The Streets of Ascalon
Quarren shrugged and lighted a cigarette.
"Of course," he added, "his father was only too glad to pay his debts. But boys don't always see things in their true proportions. Neither do women."
Westguard, silent, scowling, pulled at his pipe for a while, then:
"Why should you play surgeon and nurse in such a loathsome hospital?"
"Somebody must. I seem better fitted to do it than the next man."
"Yes," said Westguard with a wry face, "I fancy somebody must do unpleasant things – even among the lepers of Molokai. But I'd prefer real lepers."
"The social sort are sometimes sicker," laughed Quarren.
"I don't agree with you… By the way, it's all off between my aunt and me."
"I'm sorry, Karl – "
"I'm not! I don't want her money. She told me to go to the devil, and I said something similar. Do you know what she wants me to do?" he added angrily. "Give up writing, live on an allowance from her, and marry Chrysos Lacy! What do you think of that for a cold-blooded and impertinent proposition! We had a fearful family row," he continued with satisfaction – "my aunt bellowing so that her footmen actually fled, and I doing the cool and haughty, and letting her bellow her bally head off."
"You and she have exchanged civilities before," said Quarren, smiling.
"Yes, but this is really serious. I'm damned if I give up writing."
"Or marry Chrysos Lacy?"
"Or that, either. Do you think I want a red-headed wife? And I've never spoken a dozen words to her, either. And I'll pick out my own wife. What does my aunt think I am? I wish I were in love with somebody's parlour-maid. B'jinks! I'd marry her, just to see my aunt's expression – "
"Oh, stop your fulminations," said Quarren, laughing. "That's the way with you artistic people; you're a passionate pack of pups!"
"I'm not as passionate as my aunt!" retorted Westguard wrathfully. "Do you consider her artistic? She's a meddlesome, malicious, domineering, insolent, evil old woman, and I told her so."
Quarren managed to stifle his laughter for a moment, but his sense of the ludicrous was keen, and the scene his fancy evoked sent him off into mirth uncontrollable.
Westguard eyed him gloomily; ominous clouds poured from "The Weather-breeder."
"Perhaps it's funny," he said, "but she and I cannot stand each other, and this time it's all off for keeps. I told her if she sent me another check I'd send it back. That settles it, doesn't it?"
"You're foolish, Karl – "
"Never mind. If I can't keep myself alive in an untrammelled and self-respecting exercise of my profession – " His voice ended in a gurgling growl. Then, as though the recollections of his injuries at the hands of his aunt still stung him, he reared up in his chair:
"Chrysos Lacy," he roared, "is a sweet, innocent girl – not a bale of fashionable merchandise! Besides," he added in a modified tone, "I was rather taken by – by Mrs. Leeds."
Quarren slowly raised his eyes.
"I was," insisted Westguard sulkily; "and I proved myself an ass by saying so to my aunt. Why in Heaven's name I was idiot enough to go and tell her, I don't know. Perhaps I had a vague idea that she would be so delighted that she'd give me several tons of helpful advice."
"Did she?"
"Did she! She came back at me with Chrysos Lacy, I tell you! And when I merely smiled and attempted to waive away the suggestion, she flew into a passion, called me down, cursed me out – you know her language isn't always in good taste – and then she ordered me to keep away from Mrs. Leeds – as though I ever hung around any woman's skirts! I'm no Squire of Dames. I tell you, Rix, I was mad clear through. So I told her that I'd marry Mrs. Leeds the first chance I got – "
"Don't talk about her that way," remonstrated Quarren pleasantly.
"About who? My aunt?"
"I didn't mean your aunt?"
"Oh. About Mrs. Leeds. Why not? She's the most attractive woman I ever met – "
"Very well. But don't talk about marrying her – as though you had merely to suggest it to her. You know, after all, Mrs. Leeds may have ideas of her own."
"Probably she has," admitted Westguard, sulkily. "I don't imagine she'd care for a man of my sort. Why do you suppose she went off on that cruise with Langly Sprowl?"
Quarren said, gravely: "I have no idea what reasons Mrs. Leeds has for doing anything."
"You correspond."
"Who said so?"
"My aunt."
Quarren flushed up, but said nothing.
Westguard, oblivious of his annoyance, and enveloped in a spreading cloud of tobacco, went on:
"Of course if you don't know, I don't. But, by the same token, my aunt was in a towering rage when she heard that Langly had Mrs. Leeds aboard the Yulan."
