Читать книгу The Price of Things - Glyn Elinor - Страница 6

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"What are you doing in Paris, Denzil?"

"I came over for a bit of racing. Awfully glad to see you. Can't we dine together? I go back to-morrow." Verisschenzko put his arm through Denzil Ardayre's and drew him in to the Café de Paris, at the door of which they had chanced to meet.

"I had another guest, but she can be consoled with some of Midas' food, and I want to talk to you; were you going to eat alone?"

"A fellow threw me over; I meant to have just a snack and go on to a theatre. It is good running across you—I thought you were miles away!"

Verisschenzko spoke to the head waiter, and gave him directions as to the disposal of the lovely lady who would presently arrive, and then he went on to his table, rather at the top, in a fairly secluded corner.

The few people who were already dining—it was early on this May night—looked at Denzil Ardayre—he was such a refreshing sight of health and youth, so tall and fit and English, with his brown smooth head and fearless blue eyes, gay and debonnaire. One could see that he played cricket and polo, and any other game that came along, and that not a muscle of his frame was out of condition. He had "soldier" written upon him—young, gallant, cavalry soldier. Verisschenzko appreciated him; nothing complete, human or inanimate, left him unconscious of its meaning. They knew one another very well—they had been at Oxford and later had shot bears together in the Russian's far-off home.

They talked for a while of casual things, and then Verisschenzko said:

"Some relations of yours are here—Sir John Ardayre and his particularly attractive bride. Shall we eat what I had ordered for Collette, or have you other fancies after the soup?"

Denzil paid only attention to the first part of the speech—he looked surprised and interested.

"John Ardayre here! Of course, he married about ten days ago—he is the head of the family as you are aware, but I hardly even know him by sight. He is quite ten years older than I am and does not trouble about us, the poor younger branch—" and he smiled, showing such good teeth. "Besides, as you know, I have been for such a long time in India, and the leaves were for sport, not for hunting up relations."

Verisschenzko did not press the matter of his guest's fancies in food, and they continued the menu ordered for Collette without further delay.

"I want to hear all that you know about them, the girl is an exquisite thing with immense possibilities. Sir John looks—dull."

"He is really a splendid character though," Denzil hastened to assure him. "Do you know the family history? But no, of course not, we were too busy in the old days enjoying life to trouble to talk of such things! Well, it is rather strange in the last generation—things very nearly came to an end and John has built it all up again. You are interested in heredity?"

"Naturally—what is the story?"

"Our mutual great-grandfather was a tremendous personage in North Somerset—the place Ardayre is there. My father was the son of the younger son, who had just enough to do him decently at Eton, and enable him to scrape along in the old regiment with a pony or two to play with. My mother was a Willowbrook, as you know, and a considerable heiress, that is how I come out all right, but until John's father, Sir James, squandered things, the head of the family was always very rich and full of land—and awfully set on the dignity of his race. They had turned the cult of it into regular religion."

"The father of this man made a gaspillage, then—well?"

"Yes, he was a rotter—a hark-back to his mother's relations; she was a Cranmote—they ruin any blood they mix with. I am glad that I come from the generation before."

Denzil helped himself to a Russian salad, and went on leisurely. "He fortunately married Lady Mary de la Paule—who was a saint, and so John seems to have righted, and takes after her. She died quite early, she had had enough of Sir James, I expect, he had gambled away everything he could lay hands upon. Poor John was brought up with a tutor at home, for some reason—hard luck on a man. He was only about thirteen when she died and at seventeen went straight into the city. He was determined to make a fortune, it has always been said, and redeem the mortgages on Ardayre—very splendid of him, wasn't it?"

"Yes—well all this is not out of the ordinary line—what comes next?"

Denzil laughed—he was not a good raconteur.

"The poor lady was no sooner dead than the old boy married a Bulgarian snake charmer, whom he had picked up in Constantinople! You may well smile"—for Verisschenzko had raised his eyebrows in a whimsical way—this did sound such a highly coloured incident!

"It was an unusual sort of thing to do, I admit, but the tale grows more lurid still, when I tell you that five months after the wedding she produced a son by the Lord knows who, one of her own tribe probably, and old Sir James was so infatuated with her that he never protested, and presently when he and John quarrelled like hell he pretended the little brute was his own child—just to spite John."

Verisschenzko's Calmuck eyes narrowed.

"And does this result of the fusion of snake charmers figure in the family history? I believe I have met him—his name is Ferdinand, is it not, and he is, or was, in some business in Constantinople?"

"That is the creature—he was brought up at Ardayre as though he were the heir, and poor John turned out of things. He came to Eton three years before I left, but even there they could not turn him into the outside semblance of a gentleman. I loathed the little toad, and he loathed me—and the sickening part of the thing is that if John does not have a son, by the English law of entail Ferdinand comes into Ardayre, and will be the head of the family. Old Sir James died about five years ago, always protesting this bastard was his own child, though every one knew it was a lie. However, by that time John had made enough in the city to redeem Ardayre twice over. He had tremendous luck after the South African War, so he came into possession and lives there now in great state—I do really hope that he will have a son."

