mrs. Stevens, what a charming day!"

"How lovely you are looking!"

"Wasn't the Crompton dance perfectly stunning?"

"Mr. Van Tromp made such a pretty epigram about your costume!"

"Just a moment–ah–girls," I gasped, seating myself awkwardly, and inclined to lose my temper. "There's a painful lack of method about all this. Suppose we begin at the beginning. You were saying–ah–my dear–?" I remarked to the calmest of the trio. The latter exchanged puzzled glances with her companions.

"I was speaking of the compliment that Mr. Van Tromp paid to you," explained the maiden, rather dolefully.

"He's a bad lot, that young Van Tromp," I exclaimed, impulsively. "Perhaps I ought not to talk against another man–ah–behind her–I mean his–back, but Van Romeo's too easy, girls. He writes poetry. I have no doubt that he makes puns. Charming–ah–day, isn't it?"

My beautiful callers had lost their vivacity. One of them–a pretty little brunette–had grown pale.

"What about the coaching-party, Mrs. Stevens?" the one I took to be the eldest of the three ventured to ask, presently.

"It's all arranged–ah–my dear," I answered, recklessly. "We're to have a dozen cases of champagne and a brass band of ten pieces. I'm up for all day, you see. If little Van Tromp praised my executive ability–ah–girls, he'd have a career open to him. Merrily we'll bowl along, bowl along–I'm to handle the reins, you know."

There were now three pallid maidens confronting me. In the eyes of the eldest I saw a gleam of mingled suspicion and fear.

"I must be going," she gasped.

"Don't go," I implored her, overacting my hospitable role a bit. There flashed through my mind a scene from a Gilbert-Sullivan opera–"The Mikado"–and I caught myself humming the air of "Three Little Girls from School Are We."

Jones, to my consternation, stalked into the drawing-room, as if about to reprove me for my lack of dignity.

"Pardon me, madame," said my bête noir, pompously, "but Mr. Stevens insists upon your coming to the telephone."

My callers were on their feet, instantly. They appeared to be glad of an excuse for leaving me, and, also, somewhat astonished at the butler's choice of words.

"Don't let us keep you a moment," cried the eldest.

"Remember me to Mr. Stevens," urged the little brunette, mischievously.

"Good-bye! We are so grateful to you, Mrs. Stevens," exclaimed the third, with a sigh of relief.

"Be good!" I answered, gaily. "Come again–ah–young ladies. Don't mind Jones. You'll get used to him. Look in next month, won't you? Ta-ta!"

I stumbled over my skirts as I stepped forward, and the little flock of débutantes hurried away in affright, glancing over their shoulders at me in a manner that suggested gossip to come.

"Hello!" I shouted through the 'phone, when I had managed to reach the library. "Is that you–ah–Reginald? Where are you?"

"Yes. This is Reginald," I heard my voice in answer. "I'm at the 'Varsity Club. Charming place. Nice boys here. You seem to be popular, my dear. 'Here's to you, good as you are, and here's to me, bad as I am; but as good as you are, and as bad as I am, I'm as good as you are, bad as I am!'"

"Good Lord–ah–ah–Reginald!" I faltered, horror-stricken.

"Don't worry, Caroline," came my voice, soothingly. "It's all right. I know when to stop. Had any callers? This is your day at home, is it not?"

"I'll send the coupé for you at once–ah–Reginald," I said, with great presence of mind. "Go easy till it arrives, will you?"

"What do you mean to imply, Caroline?" growled my wife, a note of anger in my voice. "I'm going to walk home by-and-bye. You needn't bother about the coupé. I hear the boys calling to me. Here's to you, my dear! Good-bye!"

Before I could utter another word, Caroline had cut me off, and I turned from the 'phone, despondently. For a moment, it seemed to me that the library was surrounded by an iron grating and that I wore a ball and chain attached to my legs. Caroline and "the Old Crowd!" I am forced to confess that the hot tears came into my wife's eyes as I seated myself in a reading-chair and found myself face to face with a loneliness that was provocative of despair.

Jones was hot on the scent. He strode into the library and bore down upon me relentlessly, carrying a tray upon which rested two calling-cards.

"They are in the drawing-room, madame," said the butler, indifferently.