"What!" said the other, sharply.
"She swore like a trooper, and called Langly all kinds of impolite names. Said she'd trim him if he ever tried any of his tricks around Mrs. Leeds – "
"What tricks? What does she mean by tricks?"
"Oh, I suppose she meant any of his blackguardly philandering. There isn't a woman living on whom he is afraid to try his hatchet-faced blandishments."
Quarren dropped back into the depths of his arm-chair. Presently his rigid muscles relaxed. He said coolly:
"I don't think Langly Sprowl is likely to misunderstand Mrs. Leeds."
"That depends," said Westguard. "He's a rotten specimen, even if he is my cousin. And he knows I think so."
A few minutes later O'Hara sauntered in. He had been riding in the Park and his boots and spurs were shockingly muddy.
"Who is this Sir Charles Mallison, anyway?" he asked, using the decanter and then squirting his glass full of carbonic. "Is it true that he's goin' to marry that charmin' Mrs. Leeds? I'll break his bally Sassenach head for him! I'll – "
"The rumour was contradicted in this morning's paper," said Quarren coldly.
O'Hara drank pensively: "I see that Langly Sprowl is messin' about, too. Mrs. Ledwith had better hurry up out there in Reno – or wherever she's gettin' her divorce. I saw Chet Ledwith ridin' in the Park. Dankmere was with him. Funny he doesn't seem to lose any caste by sellin' his wife to Sprowl."
"The whole thing is a filthy mess," growled Westguard; "let it alone."
"Why don't you make a novel about it?" inquired O'Hara.
"Because, you dub! I don't use real episodes or living people!" roared Westguard; "newspapers and a few chumps to the contrary!"
"So! – so-o!" said O'Hara, soothingly – "whoa – steady, boy!" And he pretended to rub down Westguard, hissing the while as do grooms when currying.
"Anybody who tells the truth about social conditions in any section of human society is always regarded as a liar," said Westguard. "Not that I have any desire to do it, but if I should ever write a novel dealing with social conditions in any fashionable set, I'd be disbelieved."
"You would be if you devoted your attention to fashionable scandals only," said Quarren.
"Why? Aren't there plenty of scandalous – "
"Plenty. But no more than in any other set or coterie; not as many as there are among more ignorant people. Virtue far outbalances vice among us: a novel, properly proportioned, ought to show that. If it doesn't, it's misleading."
"Supposing," said Westguard, "that I were indecent enough to show up my aunt in fiction. Nobody would believe her possible."
"I sometimes doubt her even now," observed O'Hara, grinning.
Quarren said: "Count up the unpleasant characters in your own social vicinity, Karl – just to prove to yourself that there are really very few."
"There is Langly – and my aunt – and the Lester Calderas – and the Ledwiths – "
"Go on!"
Westguard laughed: "I guess that ends the list," he said.
"It does. Also I dispute the list," said Quarren.
"Cyrille Caldera is a pippin," remarked O'Hara, sentimentally.
"What about Mary Ledwith? Is anybody here inclined to sit in judgment?"
"I," said Westguard grimly.
"Why?"
"Divorce is a dirty business."
"Oh. You'd rather she put up with Chester? – the sort of man who was weak enough to let her go?"
"Yes!"
"Get out, you old Roundhead!" said Quarren, laughing. He rose, laid his hand lightly on Westguard's shoulder in passing, and went upstairs to his room, where he wrote a long letter to Strelsa; and then destroyed it. Then he lay down, covering his boyish head with his arms.
When Lacy came in he saw him lying on the bed, and thought he was asleep.
CHAPTER V
Toward the end of March Strelsa, with the Wycherlys, returned to New York, dead tired. She had been flattered, run after, courted from Palm Beach to Havana; the perpetual social activity, the unbroken fever of change and excitement had already made firmer the soft lineaments of the girl's features, had slightly altered the expression of the mouth.
By daylight the fatigues of pleasure were faintly visible – that unmistakable imprint which may perhaps leave the eyes clear and calm, but which edges the hardened contour of the cheek under them with deeper violet shadow.
Not that hers was as yet the battered beauty of exhaustion; she had merely lived every minute to the full all winter long, and had overtaxed her capacity; and the fire had consumed something of her freshness.