"You, too, have the instinct of the family, then—this pride in it—since it cannot benefit you either way."

"I believe it is born in us, and though I have never seen Ardayre, I should hate this mongrel to have it. I was brought up with a tremendous reverence for it, even as a second cousin."

"Well, the new Lady Ardayre looks young enough and of a health to have ten sons!"

"Y-es," Denzil acquiesced in a tentative tone.

"Not so?" Verisschenzko glanced up surprised, and then gave his attention to the waiter who had brought some Burgundy and was pouring it out into his glass.

"Not so you would say?"

"I don't know, I have never seen her—but in the family it is whispered that John—poor devil—he had an accident hunting two or three years ago. However, it may not any of it be true—here, let us drink to the Ardayre son!"

"To the Ardayre son!" and Verisschenzko filled his friend's glass with the decanted wine and they both drank together.

"Your cousin is like you," he said presently. "A fatiguing likeness, but the same height and make—and voice—strange things these family reproductions of an exact type. I have no family, as you know—we are of the people, arisen by trade to riches. Could I go beyond my immediate parents, could I know cousins and uncles and brothers, should I find this same peculiar stamp of family among us all? Who knows? I think not."

"I suppose there is something in it. My father has told me that in the picture gallery at Ardayre they are as like as two pins the whole way down."

"The concentration upon the idea causes it. In people risen like my father and myself, we only resemble a group—a nation; if I have children they will resemble me. It is strength in the beginning when an individual rises beyond the group, which produces a type. One says 'English' to look at you, and then, if one knows, one says 'Ardayre' at once; one gets as far as 'Calmuck' with me, that is all, but in years to come it will have developed into 'Verisschenzko.'"

"How you study things, Stépan; you are always putting new ideas into my head whenever I see you. Life would be just a routine, for all the joy of sport, if one did not think. I am going to finish my soldiering this autumn and stand for Parliament. It seems waste of time now, with no wars in prospect, sticking to it; I want a vaster field."

"You think there can be no wars in prospect—no? Well, who can prophesy? There are clouds in the Southeast, but for the moment we will not speculate about them—and they may affect my country and not yours. And so you will settle down and become a reputable member of Parliament?" Then, as Denzil would have spoken perhaps upon the subject of war clouds, Verisschenzko hastily continued:

"Will you dine to-morrow night at the Ritz to meet your cousin and his wife? They are honouring me."

"I wish I could, but I am off in the morning. What is she like?"

Verisschenzko paid particular attention to the selection of a quail, and then he answered:

"She is of the same type as the family, Denzil—that is, a good skeleton—bones in the right place, firm white flesh, colouring as yours—well bred, balanced, unawakened as yet. Was she a relation?"

"Yes, I believe so—a cousin of a generation even before mine. I wish I could have dined, I would awfully like to have met them; I shall have to make a chance in England. It is stupid not to know one's own family, but our fathers quarrelled and we have never had a chance of mending the break."

"They were at the Russian Embassy last night; the throng admired Lady

Ardayre very much."

"And what are you doing in Paris, Stépan? The last I heard of you, you were on your yacht in the Black Sea."

"I was cruising near countries whose internal affairs interest me for the moment. I returned to my appartement in Paris to see a friend of mine, Stanislass Boleski—he also has a lovely wife. Look, she has just come in with him. She is in the devil of a temper—observe her. If I sit back, the pillar hides me—I do not wish them to see me yet."

Denzil glanced down the room; two people were taking their seats by the wall. The mask was off Harietta Boleski's face for the moment; it looked silly with its raised eyebrows and was full of ill temper and spite. The husband had an air of extreme worry on his clever, intellectual face, but that he was solicitous to gratify his wife's caprices, any casual observer could have perceived.

"You mean the woman with the wonderful cigrettes—she is good-looking, isn't she? I wonder who it is she has caught sight of now, though? Look at the eagerness which has come into her eyes—you can see her in the mirror if you want to."

But Verisschenzko had missed nothing, and he bent forward to endeavour to identify the person upon whom Madame Boleski's gaze had turned. There was nothing to distinguish any individual—the company were of several nations—German and Austrian and Balkan and Russian scattered about here and there among the French and American habitués. The only plan would be to continue to watch Harietta—but although he did this throughout the dinner, not a flicker of her eyelids gave him any further clue.

Denzil was interested—he felt something beyond what appeared on the surface was taking place, so he waited for his friend to speak.

Verisschenzko was silent for a little, and then he casually gave a résumé of the character and place of Madame Boleski and her husband, a good deal more baldly expressed, but in substance much the same as he had given to Amaryllis at the Russian Embassy the night before.