Caroline's toast came ringing to my ears. "Here's to you, good as you are, and here's to me, bad as I am!" And here I sat, bullied by Jones and the plaything of a lot of light-headed women of all ages. For one wild, feverish, moment the thought of revolt darted through my mind. I might faint, or have a fit, and Jones would be forced to dismiss my callers. But I quickly realized that I was not up to a brilliant histrionic effort. Even as it was, I was playing another's role with but indifferent success.

Two elderly women, richly garbed, arose as I reentered the drawing-room.

"I'm so glad to see you–ah–my dears," I said, in a voice pitched to indicate cordiality. One of my callers tossed her head haughtily, while the prim mouth of her companion fell open. This was not encouraging, and I remained silent. We stared at each other for a long, agonizing moment.

"How do you do?" I began again, with much less assurance. "Go away, little girls," kept running through my mind from that diabolical, tinkling "Mikado."

"We are very well, I believe," remarked Mrs. Martin, as she proved to be, coldly. "I think I may answer for Mrs. Smythe's health."

"I am in perfect health," exclaimed Mrs. Smythe, with emphasis, staring at me in a superior kind of way.

"There's nothing like perfect health–ah–my friends," I said, in a high, almost hysterical, falsetto. "Who is it who says that a man is as old as he feels and a woman as old as she looks?"

"Whoever said it, Mrs. Stevens, did us a great injustice," commented Mrs. Martin, with some warmth. "I am as young in spirit as I was ten years ago, but I don't look it."

"No, you don't look it," I hastened to remark, cordially; but my comment was not well received. Mrs. Martin glanced at Mrs. Smythe, and they stood erect on the instant.

"You're not going–ah–my dears?" I cried, thinking it too good to be true.

"You will pardon the liberty that I am about to take, Mrs. Stevens," began Mrs. Martin, sternly, "but it seems only fair to you that we should ask a question before leaving you. You are out of sorts to-day? Not quite yourself, are you?"

"Not quite," I answered, drawing myself up to Caroline's full height and struggling against an inclination to give vent to wild, feverish laughter. "I may say–Mrs.–ah–my dear–that I'm not quite myself. Not quite! It'll pass off. I have every reason to believe it'll pass off. But you're right. I'm not quite myself."

My frankness, which appalled me as I thought of it afterward, seemed to have a soothing effect upon my callers.

"You really do too much, Mrs. Stevens," remarked Mrs. Smythe, in a motherly way. "You should try to get a nap at once."

"Your nerves are affected," Mrs. Martin added, speaking gently. "You are overdoing things. Did you ever try the rest cure?"

"Yes. I've been giving it a chance to-day," I confessed. "But it doesn't work. I can't sleep in the daytime. Bear that in mind–ah–my dear. Don't talk to me about a nap. As I said to Caroline–ah–Reginald, I'm up for all day. But you know what nerves are, do you not?"

Mrs. Martin again glanced furtively at Mrs. Smythe, and without more ado they swept out of the drawing-room.

I dropped into a chair, a feeling of relief mingled with self-disgust sweeping over me. I realized that I had been making a sad botch of the part that I had attempted to play. At that moment, heavy footsteps behind me aroused me from my black-and-white revery. Two large, hot hands were placed over my eyes, and the end of a beard tickled Caroline's forehead.

"Guess who it is?" I heard my deep voice saying. "Here's to you, good as you are!"

"Caroline!" I exclaimed, conflicting emotions agitating my soul.

"Guess again, little woman," said my wife, playfully, in my voice. "They call me 'Reggie' at the club."

CHAPTER X.
RECRIMINATIONS

 
We know these things are so, we ask not why,
But act and follow as the dream goes on.
 

--Milnes.

"Yes, I've had a simply perfect day, my dear," remarked Caroline, frankly, as we left the library to ascend to our second-story suite. "I've made twenty thousand dollars–by not taking your advice–and as to the 'Old Crowd' at the 'Varsity Club, I think they're really charming. I've been doing a good deal of miscellaneous thinking, my dear, and I'm convinced that women have a great future before them."

"What women?" I cried, impatiently, as I tripped against the top stair and caught my better half by the tail of my coat.

"You'll do better with practice," remarked Caroline, soothingly. "I'm sure you enjoyed the day. Who has been here?"

"That'll keep," I answered, resisting an inclination to tweak my own nose. "Where's Jenkins?"

Caroline indulged in a hoarse chuckle.

"Jenkins has gone to Hoboken. He won't be back for at least a month. I think I can get on without a man. How's Suzanne?"

We had come to a standstill in the upper hall, just outside of the main door to our private rooms.

"How'll you manage to dress for dinner?" I asked, gazing at my flushed, triumphant face with sharply contrasted emotions. I was glad to see it again, but I did not like Caroline's way of using it.

"I'm very quick to learn," answered my voice, tauntingly. "You must admit, my dear, that I've been a success to-day. You don't think that I'm to be overcome by a man's dinner costume?"

A chill ran through me, and Caroline's voice trembled as I said:

"What do you–ah–think I'd better wear to-night? Suzanne'll ask me presently."

A jovial laugh greeted my words. The humorous side of our horrible plight seemed to be always apparent to Caroline.

"You must be sure to do me credit, my dear boy," said my wife, gruffly. "You've glanced over my wardrobe, have you not?"

The hot blood came into my adopted cheeks at the suggestion.

"I–I've been too–ah–busy to look into the–ah–matter," I faltered. "Damn it, Caroline, don't be so confoundedly superior! I'm crushed and discouraged. That's straight. Give me a word of advice, will you? What shall I wear to-night? I don't want to make a fool of myself before Suzanne."

"Poor Suzanne!" growled Caroline, somewhat irrelevantly, I thought. "She must have had a day of it! Tell her you'll wear the dress I wore at the Leonards' dinner-party last week. You needn't say much about my hair. Suzanne'll know what to do with it."

Her hand, or rather mine, was on the knob of the door, when a hideous and persistent horror that had haunted me for some time forced me to say, in Caroline's most insistent treble:

"Why–oh, why–did you allow Edgerton to ask that infernal Yamama to come here to-night? It was madness, Caroline."

"Call me Reginald," interposed my wife, coolly.

"It was madness, I say–ah–Reginald. It was that–or worse."

My heart beat fast in Caroline's bosom.

"What do you mean?" asked my wife, thrusting my face forward, and transfixing me with my own eyes.

"You've enjoyed the day, haven't you?" I asked, my temper overcoming my prudence. "Well, I haven't. I've been driven nearly crazy by a lot of fool women, while you've had the time of your life."

"I don't follow you," remarked my wife, severely.

"That's just it," I cried, angrily. "You lead me, and I'm forced to follow you. I tell you frankly that I've grown suspicious. You've been studying Oriental mysticism. You've been to lectures and séances, and, for all I know, you may be a favorite pupil of this chocolate-drop, Yamama."

My wife drew herself up to my full height, and gazed down at me, freezingly.

"You mean to imply, Mrs. Stevens," she remarked, with studied coldness, "that I was deliberately responsible for what happened this morning, or last night?"

"Don't dare to call me Mrs. Stevens, Caroline," I whispered, shaking with futile rage. "If I have suspected you, have I not had sufficient circumstantial evidence? Mrs. Taunton tells me that this rascally fakir Yamama turns people into pigs, frogs, any old thing. And you've allowed Edgerton to bring him here to-night! I don't believe that you have the slightest desire to–ah–change back again."

My wife laughed aloud in my most disagreeable manner.

"Here's to you, good as you are, and here's to me, bad as I am!" she cried, with most untimely geniality, and, without more ado, threw open the door to our apartments. In the center of the room stood Suzanne, pale but self-contained, awaiting my advent. For a moment, a mad project tempted me. If I rushed downstairs and had a fit in the lower hall, I might escape many of the horrors that the evening threatened to bring with it. But if I took this heroic course a doctor would be called in. On the whole, I preferred Suzanne to a physician.

I realize, clearly enough, that I lack the ability to keep or reject data with the unerring judgment of the professional story-teller. I should like to give to my testimony a somewhat artistic structure, but I am hampered in this inclination by the necessity of following the actual sequence of events. Being neither a novelist nor a scientist, I am in danger of making an amorphous presentment of facts that shall fail either to convince the psychologist or entertain the idle reader of an empty tale. On the whole, I am prone to make sacrifices in behalf of the latter. My natural inclination is toward Art rather than toward Science, and for this reason I shall remain silent regarding the petty episodes of the hour that followed my talk with Caroline. As it is, my narrative is overweighted with what may be called details of the toilet.

At half-after six my wife and I entered our drawing-room under a flag of truce. The annoyances that had hampered Caroline's unaided efforts to don my evening clothes had had a beneficial effect upon her exultant, overbearing tendencies. She was subdued in manner to the verge of gloom.

