Читать книгу In Her Own Right - Scott John Reed - Страница 5

Croyden was sitting before the house, later in the afternoon, when an elderly gentleman, returning leisurely from town, turned in at the Clarendon gates.

“My first caller,” thought Croyden, and immediately he arose and went forward to meet him.

“Permit me to present myself, sir,” said the newcomer. “I am Charles Carrington.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Captain Carrington,” said Croyden, taking the proffered hand.

“This is your first visit to Hampton, I believe, sir,” the Captain remarked, when they were seated under the trees. “It is not Northumberland, sir; we haven’t the push, and the bustle, and the smoke, but we have a pleasant little town, sir, and we’re glad to welcome you here. I think you will like it. It’s a long time since Clarendon had a tenant, sir. Colonel Duval’s been dead nearly ten years now. Your father and he were particular friends, I believe.”

Croyden assured him that such was the case.

“Yes, sir, the Colonel often spoke of him to me with great affection. I can’t say I was surprised to know that he had made him his heir. He was the last of the Duvals – not even a collateral in the family – there was only one child to a generation, sir.”

Manifestly, it was not known in Hampton how Hugh Croyden came to be the Colonel’s heir, and, indeed, friendship had prompted the money-loan, without security other than the promise of the ultimate transfer of Clarendon and its contents. And Croyden, respecting the Colonel’s wish, evident now, though unexpressed either to his father or himself, resolved to treat the place as a gift, and to suppress the fact that there had been an ample and adequate consideration.

After a short visit, Captain Carrington arose to go.

“Come over and take supper with us, this evening, sir,” said he. “I want you to meet Mrs. Carrington and my granddaughter.”

“I’ll come with pleasure,” Croyden answered, thinking of the girl with the blue-black hair and slender ankles.

“It’s the house yonder, with the white pillars – at half-after-six, then, sir.”

As Croyden approached the Carrington house, he encountered Miss Carrington on the walk.

“We have met before,” she said, as he bowed over her hand. “I was your original guide to Clarendon. Have you forgot?”

“Have I forgot?” said Croyden. “Do you think it possible?” looking her in the eyes.

“No, I don’t.”

“But you wanted to hear me say it?”

“I wanted to know if you could say it,” she answered, gayly.

“And how have I succeeded?”

“Admirably!”

“Sufficiently well to pass muster?”

“Muster – for what?” she asked, with a sly smile.

“For enrollment among your victims.”

“Shall I put your name on the list – at the foot?” she laughed.

“Why at the foot?”

“The last comer – you have to work your way up by merit, you know.”

“Which consists in?”

“That you will have to discover.”

“I shall try,” he said. “Is it so very difficult of discovery?”

“No, it should not be so difficult – for you,” she answered, with a flash of her violet eyes. “Mother!” as they reached the piazza – “let me present Mr. Croyden.”

Mrs. Carrington arose to greet him – a tall, slender woman, whose age was sixty, at least, but who appeared not a day over forty-five, despite the dark gown and little lace cap she was wearing. She seemed what the girl had called her – the mother, rather than the grandmother. And when she smiled!

“Miss Carrington two generations hence. Lord! how do they do it?” thought Croyden.

“You play Bridge, of course, Mr. Croyden,” said Miss Carrington, when the dessert was being served.

“I like it very much,” he answered.

“I was sure you did – so sure, indeed, I asked a few friends in later – for a rubber or two – and to meet you.”

“So it’s well for me I play,” he smiled.

“It is indeed!” laughed Mrs. Carrington – “that is, if you care aught for Davila’s good opinion. If one can’t play Bridge one would better not be born.”

“When you know Mother a little better, Mr. Croyden, you will recognize that she is inclined to exaggerate at times,” said Miss Carrington. “I admit that I am fond of the game, that I like to play with people who know how, and who, at the critical moment, are not always throwing the wrong card – you understand?”

“In other words, you haven’t any patience with stupidity,” said Croyden. “Nor have I – but we sometimes forget that a card player is born, not made. All the drilling and teaching one can do won’t give card sense to one who hasn’t any.”

“Precisely!” Miss Carrington exclaimed, “and life is too short to bother with such people. They may be very charming otherwise, but not across the Bridge table.”

“Yet ought you not to forgive them their misplays, just because they are charming?” Mrs. Carrington asked. “If you were given your choice between a poor player who is charming, and a good player who is disagreeable, which would you choose, Mr. Croyden? – Come, now be honest.”