He spoke lightly, but his yellow green eyes were keen.

"Look at her well—she is capable of mischief. Her extreme stupidity—only the brain of a rodent or a goat—makes her more difficult to manipulate than the cleverest diplomat, because you can never be sure whether the blank want of understanding which she displays is real or simulated. She is a perfect actress, but very often is quite natural. Most women are either posing all the time, or not at all. Harietta's miming only comes into action for self-preservation, or personal gain, and then it is of such a superb quality that she leaves even me—I, who am no poor diviner—confused as to whether she is telling a lie or the truth."

"What an exceptional character!" Denzil was thrilled.

"An absence of all moral sense is her great power," Verisschenzko continued, while he watched her narrowly, "because she never has any of the prickings of conscience which even most rogues experience at times, and so draws no demagnetising nervous uncertain currents. If it were not for an insatiable extravagance, and a capricious fancy for different jewels, she would be impossible to deal with. She has information, obtained from what source I do not as yet know, which is of vital importance to me. Were it not for that, one could simply enjoy her as a mistress and take delight in studying her idiosyncrasies."

"She has lovers?"

"Has had many; her rôle now is that of a great lady and so all is of a respectability! She is so stupid that if that instinct of self-preservation were not so complete as to be like a divine guide, she would commit bêtises all the time. As it is, when she takes a lover it is hidden with the cunning of a fox."

"Who did you say the first husband was—?"

"A German of the name of Von Wendel—he used to beat her with a stick, it is said—so naturally such a nature adored him. I did not meet her until she had got rid of him and he had disappeared. She would sacrifice any one who stood in her way."

"Your friend, the present husband, looks pretty épuisé—one feels sorry for the poor man."

Then, as ever, at the mention of the débacle of Stanislass,

Verisschenzko's eyes filled with a fierce light.

"She has crushed the hope of Poland—for that, indeed, one day she must pay."

"But I thought you Russians did not greatly love the Poles?"

Denzil remarked.

"Enlightened Russians can see beyond their old prejudices—and

Stanislass was a lifetime friend. One day a new dawn will come for our

Northern world."

His eyes grew dreamy for an instant, and then resumed their watch of Harietta. Denzil looked at him and did not speak for a while. He had always been drawn to Stépan, from a couple of terms at Oxford before the Russian was sent down for a mad freak, and did not return. He was such a mixture of idealism and brutal commonsense, a brain so alert and the warm heart of a generous child—capable of every frenzy and of every sacrifice. They had planned great things for their afterlives before the one joined his regiment, and learned discipline, and the other wandered over many lands—and as they sat there in the Café de Paris, the thoughts of both wandered back to old days gapping the encounters for sport in Russia and in India between.

"They were glorious times, Denzil, weren't they?" Verisschenzko said presently, aware by that wonderfully delicately attuned faculty of his of what his friend was thinking. "We had thought to conquer the sun, moon and stars—and who knows, perhaps we will yet!"

"Who knows? I feel my real life is only just beginning. How old are we,

Stépan? Twenty-nine years old!"

Afterwards, as they went out, they passed the Boleskis close, and the two rose and spoke to Verisschenzko, with empressement. He introduced Captain Ardayre and they talked for a few minutes, Harietta Boleski all smiles and flattering cajoleries now—and then they said good-night and went out.

But as Stépan passed, a man half hidden behind a pillar leaned forward and looked at him, and in his light blue eyes there burned a jealous hate.

"Ah, Gott in Himmel!" he growled to himself. "It is he whom she loves—not the pig-fool who we gave her to—one day I shall kill him—" and he raised his glass of Rhine wine and murmured "Der Tag!"

That evening Sir John Ardayre had taken his bride to dine in the Bois, and they were sitting listening to the Tziganes at Arménonville. Amaryllis was conscious that the evening lacked something. The circumstances were interesting—a bride of ten days, and the environment so illuminating—and yet there was John smoking an expensive cigar and not saying anything! She did not like people who chattered—and she could even imagine a delicious silence wrought with meaning. But a stolid respectable silence with Tziganes playing moving airs and the romantic background of this Paris out-of-door joyous night life, surely demanded some show of emotion!

John loved her she supposed—of course he did—or he never would have asked her to marry him, rich as he was and poor as she had been. She could not help going over all their acquaintance; the date of its beginning was only three months back!

They had met at a country house and had played golf together, and then they had met again a month later at another house, in March, but she could not remember any love-making—she could not remember any of those warm looks and those surreptitious hand-clasps when occasion was propitious, which Elsie Goldmore had told her men were so prodigal of in demonstrating when they fell in love. Indeed, she had seen emotion upon the faces of quite two or three young men, for all her secluded life and restricted means, since she had left the school in Dresden, where a worldly maiden aunt had pinched to send her, German officers had looked at her there with interest in the street, and the clergyman's three sons and the Squire's two, when she returned home. Indeed, Tom Clarke had gone further than this! He had kissed her cheek coming out of the door in the dark one evening, and had received a severe rebuff for his pains.