Not yet inured, not yet crystallised to that experienced hardness which withstands the fierce flame of living too fast in a world where every minute is demanded and where sleep becomes a forgotten art, the girl was completely tired out, and while she herself did not realise it, her features showed it.
But nervous exhaustion alone could not account for the subtle change in her expression. Eyes and lips were still sweet, even in repose, but there was now a jaded charm about them – something unspoiled had disappeared from them – something of that fearlessness which vanishes after too close and too constant contact with the world of men.
Evidently her mind was quite as weary as her body, though even to herself she had not admitted fatigue; and a tired mind no longer defends itself. Hers had not; and the defence had been, day by day, imperceptibly weakening. So that things to which once she had been able at will to close her mind, and, mentally deaf, let pass unheard, she had heard, and had even thought about. And the effort to defend her ears and mind became less vigorous, less instinctive – partly through sheer weariness.
The wisdom of woman and of man, and of what is called the world, the girl was now learning – unconsciously in the beginning and then with a kind of shamed indifference – but the creation of an artificial interest in anything is a subtle matter; and the ceaseless repetition of things unworthy at last awake that ignoble curiosity always latent in man. Because intelligence was born with it; and unwearied intelligence alone completely suppresses it.
At first she had kept her head fairly level in the whirlwind of adulation. To glimpses of laxity she closed her eyes. Sir Charles was always refreshing to her; but she could see little more of him than of other men – less than she saw of Langly Sprowl, however that happened – and it probably happened through the cleverness of Langly Sprowl.
Again and again she found herself with him separated from the others – sometimes alone with him on deck – and never quite understood how it came about so constantly.
As for Sprowl he made love to her from the first; and he was a trim, carefully groomed and volubly animated young man, full of information, and with a restless, ceaseless range of intelligence which at first dazzled with its false brilliancy.
But it was only a kind of flash-light intelligence. It seemed to miss, occasionally; some cog, some screw somewhere was either absent or badly adjusted or over-strained.
At first Strelsa found the young fellow fascinating. He had been everywhere and had seen everything; his mind was kaleidoscopic; his thought shifted, flashed, jerked, leaped like erratic lightning from one subject to another – from Japanese aeroplanes to a scheme for filling in the East River; from a plan to reconcile church and state in France to an idea for indefinitely prolonging human life. He had written several books about all kinds of things. Nobody read them.
The first time he spoke to her of love was on a magnificent star-set night off Martinique; and she coolly reminded him of the gossip connecting him with a pretty woman in Reno. She could not have done it a month ago.
He denied it so pleasantly, so frankly, that, astonished, she could scarcely choose but believe him.
After that he made ardent, headlong love to her at every opportunity, with a flighty recklessness which began by amusing her. At first, also, she found wholesome laughter a good defence; but there was an under-current of intelligent, relentless vigour in his attack which presently sobered her. And she vaguely realised that he was a man who knew what he wanted. A talk with Molly Wycherly sobered her still more; and she avoided him as politely as she could. But, being her host, it was impossible to keep clear of him. Besides there was about him a certain unwholesome fascination, even for her. No matter how bad a man's record may be, few women doubt their ability to make it a better one.
"You little goose," said Molly Wycherly, "everybody knows the kind of man he is. Could anything be more brazen than his attentions to you while Mary Ledwith is in Reno?"
"He says that her being there has nothing to do with him."
"Then he lies," said Molly, shrugging her shoulders.
"He doesn't speak as though he were trying to deceive anybody, Molly. He is perfectly frank to me. I can't believe that scandal. Besides he is quite open and manly about his unsavoury reputation; makes no excuses; simply says that there's good in every man, and that there is always one woman in the world who can bring it out – "
"Oh, mushy! What an out-of-date whine! He's bad all through I tell you – "
"No man is!" insisted Strelsa.
"What?"
"No man is. The great masters of fiction always ascribe at least one virtue to their most infamous creations – "
"Oh, Strelsa, you talk like a pan of fudge! I tell you that Langly Sprowl is no good at all. I hope you won't have to marry him to find out."
"I don't intend to… How inconsistent you are, Molly. You – and everybody else – believe him to be the most magnificent match in – "
"If position and wealth is all you care for, yes. I didn't suppose you'd come to that."
Strelsa said candidly: "I care for both – I don't know how much."
"As much as that?"