“It would depend upon the size of the game,” Croyden responded. “If it were half a cent a point, I should choose the charming partner, but if it were five cents or better, I am inclined to think I should prefer the good player.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Miss Carrington. “As we don’t play, here, for money stakes, you won’t care if your partner isn’t very expert.”

“Not exactly,” he laughed. “The stipulation is that she shall be charming. I should be willing to take you for a partner though you trumped my ace and forgot my lead.”

“Merci, Monsieur,” she answered. “Though you know I should do neither.”

“Ever play poker?” Captain Carrington asked, suddenly.

“Occasionally,” smiled Croyden.

“Good! We’ll go down to the Club, some evening. We old fellows aren’t much on Bridge, but we can handle a pair or three of-a-kind, pretty good. Have some sherry, won’t you?”

“You must not let the Captain beguile you,” interposed Mrs. Carrington. “The men all play poker with us, – it is a heritage of the old days – though the youngsters are breaking away from it.”

“And taking up Bridge!” the Captain ejaculated. “And it is just as well – we have sense enough to stop before we’re broke, but they haven’t.”

“To hear father talk, you would think that the present generation is no earthly good!” smiled Miss Carrington. “Yet I suppose, when he was young, his elders held the same opinion of him.”

“I dare say!” laughed the Captain. “The old ones always think the young ones have a lot to learn – and they have, sir, they have! But it’s of another sort than we can teach them, I reckon.” He pushed back his chair. “We’ll smoke on the piazza, sir – the ladies don’t object.”

As they passed out, a visitor was just ascending the steps. Miss Carrington gave a smothered exclamation and went forward.

“How do you do, Miss Erskine!” she said.

“How do you do, my dear!” returned Miss Erskine, “and Mrs. Carrington – and the dear Captain, too. – I’m charmed to find you all at home.”

She spoke with an affected drawl that would have been amusing in a handsome woman, but was absurdly ridiculous in one with her figure and unattractive face.

She turned expectantly toward Croyden, and Miss Carrington presented him.

“So this is the new owner of Clarendon,” she gurgled with an ‘a’ so broad it impeded her speech. “You have kept us waiting a long time, Mr. Croyden. We began to think you a myth.”

“I’m afraid you will find me a very husky myth,” Croyden answered.

“‘Husky’ is scarcely the correct word, Mr. Croyden; animated would be better, I think. We scholars, you know, do not like to hear a word used in a perverted sense.”

She waddled to a chair and settled into it. Croyden shot an amused glance toward Miss Carrington, and received one in reply.

“No, I suppose not,” he said, amiably. “But, then, you know, I am not a scholar.”

Miss Erskine smiled in a superior sort of way.

“Very few of us are properly careful of our mode of speech,” she answered. “And, oh! Mr. Croyden, I hope you intend to open Clarendon, so as to afford those of us who care for such things, the pleasure of studying the pictures, and the china, and the furniture. I am told it contains a Stuart and a Peale – and they should not be hidden from those who can appreciate them.”

“I assume you’re talking of pictures,” said Croyden.

“I am, sir, – most assuredly!” the dame answered.

“Well, I must confess ignorance, again,” he replied. “I wouldn’t know a Stuart from a – chromo.”

Miss Erskine gave a little shriek of horror.

“I do not believe it, Mr. Croyden! – you’re playing on my credulity. I shall have to give you some instructions. I will lecture on Stuart and Peale, and the painters of their period, for your especial delectation – and soon, very soon!”

“I’m afraid it would all be wasted,” said Croyden. “I’m not fond of art, I confess – except on the commercial side; and if I’ve any pictures, at Clarendon, worth money, I’ll be for selling them.”

“Oh! Mrs. Carrington! Will you listen – did you ever hear such heresy?” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe it of you, Mr. Croyden. Let me lend you an article on Stuart to read. I shall bring it out to Clarendon to-morrow morning – and you can let me look at all the dear treasures, while you peruse it.”

“Mr. Croyden has an appointment with me to-morrow, Amelia,” said Carrington, quickly – and Croyden gave him a look of gratitude.

“It will be but a pleasure deferred, then, Mr. Croyden,” said Miss Erskine, impenetrable in her self conceit. “The next morning will do, quite as well – I shall come at ten o’clock – What a lovely evening this is, Mrs. Carrington!” preparing to patronize her hostess.