She had read quantities of novels, ancient and modern. She knew that love was a wonderful thing; she knew also that modern life and its exigencies had created a new and far more matter-of-fact point of view about it than that which was obtained in most books. She did not expect much, and had indulged in none of those visions of romantic bliss which girls were once supposed to spend their time in constructing. But she did expect something, and here was nothing—just nothing!

The day John had asked her to marry him he had not been much moved. He had put the question to her simply and calmly, and she had not dreamed of refusing him. It was obviously her duty, and it had always been her intention to marry well, if the chance came her way, and so leave a not too congenial home.

She had been to a few London balls with the maiden aunt, a personage of some prestige and character. But invitations do not flow to a penniless young woman from the country, nor do partners flock to be presented to strangers in those days, and Amaryllis had spent many humiliating hours as a wall-flower and had grown to hate balls. She was not expansive in herself and did not make friends easily, and pretty as she was, as a girl, luck did not come her way.

When she had said "Yes" in as matter-of-fact a voice as the proposal of marriage had been made to her, Sir John had replied: "You are a dear," and that had seemed to her a most ordinary remark. He had leaned over—they were climbing a steep pitch in search of a fugitive golf ball—and had taken her hand respectfully, and then he had kissed her forehead—or her ear—she forgot which—nothing which mattered much, or gave her any thrill!

"I hope I shall make you happy," he had added. "I am a dull sort of a fellow, but I will try."

Then they had talked of the usual things that they talked about, the most every-day—and they had returned to the house, and by the evening every one knew of the engagement, and she was congratulated on all sides, and petted by the hostess, and she and John were left ostentatiously alone in a smaller drawing-room after dinner, and there was not a grain of excitement in the whole conventional thing!

There was always a shadow, too, in John's blue eyes. He was the most reserved creature in this world, she supposed. That might be all very well, but what was the good of being so reserved with the woman you liked well enough to make your wife, if it made you never able to get beyond talking on general subjects!

This she had asked herself many times and had determined to break down the reserve. But John never changed and he was always considerate and polite and perfectly at ease. He would talk quietly and with commonsense to whoever he was placed next, and very seldom a look of interest flickered in his eyes. Indeed, Amaryllis had never seen him really interested until he spoke of Ardayre—then his very voice altered.

He spoke of his home often to her during their engagement, and she grew to know that it was something sacred to him, and that the Family and its honour, and its traditions, meant more to him than any individual person could ever do.

She almost became jealous of it all.

Her trousseau was quite nice—the maiden aunt had seen to that. Her niece had done well and she did not grudge her pinchings.

Amaryllis felt triumphant as she walked up the aisle of St. George's, Hanover Square, on the arm of a scapegrace sailor uncle—she would not allow her stepfather to give her away.

Every one was so pleased about the wedding! An Ardayre married to an Ardayre! Good blood on both sides and everything suitable and rich and prosperous, and just as it should be! And there stood her handsome, stolid bridegroom, serenely calm—and the white flowers, and the Bishop—and her silver brocade train—and the pages, and the bridesmaids. Oh! yes, a wedding was a most agreeable thing!

And could she have penetrated into the thoughts of John Ardayre, this is the prayer she would have heard, as he knelt there beside her at the altar rails: "Oh, God, keep the axe from falling yet, give me a son."

The most curious emotions of excitement rose in her when they went off in the smart new automobile en route for that inevitable country house "lent by the bridegroom's uncle, the Earl de la Paule, for the first days of the honeymoon."

This particular mansion was on the river, only two hours' drive from her aunt's Charles Street door. Now that she was his wife, surely John would begin to make love to her, real love, kisses, claspings, and what not. For Elsie Goldmore had presumed upon their schoolgirl friendship and been quite explicate in these last days, and in any case Amaryllis was not a miss of the Victorian era. The feminine world has grown too unrefined in the expression of its private affairs and too indiscreet for any maiden to remain in ignorance now.

It is true John did kiss her once or twice, but there was no real warmth in the embrace, and when, after an excellent dinner her heart began to beat with wonderment and excitement, she asked herself what it meant. Then, all confused, she murmured something about "Good-night," and retired to the magnificent state suite alone.

When she had left him John Ardayre drank down a full glass of Benedictine and followed her up the stairs, but there was no lover's exaltation, but an anguish almost of despair in his eyes.

Amaryllis thought of that night—and of other nights since—as she sat there at Arménonville, in the luminous sensuous dusk.

So this was being married! Well, it was not much of a joy—and why, why did John sit silent there? Why?

Surely this is not how the Russian would have sat—that strange Russian!