"No; not enough to marry him. And if he is what you say, it's hopeless of course… I don't think he is. Be decent, Molly; everybody is very horrid about him, and – and that is always a matter of sympathetic interest to a generous woman. When the whole world condemns a man it makes him interesting!"
"That's a piffling and emotional thing to say! He may be attractive in an uncanny way, because he's agreeable to look at, amusing, and very dangerous – a perfectly cold-blooded, and I think, slightly unbalanced social marauder. And that's the fact about Langly Sprowl. And I wish we were on land, the Yulan and her owner in – well, in the Erie Basin, perhaps."
Whether or not Strelsa believed these things, there still remained in her that curious sense of fascination in Sprowl's presence, partly arising, no doubt, from an instinctive sympathy for a young man so universally damned; partly, because she thought that perhaps he really was damned. Therefore, deep in her heart she felt that he must be dangerous; and there is, in that one belief, every element of unwholesome fascination. And a mind fatigued is no longer wholesome.
Then, too, there was always Sir Charles Mallison to turn to for a refreshing moral bath. Safety of soul lay in his vicinity; she felt confidence in the world wherever he traversed it. With him she relaxed and rested; there was repose for her in his silences; strength for her when he spoke; and a serene comradeship which no hint of sentiment had ever vexed.
Perhaps only a few people realised how thoroughly a single winter was equipping Strelsa for the part she seemed destined to play in that narrow world with which she was already identified; and few realised how fast she was learning. Laxity of precept, easy morals, looseness of thought, idle and good-natured acquiescence in social conditions where all standards seemed alike, all ideals merely a matter of personal taste – this was the atmosphere into which she had stepped from two years of Western solitude after a nightmare of violence, cruelty, and depravity unutterable. And naturally it seemed heavenly to her; and each revelation inconsistent with her own fastidious instincts left her less and less surprised, less and less uneasy. And after a while she began to assimilate all that she saw and heard.
A few unworldly instincts remained in her – gratitude for and quick response to any kindness offered from anybody; an inclination to make friends with stray wanderers into her circle, and to cultivate the socially useless.
Taking four o'clock tea alone with Mrs. Sprowl the afternoon of her return to town – an honour vouchsafed to few – Strelsa was relating, at that masterful woman's request, her various exotic experiences. Mrs. Sprowl had commanded her attendance early. There were reasons. And now partly vexed, partly in unwilling admiration, the old lady sat smiling and all the while thinking to herself impatiently; "Baby! Fool! Little ninny! Imbecile!" while she listened, fat bejewelled hands folded, small green eyes shining in the expanse of powdered and painted fat.
After a while she could endure it no longer, and she said with a wheeze of good-natured disdain:
"It's like a school-girl's diary – all those rhapsodies over volcanoes, palm trees, and the colour of the Spanish Main. Never mind geography, child; tell me about the men!"
"Men?" repeated Strelsa, laughingly – "why there were shoals and shoals of them, of every description!"
"I mean the one man?" insisted Mrs. Sprowl encouragingly.
"Which, please?"
"Nonsense! There was one, I suppose."
"Oh, I don't think so… Your nephew, Langly, was exceedingly amiable – "
"He's a plain beast," said his aunt, bluntly. "I didn't mean him."
"He was very civil to me," insisted Strelsa, colouring.
"Probably he didn't have a chance to be otherwise. He's a rotter, child. Ask anybody. I know perfectly well what he's been up to. I'm sorry you went on the Yulan. He had no business to ask you – or any other nice girl – or anybody at all until that Reno scandal is officially made respectable. If it were not for his money – " She stopped a moment, adding cynically – "and if it were not for mine – certain people wouldn't be tolerated anywhere, I suppose… How did you like Sir Charles?"
"Oh, he is charming!" she said warmly.
"You like him?"
"I almost adore him."
"Why not adore him entirely?"
Strelsa laughed frankly: "He hasn't asked me to, for one reason. Besides – "
"No doubt he'll do it."
The girl shook her head, still smiling:
"You don't understand at all. There isn't the slightest sentiment between us. He's only thoroughly nice and agreeable, and he and I are most companionable. I hope nobody will be silly enough to hint anything of that sort to him. It would embarrass him dreadfully."
Mrs. Sprowl's smile was blandly tolerant:
"The man's in love with you. Didn't you know it?"
"But you are mistaken, dear Mrs. Sprowl. If it were true I would know it, I think."
"Nonsense! He told me so."