The Captain snorted with sudden anger, and, abruptly excusing himself, disappeared in the library. Miss Carrington stayed a moment, then, with a word to Croyden, that she would show him the article now, before the others came, if Miss Erskine would excuse them a moment, bore him off.

“What do you think of her?” she demanded.

“Pompous and stupid – an irritating nuisance, I should call her.”

“She’s more! – she is the most arrogant, self-opinionated, self-complacent, vapid piece of humanity in this town or any other town. She irritates me to the point of impoliteness. She never sees that people don’t want her. She’s as dense as asphalt.”

“It is very amusing!” Croyden interjected.

“At first, yes – pretty soon you will be throwing things at her – or wanting to.”

“She’s art crazy,” he said. “Dilettanteism gone mad.”

“It isn’t only Art. She thinks she’s qualified to speak on every subject under the sun, Literature – Bridge – Teaching – Music. Oh, she is intolerable!”

“What fits her for assuming universal knowledge?” asked Croyden.

“Heaven only knows! She went away to some preparatory school, and finished off with another that teaches pedagogy. Straightway she became an adept in the art of instruction, though, when she tried it, she had the whole academy by the ears in two weeks, and the faculty asked her to resign. Next, she got some one to take her to Europe – spent six weeks in looking at a lot of the famous paintings, with the aid of a guide book and a catalogue, and came home prepared to lecture on Art – and, what’s more, she has the effrontery to do it – for the benefit of Charity, she takes four-fifths of the proceeds, and Charity gets the balance.

“Music came next. She read the lives of Chopin and Wagner and some of the other composers, went to a half dozen symphony concerts, looked up theory, voice culture, and the like, in the encyclopædias, and now she’s a critic! Literature she imbibed from the bottle, I suppose – it came easy to her! And she passes judgment upon it with the utmost ease and final authority. And as for Bridge! She doesn’t hesitate to arraign Elwell, and we, of the village, are the very dirt beneath her feet. I hear she’s thinking of taking up Civic Improvement. I hope it is true – she’ll likely run up against somebody who won’t hesitate to tell her what an idiot she is.”

“Why do you tolerate her?” Croyden asked. “Why don’t you throw her out of society, metaphorically speaking.”

“We can’t: she belongs – which is final with us, you know. Moreover, she has imposed on some, with her assumption of superiority, and they kowtow to her in a way that is positively disgusting.”

“Why don’t you, and the rest who dislike her, snub her?”

“Snub her! You can’t snub her – she never takes a snub to herself. If you were to hit her in the face, she would think it a mistake and meant for some one else.”

“Then, why not do the next best thing – have fun with her?”

“We do – but even that grows monotonous, with such a mountain of Egotism – she will stay for the Bridge this evening, see if she doesn’t – and never imagine she’s not wanted.” Then she laughed: “I think if she does I’ll give her to you!”

“Very good!” said he. “I’d rather enjoy it. If she is any more cantankerous than some of the women at the Heights, she’ll be an interesting study. Yes, I’ll be glad to play a rubber with her.”

“If you start, you’ll play the entire evening with her – we don’t change partners, here.”

“And what will you do?” he asked.

“Look on – at the other table. She will have my place. I was going to play with you.”

“Then the greater the sacrifice I’m making, the greater the credit I should receive.”

“It depends – on how you acquit yourself,” she said gayly. “There are the others, now – come along.”

There were six of them. Miss Tilghman, Miss Lashiel and Miss Tayloe, Mr. Dangerfield, Mr. Leigh, and Mr. Byrd. They all had heard of Croyden’s arrival, in Hampton, and greeted him as they would one of themselves. And it impressed him, as possibly nothing else could have done – for it was distinctly new to him, after the manners of chilliness and aloofness which were the ways of Northumberland.

“We are going to play Bridge, Miss Erskine, will you stay and join us?” asked Miss Carrington.

“I shall be charmed! charmed!” was the answer. “This is an ideal evening for Bridge, don’t you think so, Mr. Croyden?”

“Yes, that’s what we thought!” said Miss Tilghman, dryly.

“And who is to play with me, dear Davila?” Miss Erskine inquired.

“I’m going to put Mr. Croyden with you.”

“How nice of you! But I warn you, Mr. Croyden, I am a very exacting partner. I may find fault with you, if you violate rules – just draw your attention to it, you know, so you will not let it occur again. I cannot abide blunders, Mr. Croyden – there is no excuse for them, except stupidity, and stupidity should put one out of the game.”

“I’ll try to do my very best,” said Croyden humbly.