"Why are you so downhearted, my dear?" I asked. "Don't you like–ah–my appearance?"

"Which appearance?" growled Caroline, glaring at me. "Are the studs in the right place?"

"Of course they are," I answered cheerfully. "I never looked better, I'm sure. I congratulate you. And Suzanne tells me that this costume is very becoming to you. The one I have on, I mean. Have you noticed, Caroline, what an infernal nuisance pronouns have become? I'm glad our nouns have no gender. What did you say to young Van Tromp at the Cromptons' dance?"

My beard seemed to fairly bristle with Caroline's anger and astonishment.

"Van Tromp!" she exclaimed, in a surly basso. "What has he been doing now? Horrid little thing! He's not one of the boys, is he, my dear?"

I had seated myself with some difficulty, annoyed at Suzanne for lacing Caroline so tightly, but rather pleased, inwardly, at my feminine beauty and Parisian costume. Caroline stood not far away, six feet tall, broad-shouldered, a manly figure in black and white.

"Van Tromp," I remarked, in the soft musical tones that had at last reconciled me to my borrowed voice, "Van Tromp is a wandering minstrel, a troubadour out of his time, an age-end Romeo, who haunts Juliet's balcony at all hours of the day and night playing a hurdy-gurdy and reciting his own rhymes. Van Tromp is the one bright gleam in a black and starless night. He would atone for a dreary day were not Yamama coming too."

"I don't understand you, Caroline," growled my wife, shifting my feet uneasily.

"You haven't told me what Van Tromp said to you at the Cromptons' dance," I said, relentlessly. "I'll return to the subject later on. Now tell me–ah–Reginald, what you know about Yamama. You intimated, unless I am mistaken, that my suspicions as to your collusion with this Oriental fakir were unfounded?"

"Unfounded!" exclaimed my wife, scornfully. "Absurd! ridiculous! Do you imagine that I would choose this clumsy body of yours in preference to mine? Look at me, and then glance at the mirror, my dear. I'll admit that I've had a very enjoyable day. But I assure you I know little more about Yamama than you do. I am very nervous about him. I don't know what he'll do to us. But I have a horrible fear that he will read our secret at a glance."

"If he does–ah–Caroline," I cried, excitedly, "slug him! Never mind about hospitality. Hit him a crack on the nose. You can apologize to Edgerton afterward."

"That's just like a man," grumbled Caroline. "You think you can defeat esoteric Buddhism with your fists. I'm rather ashamed of you, my dear."

I felt the blood coming into Caroline's cheeks.

"It won't do, of course," I murmured, presently. "We must use diplomacy, not force, in dealing with this Oriental nuisance. Perhaps Yamama will find little Van Tromp sufficiently amusing to enable us to escape detection. I'm inclined to think that Van Tromp is the outward and visible sign of a love-sick tadpole. His sister, the débutante, is not so bad. I suppose she'll fall to Edgerton at dinner?"

"We must have a rehearsal, you and I," remarked Caroline, gruffly. "I escort Mrs. Edgerton, of course, and you'll take Van Tromp's arm. You'll like that."

"Do you see these violets–ah–Reginald?" I cried, dramatically, making a gesture toward Van Tromp's floral offering, now bedecking my corsage. "He sent them to you. What was Van Romeo's little game? You were to wear the violets to-night, if you really meant what you said to him at the Cromptons' dance. As you always mean what you say, my dear, I have hung out the sign of your–ah–veracity, so to speak. There's more to come, of course. There's a poem, for one thing. I'll read it aloud when we get our coffee."

I saw that my heavy face was flushed and that my eyes glowed with anger as I glanced upward at my wife. She strode toward me menacingly, and laid a heavy hand upon her bare shoulder. Seizing Van Tromp's violets, before I could recover from my astonishment, she tore them from their fastenings, and hurled them toward a remote corner of the drawing-room.

"You carry a joke too far," she growled, menacingly. "If you dare to read that poem I'll–I'll tell Yamama the whole story when he comes. I know what to say to him, and he'll do what I ask him to do. I give you fair warning."

I fell back in my chair, cold and disheartened. My worst suspicions seemed to be confirmed. Caroline was in league, as I had feared, with that sunburnt fakir from the Far East! At that moment, Jones entered the room.

"Mr. and Mrs. Edgerton," he announced, and, an instant later, "Miss Van Tromp, Mr. Van Tromp."