"Oh," said Strelsa in amazed consternation. She added: "If it is so I'd rather not speak of it, please."
Mrs. Sprowl eyed her with shifty but keen intelligence. "Little idiot," she thought; but her smile remained bland and calmly patronising.
For a second or two longer she studied the girl cautiously, trying to make up her mind whether there was really any character in Strelsa's soft beauty – anything firmer than material fastidiousness; anything more real than a natural and dainty reticence. Mrs. Sprowl could ride rough-shod over such details. But she was too wise to ride if there was any chance of a check from higher sources.
"If you married him it would be very gratifying to me," she said pleasantly. "Come; let's discuss the matter like sensible women. Shall we?"
Many people would not have disregarded such a wish. Strelsa flushed and lifted her purple-gray eyes to meet the little green ones scanning her slyly.
"I am sorry," she said, "but I couldn't discuss such a thing, you see. Don't you see I can't, dear Mrs. Sprowl?"
"Pooh! Rubbish! Anybody can discuss anything," rejoined the old lady with impersonal and boisterous informality. "I'm fond of you. Everybody knows it. I'm fond of Sir Charles. He's a fine figure of a man. You match him in everything, except wealth. It's an ideal marriage – "
"Please don't! – I simply cannot – "
"Ideal," repeated Mrs. Sprowl loudly – "an ideal marriage – "
"But when there is no love – "
"Plenty! Loads of it! He's mad about you – crazy! – "
"I – meant – on my part – "
"Good God!" shouted the old lady, beating the air with pudgy hands – "isn't it luck enough to have love on one side? What does the present generation want! I tell you it's ideal, perfect. He's a good man as men go, and a devilish handsome – "
"I know – but – "
"And he's got money!" shouted the old lady – "plenty of it I tell you! And he has the entrée everywhere on the Continent – in England – everywhere! – which Dankmere has not! – if you're considering that little whelp!"
Stunned, shrinking from the dreadful asthmatic noises in Mrs. Sprowl's voice, Strelsa sat dumb, wincing under the blows of sound, not knowing how to escape.
"I'm fond of you!" shrieked the old lady – "I can be of use to you and I want to be. That's why I asked you to tea! I want to make you happy – and Sir Charles, too! What the devil do you suppose there is in it for me except to oblige hi – you both?"
"Th-thank you, but – "
"I'll bet a shilling that Molly Wycherly let you go about with any little spindle-shanked pill who came hanging around! – And I told her what were my wishes – "
"Please – oh, please, Mrs. Sprowl – "
"Yes, I did! It's a good match! I want you to consider it! – I insist that – "
"Mrs. Sprowl!" exclaimed Strelsa, pink with confusion and resentment, "I am obliged to you for the interest you display, but it is a matter – "
"What!"
"I am really – grateful – but – "
"Answer me, child. Has that cursed nephew of mine made any impression on you? Answer me!"
"Not the kind you evidently mean!" said Strelsa, helplessly.
"Is there anybody else?"
The outrageous question silenced the girl for a moment. Angry, she still tried to be gentle; tried to remember the age, and the excellent intentions of this excited old lady; and she answered in a low voice:
"I care for no man in particular, unless it be Sir Charles – and – "
"And who?"
"Mr. Quarren, I think," she said.
Mrs. Sprowl's jowl grew purple with fury:
"You – has that boy had the impudence – damn him – "
Strelsa sprang to her feet.
"I really cannot remain – " she said with decision, but the old lady only bawled:
"Sit down! Sit down!"
"I will not!"
"Sit down!" she roared in a passion. "What the devil – "
Strelsa, a little pale, started to pass her – then halted, astounded: for the old lady had burst into a passion of choking gasps. Whether the terrible sounds she made were due to impotent rage or asthma, Strelsa, confused, shocked, embarrassed, but still angry, had no notion; and while Mrs. Sprowl coughed fatly, she stood still, catching muffled fragments of reproaches directed at people who flouted friendship; who had no consideration for age, and no gratitude, no tenderness, no pity.
"I – I am grateful," faltered Strelsa, "only I cannot – "
"I wanted to be a mother to you! I've tried to be," wheezed the old lady in a fresh paroxysm; and beat the air.
For one swift instant the girl remembered what her real mother had been to her; and her heart hardened.
"I care only for your friendship, Mrs. Sprowl; I do not wish you to do anything for me; can we not be friends on that basis?"