“I do not doubt that you will,” she replied easily, her manner plainly implying further that she would soon see how much that “best” was.

As they went in to the drawing-room, where the tables were arranged, Miss Erskine leading, with a feeling of divine right and an appearance of a Teddy bear, Byrd leaned over to Croyden and said:

“She’s the limit!”

“No!” said Leigh, “she’s past the limit; she’s the sublimated It!”

“Which is another way of saying, she’s a superlative d – fool!” Dangerfield ended.

“I think I understand!” Croyden laughed. “Before you came, she tackled me on Art, and, when I confessed to only the commercial side, and an intention to sell the Stuart and Peale, which, it seems, are at Clarendon, the pitying contempt was almost too much for me.”

“My Lord! why weren’t we here!” exclaimed Byrd.

“She’s coming out to inspect my ‘treasures,’ on Thursday morning.”

“Self invited?”

“I rather think so.”

“And you?”

“I shall turn her over to Moses, and decamp before she gets there.”

“Gentlemen, we are waiting!” came Miss Erskine’s voice.

“Oh, Lord! the old dragoon!” said Leigh. “I trust I’m not at her table.”

And he was not – Miss Tilghman and Dangerfield were designated.

“Come over and help to keep me straight,” Croyden whispered to Miss Carrington.

She shook her head at him with a roguish smile.

“You’ll find your partner amply able to keep you straight,” she answered.

The game began. Miss Tilghman won the cut and made it a Royal Spade.

“They no longer play Royal Spades in New York,” said Miss Erskine.

“Don’t know about New York,” returned Miss Tilghman, placidly, “but we’re playing them here, this evening. Your lead, Miss Amelia.”

The latter shut her thick lips tightly, an instant.

“Oh, well, I suppose we must be provincial a little longer,” she said, sarcastically. “Of course, you do not still play Royal Spades in Northumberland, Mr. Croyden.”

“Yes, indeed! Play anything to keep the game moving,” Croyden answered.

“Oh, to be sure! I forgot, for the instant, that Northumberland is a rapid town. – I call that card, Edith – the King of Hearts!” as Miss Tilghman inadvertently exposed it.

A moment later, Miss Tilghman, through anger, also committed a revoke, which her play on the succeeding trick disclosed.

That it was a game for pure pleasure, without stakes, made no difference to Miss Erskine. Technically it was a revoke, and she was within her rights when she exclaimed it.

“Three tricks!” she said exultantly, “and you cannot make game this hand.”

“I’m very sorry, partner,” Miss Tilghman apologized.

“It’s entirely excusable under the circumstances,” said Dangerfield, with deliberate accent. “You may do it again!”

“How courteous Mr. Dangerfield is,” Miss Erskine smiled. “To my mind, nothing excuses a revoke except sudden blindness.”

“And you would claim it even then, I suppose?” Dangerfield retorted.

“I said, sudden blindness was the only excuse, Mr. Dangerfield. Had you observed my language more closely, you doubtless would have understood. – It is your lead, partner.”

Dangerfield, with a wink at Croyden, subsided, and the hand was finished, as was the next, when Croyden was dummy, without further jangling. But midway in the succeeding hand, Miss Erskine began.

“My dear Mr. Croyden,” she said, “when you have the Ace, King, and no more in a suit, you should lead the Ace and then the King, to show that you have no more – give the down-and-out signal. We would have made an extra trick, if you had done so – I could have given you a diamond to trump. As it was, you led the King and then the Ace, and I supposed, of course, you had at least four in suit.”

“I’m very sorry; I’ll try to remember in future,” said Croyden with affected contrition.

But, at the end of the hand, he was in disgrace again.

“If your original lead had been from your fourth best, partner, I could have understood you,” she said. “As it was, you misinformed me. Under the rule of eleven, I had but the nine to beat, I played the ten and Mr. Dangerfield covered with the Knave, which by the rule you should have held. We lost another trick by it, you see.”

“It’s too bad – too bad!” Croyden answered; “that’s two tricks we’ve lost by my stupid playing. I’m afraid I’m pretty ignorant, Miss Erskine, for I don’t know what is meant by the rule of eleven.”

Miss Erskine’s manner of cutting the cards was somewhat indicative of her contempt – lingeringly, softly, putting them down as though she scorned to touch them except with the tips of her fingers.

“The rule of eleven is usually one of the first things learned by a beginner at Bridge,” she said, witheringly. “I do not always agree with Mr. Elwell, some of whose reasoning and inferences, in my opinion, are much forced, but his definition of this rule is very fair. I give it in his exact words, which are: ‘Deduct the size of the card led from eleven, and the difference will show how many cards, higher than the one led, are held outside the leader’s hand.’ For example: if you lead a seven then there are four higher than the seven in the other three hands.”

“I see!” Croyden exclaimed. “What a bully rule! – It’s very informing, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s very informing – in more ways than one,” she answered.

Whereat Miss Tilghman laughed outright, and Dangerfield had to retrieve a card from the floor, to hide his merriment.

“What’s the hilarity?” asked Miss Carrington, coming over to their table. “You people seem to be enjoying the game.”

Which sent Miss Tilghman into a gale of laughter, in which Dangerfield joined.

Miss Erskine frowned in disapproval and astonishment.

“Don’t mind them, Mr. Croyden,” she said. “They really know better, but this is the silly season, I suppose. They have much to learn, too – much to learn, indeed.” She turned to Miss Carrington. “I was explaining a few things about the game to Mr. Croyden, Davila, the rule of eleven and the Ace-King lead, and, for some reason, it seemed to move them to jollity.”

“I’m astonished!” exclaimed Miss Carrington, her violet eyes gleaming with suppressed mirth.

“I hope Mr. Croyden does not think we were laughing at him!” cried Miss Tilghman.

“Of course not!” returned Croyden solemnly, “and, if you were, my stupidity quite justified it, I’m sure. If Miss Erskine will only bear with me, I’ll try to learn – Bully thing, that rule of eleven!”

It was now Croyden’s deal and the score, games all – Miss Erskine having made thirty-six on hers, and Dangerfield having added enough to Miss Tilghman’s twenty-eight to, also, give them game.

“How cleverly you deal the cards,” Miss Erskine remarked. “You’re particularly nimble in the fingers.”

“I acquired it dealing faro,” Croyden returned, innocently.

“Faro!” exclaimed Miss Carrington, choking back a laugh. “What is faro?”

“A game about which you should know nothing, my dear,” Miss Erskine interposed. “Faro is played only in gambling hells and mining camps.”

“And in some of the Clubs in New York,” Croyden added – at which Miss Tilghman’s mirth burst out afresh. “That’s where I learned to copper the ace or to play it open. – I’ll make it no trumps.”

“I’ll double!” said Miss Tilghman.

“I’ll go back!”

“Content.”

“Somebody will win the rubber, this hand,” Miss Erskine platitudinized, – with the way such persons have of announcing a self evident fact – as she spread out her hand. “It is fair support, partner.”

Croyden nodded. Then proceeded with much apparent thought and deliberation, to play the hand like the veriest tyro.

Miss Erskine fidgeted in her seat, gave half smothered exclamations, looked at him appealingly at every misplay. All with no effect. Croyden was wrapped in the game – utterly oblivious to anything but the cards – leading the wrong one, throwing the wrong one, matching pasteboards, that was all.

Miss Erskine was frantic. And when, at the last, holding only a thirteener and a fork in Clubs, he led the losing card of the latter, she could endure the agony no longer.

“That is five tricks you have lost, Mr. Croyden, to say nothing of the rubber!” she snapped. “I must go, now – a delightful game! thank you, my dear Davila. So much obliged to you all, don’t you know. Ah, Captain Carrington, will you see me as far as the front gate? – I won’t disturb the game. Davila can take my place.”

“Yes, I’ll take her to the gate!” muttered the Captain aside to Croyden, who was the very picture of contrition. “But if she only were a man! Are you ready, Amelia?” and he bowed her out.

“You awful man!” cried Miss Carrington. “How could you do it!”

“I think it was lovely – perfectly lovely!” exclaimed Miss Tilghman. – “Oh! that last hand was too funny for words. – If only you could have seen her face, Mr. Croyden.”

“I didn’t dare!” laughed he. “One look, and I’d have given the whole thing away.”

“She never suspected. – I tell you, she is as dense as asphalt,” said Miss Carrington. “Come, now we’ll have some Bridge.”

“And I’ll try to observe the rule of eleven!” said Croyden.

He lingered a moment, after the game was ended and the others had gone. When he came to say good-night, he held Miss Carrington’s slender fingers a second longer than the occasion justified.

“And may I come again soon?” he asked.

“As often as you wish,” she answered. “You have the advantage of proximity, at least.”