The Girl in His House/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV
ARMITAGE decided to accept his losses silently. The swift anger, the naturally savage longing to hunt down the man who had so simply and absurdly robbed him, receded, leaving only a residue of philosophical calm, generously leavened with a sardonic humor. Perhaps, too, he was actuated by a keen idea of shame. Hue and cry would only acquaint the town with the colossal folly of one James Armitage. Moreover, Bordman had six months' leeway; and, because he was so insignificant in appearance, he would be as difficult to locate as the proverbial needle. There were a few hundred thousand individuals in the United States; the other millions were of the Bordman type. Besides, Armitage had been laughed at once before; he could not tolerate the thought of being laughed at again. The Burlinghams, the Corrigan girl and himself; the tale mustn't go any farther.
The house in Seventy-second Street was gone, doubly gone. In the first place, it had been bought and paid for in good faith; in the second place, he would have cut his hand off rather than have told that girl. Why? He asked himself this question in a kind of detached wonder. Why should he consider her? For what reason should he hold back the truth from her? After all, he had no war with her. If he told her it would only worry her, make her unhappy, without benefiting himself in the least. In law the house and all its contents were hers, and she would have no difficulty in defending her title.
From Bordman's office he proceeded to the banks and annulled the power of attorney and examined the lock-boxes in the vaults. He went back mentally to that painful epoch prior to his departure for the Orient. The mortgages had no place in his recollections. Anyhow, Bordman hadn't them; the interest checks certified that. Bordman might have left them at the Concord, among his discarded effects. Later he would obtain the right of search.
One of the bankers asked him what he had done with his big balance.
"Invested it in experience," answered Armitage, gravely.
"Foreign stock markets, eh? Well, we all have to learn," said the banker, convinced that Armitage had been fooling around the foreign bourses. "I called Bordman in after the third withdrawal. He said you wanted the money."
Summed up or simmered down, Armitage had, instead of forty thousand a year, something like twenty-four thousand. As he had seldom spent more than half his income, his life might continue along the old grooves with nothing more serious than a deep sense of irritation. He carried Bordman's letter around in his pockets for weeks, and whenever time hung heavy on his hands he reread it. He even perpetrated a mild form of forgery by copying it.
At four-thirty that afternoon his worries evaporated temporarily. He found himself on the lounge in the Burlingham library, his elbow touching Miss Athelstone's; and frequently, whenever she stirred, he caught the vague perfume of lavender. He could not keep his eyes off her.
"How could you do it?" she asked, abruptly.
The unexpectedness of the question threw him off his balance for a moment. Naturally—his conscience being normal and unwarned—his first supposition was that she had seen his face the night before and now recognized him.
"How could I do what?" he countered, lamely.
"Sell all those beautiful things without reservation."
"Oh! Well, I never expected to return."
"It's all like a fairy-story to me. Nearly all my life has been spent in a convent school. And here I am, with Aladdin's lamp in my hand! True, I had a good deal of liberty. But the room I lived in was white and bare, and my appetite for lovely things was stirred keenly by what I saw in the galleries and museums. For several years I used to go on horseback into the country. My father insisted that I should grow up physically strong. Those hours on a lively horse were spells of wonderful freedom. I suppose it's in my blood to love the open. My father"—her voice softened magically with the most patent adoration—"wanders about in all the strange nooks. To-day I'll receive a letter from Shanghai; the next one will come from Chimborazo; or he's at the emerald-mines in Bolivia or the gold-fields in Africa. I don't suppose he's ever remained in any one place more than a month, except when he's on archeological work." She laughed. "Sometimes I'm convinced that he is the Ancient Mariner, or the Flying Dutchman, or the Prince of India, condemned to wander over the face of the earth. Have you ever by chance run across him? Have you ever heard of him?"
"There's an echo to the name, but I can't place it. Besides, I'm only a big-game hunter, and he, as I understand it, goes in for ruins and tombs and excavations. I'm a know-nothing on those points. Miss Athelstone. There are only a few men like your father, and the world at large never hears of them until they discover a new Babylon; and even then the world forgets all about it day after to-morrow. What's he like?"
Her gaze wandered toward the fire, and this gave him the opportunity he had been longing for—unembarrassedly to study her beauty in detail. Beauty always attracted him strongly; a sunset on the desert, a moonrise on the Taj Mahal, a sunrise on the Himalayas—all enchanted him. What hair! It was as fine as cobweb, thick and wavy, and colored like the heart of a ripe chestnut burr. He had seen cornflower sapphires less lovely than her eyes. Her skin had the faint iridescence of pearls. He brought up these comparisons with a jerk and a stiffening of the shoulders. Come, come; this would never do. Whether or not he had loved Clare Wendell, he had suffered mightily. He must not permit this girl's beauty to get into his blood.
"My father is one of the handsomest men in the world," she said; "tall and strong and brave. