Читать книгу Feathers Left Around - Carolyn Wells - Страница 5

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VALENTINE LOFT was of most courteous even genial demeanor, but he also had an air of dictatorship about him that somehow made any request of his seem a command. And this with no loss of courtesy or geniality, but rather with a potency that made his hearer eager to accede to his wishes.

The charm of Loft’s personality was a variable factor. When he chose to exercise it, few could withstand its lure, but when he elected to be aloof or indifferent, he was so unresponsive as to be almost repellent.

It was with his most cordial smile that he said, “If you’ll come for the week-end, Mr. Curran, we’ll do all we can to entertain you, and I know you’ll entertain us.”

“That’s fair enough,” and Hugh Curran smiled back at him. “But how do you know what will entertain me?”

“Don’t. But we’ve all sorts and conditions of amusements over home, and I’m guessing you’ll be able to pick something to fit. Come, anyway.”

Curran was not much given to accepting invitations to strange houses, for his ventures had not always proved satisfactory, but impelled by Valentine’s insistence he considered the question, gazing meanwhile at his would-be host.

Hugh Curran was not at all the lean and lanky individual that Loft had jestingly pictured him. On the contrary, he was a bit thickset, though active and even athletic. His face was round and rosy, somewhat of the type of an English country squire, and his gray eyes had a humorous twinkle, though they were roving rather than straightforward.

His hair was sandy and not very abundant. If he had been a movie actor he was certainly no film hero; his was probably a character part.

“Many people there?” he asked, casually.

“Ten or a dozen. One’s a Countess,—Russian.”

“That doesn’t intrigue me. Go on. Anyone I know?”

“Stella Lawrence? Psychic, ash-blonde—”

“Pah! Go on”

“Mr. and Mrs. Jack Meredith—”

“Don’t know ‘em.”

“Mrs. Ned Knox,—gay little married flirt, pretty as a poet’s dream,—Miss Pauline Fuller, my fiancée,—and that’s all the women.”

“Men?”

“Oh, come now,—aren’t you a bit of a fuss?”

“No. Men?”

“Well, Ned Knox,—chum of mine; Bob Baldwin, ditto.”

“Baldwin, the book dealer?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come. I’m a collector, and he knows more about old books than any one I ever met.”

“You know him, then?”

“In a booky way. I’d like to talk books with him. I’ll come.”

For once, Valentine Loft had a strange feeling of being favored by the visit of a guest. Usually it was the other way; but though the experience was novel it was not unpleasant. Indeed, he went so far as to say, “Thank you, I’m glad to have you. Come over in time for tea,—I’ll send for your duffle.”

The interview had taken place at the Club house, and as the two men separated, a man sitting nearby turned to Loft with a quizzical look.

“Surprised at you, old top!” he said, smiling, “Didn’t know tuft-hunting was among your sports.”

“If I choose,” and Loft nodded indifferently. “But I asked him because the girls over at the house are crazy to meet him. And, too, he seems an interesting chap.”

“Not that; but I know your whims, and Hugh Curran is a divorced man.”

“He is! I didn’t know that! What’s his real name, by the way?”

“Don’t remember,—Dyer or Dwyer, or something like that. He’s always called Hugh Curran. Like O. Henry, you know. Few know his real name.”

“I don’t care anything about his name, but I wish I’d known he was a divorced man. I’ve a prejudice—”

“I know you have, but it’s a silly one. In this day and generation you have to accept divorce as you do the universe. You needn’t go in for it yourself, but you ought to respect the rights of those who do.”

Jim Martin looked at Loft seriously. The men were good friends, and Martin was one of the few who ever presumed to reprove the autocrat.

“Perhaps I’m morbid on the subject, but I can’t bring myself to treat it lightly.”

“Don’t treat it at all. Leave it lay. And especially in Curran’s case. Why worry? He’s an author and a celebrity—”

“Hardly that.”

“Well, his detective stories are mighty popular, and that means celebrity nowadays. Anyway, he’s important enough to have his personal affairs let alone.”

“All right, I don’t propose to discuss the thing with him. I’m sorry I asked him to my house, but it’s done now, and can’t be helped. At any rate he’s presentable.”

Loft went home, rather disgusted with himself for not having further investigated Curran’s affairs before giving him an invitation. But since it couldn’t be helped, he dismissed it from his mind.

“Is he coming?” cried Anna from the veranda, as Loft appeared.

“Yes, tonight,—he’ll stay till Monday. Don’t bowl him over completely, Anna.”

“Why not?” and the seraph face looked innocently inquiring, “What’s he look like, Val?”

“Elderly, stooping, rather rheumatic and with long white whiskers.”

“Nonsense! You told a different story yesterday.”

“And neither is true,” Ned Knox said. “Wait till you see him, Anna. He’s not nearly so good-looking as your own legitimate husband.”

“Nobody is,” and Little Anna beamed on the man who adored her so. “But I suppose he’s a man of genius.”

“They’re terrors,” observed Angel, from a swing in the corner of the porch, where he sat idly looking over one of Curran’s books. “I’ve read Lombroso, and a man of genius is the most awful brute on the face of the earth.”

“Heavenly!” cried Anna, “I love brutes! But why are men of genius ‘em?”

“Because their brains hover between achievement and insanity. Don’t you know, ‘Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions thought from sense divide.’ Pope.”

“You’re in no danger of dementia, then,” and Anna smiled kindly on him. “But all insane people aren’t brutes. Some are quite gentle.”

“What delightful subjects you choose for discussion,” and Pauline came toward them. She usually was the last one to arrive as the group gathered for tea. Anna spitefully said it was to create a sensation by her appearance, but Pauline had replied that she always did that anyway. Whereupon Anna had sulked.

Pauline did, however, always command attention. Without effort, she seemed to dominate the rest, and though Anna was more beautiful from an artist’s standpoint, yet a poet would find greater inspiration in Pauline’s dark eyes and sensitive face than in Anna’s pink and white Bisque beauty.

The two girls were not friends, although convention kept them kindly courteous. They had little in common, and were rarely alone together.

Yet both looked forward to the coming of the stranger. Anna, because he would be a new man to flirt with and an important one, Pauline because of a curiosity to see what he was like.

The house guests already arrived, flocked to the terrace where tea would be served.

A notable arrival was the Countess Galaski.

Unpretentious of appearance, the titled Russian was a general favorite. Sharp-tongued and sharp-witted, she yet had a superabundant sense of humor, and beneath all a kind heart. She jollied the men, admonished the women, took always the best of everything for herself, and was always happy.

“How are you?” she cried, looking about inclusively, as she stepped through the doorway. “I am here! Angel, the best chair! Valentine, a foot cushion! Pauline, you have gone off in your looks! Fie, fie! Anna, I will not speak to you,—you are too beautiful. Come here, and kiss me.”

“Who, me?” inquired Knox, rushing to her.

“Yes, bad man, you!” she held up her rouged cheek for a somewhat crestfallen caress from Knox, who had expected rebuff. But the Countess never did the expected.

Then Stella Lawrence trailed in. Stella was the sort who always trails in preference to any other means of locomotion. Though her skirts did not quite touch the ground, there were ends of chiffon, floating draperies and a long filmy scarf that trailed along the floor behind her.

Green-eyed, ash-blonde, pale, thin, willowy, she paused back of the chair of the rather robust and florid countess, well knowing the value of the contrast.

“Get away!” Countess Galaski screamed. “Get away, you and your Burne-Jonesiness! I can’t stand the comparison!”

“Indeed you can, Countess,” Anna declared, cattily. “It makes you look awful wholesome and real.”

“In for a high old time, ain’t we?” whispered Roly Mears to Pauline.

This delightful young man was very young and very incorrigible.

He said what he chose, and though, having never met a countess before, he was not a bit scared of her, it was dawning on him that they might yet become cronies.

“You behave yourself, Roly,” Pauline returned. “There’s mischief in the air. Anna’s on her high horse—”

“And Stella’s full of the divil, and if Friend Countess puts up a chattering, there’ll be fireworks.”

“Hush, here are the Merediths.”

The Merediths were scarcely worth hushing for, being the colorless pair that seem to infest house-parties unavoidably.

Comfortably middle-aged, inconspicuous of dress, pleasantly chatty of manner, the two melted into the group and were lost to notice.

And then Hugh Curran came.

Though nearly everyone present would have scorned to admit any awe of the celebrity, yet a slight hush fell as the author greeted his host.

The Countess stared openly. Anna donned her coyest smile, and Stella Lawrence fell quickly into what she deemed her most fetching pose.

Roly Mears stopped short in the middle of a funny story and even Pauline, who was presiding at the table, allowed the cup she was filling to run over.

Graceful and at ease, Hugh Curran moved about until he was made acquainted with all, and then looking around a bit deliberately, chose a seat by the Countess.

Roly Mears, cup in hand, joined them.

“I say, Mr. Curran,” he began, “I’ve read your books,—I think they are fine—”

“Roly, you baby,” the Countess cried; “that isn’t the way to talk to a real author. That’s only for the little upstarts who like to hear about their ‘published works.’ Mr. Curran is above and beyond that sort of thing.”

“Thank you, Countess,” said the author, gratefully; “if you can manage it, I’d like you to travel round with me and make that speech everywhere, just before I arrive.”

“I ought to be chagrined,” Roly admitted, “but I’m not. I’m fascinated,—with both of you. What are you going to talk about, Mr. Curran? Politics?”

“No, indeed,” and Hugh Curran smiled. “I’m not going to talk at all. I’m going to listen.”

“To me,” said Ned Knox, joining them. “You needn’t talk about your own books, Mr. Curran, but do settle a vexed question we were discussing the other day. Is motive or method a more important factor in a detective story?”

Curran looked a bit bored, but answered with evident patience.

“I think that is entirely a matter of opinion with both author and reader. Some are more interested in one, some in the other.”

“After all there are only three motives,” Meredith said, sententiously, “greed, revenge and love.”

He had quite evidently heard or read this statement, and pronounced it as a great truth.

“Haven’t you omitted an important one?” asked Curran, quietly. “Isn’t fear sometimes an impelling motive?”

“Fear? Of what?”

“Fear of harm from the victim, fear of revelation of a secret,—” Curran let his gaze wander round the room. Clearly, he was not interested in this talk.

He looked at his beautiful hostess. Pauline sat still at the tea table, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes, with a far away look gazing out of the window, across the lawn. She, too, was uninterested.

Angel Bob, pacing up and down the terrace, was listening.

“I’ve no use for detective stories,” the Countess said, bluntly; “I detest them. A good old fashioned love story for me. But, if I do read a murder yarn, what I like best is the finding of those funny little clues. Cigarette stubs, with the criminal’s monogram; a broken cuff-link, an initialled handkerchief,—ah, those are the things that you can’t get along without,—eh, Mr. Curran?”

“They are certainly useful,” he smiled. “But of late years we try to do without the broken cuff-link or the dropped handkerchief.”

“Is that what you call circumstantial evidence?” Stella Lawrence trailed over to the novelist. “Just what is circumstantial evidence, Mr. Curran?”

She put the question as one of magnificent import. Stella was like that. She cared nothing at all for detective fiction, but if she asked a question concerning it, she fully expected detailed information. She got it.

“It’s this way, Miss Lawrence,” Curran said, his tone a bit patronizing. “I’ll illustrate it by an anecdote. An old darkey was arrested for stealing chickens, and he was convicted on circumstantial evidence. ‘What’s circumstantial evidence?’ a neighbor asked him. ‘Well’ he said, ‘ez near ez I kin splain it f’um de way it’s been splained to me, circumstantial evidence is de feathers dat you leaves lyin’ roun’ after you has done wid de chicken.’ That, Miss Lawrence, is practically what circumstantial evidence is. Or, rather, the clues that detectives set so much by, are merely feathers left around.”

“Oh, how graphic!” and Stella clasped her hands delightedly; “and how wonderfully well you do dialect. Are you a Southerner, Mr. Curran?”

“No,” he returned, “I’m from Indiana.”

“Of course,” exclaimed Roly Mears, “where else could a real author come from?”

But Curran made no reply. Again his glance roved toward Pauline, who, though not yet chatelaine in name, assumed the position of hostess.

She raised her eyes and met his and quickly looked down again. Pauline had not the heedless effrontery of Anna, nor yet the calm poise of Countess Galaski.

Mrs. Meredith, the busybody! sitting next Pauline, whispered, roguishly. “Don’t be so embarrassed, my dear, because a stranger shows his admiration. You are looking unusually lovely today.”

Whereupon Pauline blushed almost vividly, and the perspicacious Hugh Curran smiled.

“Will you take me on at croquet, Stella?” asked Mears, “you can trail round at that in those swishy draperies very effectively. And you couldn’t golf or bowl or tennis in them.”

“Yes, Roly,—get two more—”

“No; I want you all to myself.”

“Is that the way one does here?” asked Curran, quickly. “Then, Miss Fuller, will you walk with me,—and may I have you all to myself?”

“You may not!” and Valentine Loft spoke decidedly. “But, perhaps Mr. Curran, you do not know that Miss Fuller is my fiancée. I allow no man to have her ‘all to himself.’ ”

“And quite right,” Curran bowed. “Pardon me if I was indiscreet. Mrs. Knox, will you walk with me—round the gardens?”

“All to yourself?” and Anna tilted her head and smiled up from under her long lashes.

“Yes,—if your husband will allow—”

“He doesn’t allow me anything,—except a quarterly. I’m a twentieth century wife, and I do my own sweet will. Come along, Mr. Curran. Good-by, Ned.” She tossed her husband a kiss, and turned toward the steps.

Angel Bob Baldwin followed her.

“I’m with you two,” he announced, cheerfully. “I’m the three that makes the crowd.”

“Come on, Mr. Baldwin,” said Curran, so heartily that Anna bit her lip in annoyance. Had she then, made no impression on the lion’s heart?

Her annoyance increased as they proceeded along the garden paths, for save for an occasional and almost perfunctory speech to her, the two men talked continuously of rare books and their authors.

“You’re still collecting Incunabula?” Baldwin asked, and Curran replied in enthusiastic affirmative.

Then the talk touched upon Elzevirs and Bodinis, on Kelmscott Press and Doves Bindery, until Anna rebelled.

“You must either stop that Choctaw,” she decreed, “or take me back to the house! I won’t be brought out here in this rose-scented dusk by two good-looking men, and have the talk entirely over my head! You ought to be ashamed! It isn’t done!”

There was a pathetic note in her voice, a hint of tears, and each man felt guilty. Immediately they dropped the subject of books; Curran forbore to mention the work that he was about to discuss, and Angel deferred the account of a rare bargain he had lately acquired, till some more convenient time.

“Tell us all about yourself, Mr. Curran,” Anna said, by the way of a starter. “Are you engaged to be married?”

“No, indeed, why should I be?”

“Foolish question, Number 1008! Why should you not be? You are depriving some nice girl of a perfectly good husband.”

“Oh, I’m not perfectly good,—I’m indifferent bad. And, too, I’ve been married once.”

“You have! Oh,” Anna’s voice became very tender, “forgive me. Has she been dead long?”

“She isn’t dead at all. Did you never hear of Reno?”

“I have—indirectly. So that’s the way it is.”

“I say, Curran,” and Angel Bob looked at him earnestly, “does Loft know this?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. Probably he does,—it’s no secret. Why?”

“Only that he has had a special, almost an abnormal hatred of divorce and of divorced people. As a friend, let me ask of you not to say anything on the subject to him.”

“I shan’t purposely,—certainly. But what a queer notion. One might as well have a prejudice against blue-eyed men,—or against maple trees. Statistics prove—”

“Oh, we know all that,” said Anna, impatiently, “and it isn’t a question of divorce at all. It’s a question of humoring Val’s whims. And I don’t mind telling you that your stay here will be a whole lot pleasanter if you don’t touch on that subject.”

“I surely agree. Any other subject taboo?”

“Not by him,” Anna assured him. “But if you care to consider poor little me, I’ll beg of you not to talk collecting all the time. Something tells me that when you all get started, say after dinner, tonight, you’ll begin by looking over Val’s collections,—he hoards lots of things beside books and you’ll talk antiques and curios and bindings and such things—and I do hate ‘em so!”

“Never mind, Little Anna, if they begin on that, I’ll take you off somewhere in the moonlight and flirt with you.”

Angel looked into her eyes with a glance that was not all make-believe.

“I appreciate that, Bob, for I know the old things interest you, too.”

“Only the books, Anna. I don’t care a rap for Val’s Egyptian stuff—or Mexican. I do care for books though.”

“And you hate to see them maltreated, eh, Mr. Baldwin?” Curran looked at him quizzically. “You’d hate to see a rare old volume torn or injured, wouldn’t you?”

“It would be sacrilege,” Angel said, emphatically.

“Imagine tearing out a leaf!” and Curran almost shuddered.

“Why, who would do such a thing as that?” cried Baldwin.

“The subject is taboo, remember,” and then Curran addressed himself to Anna.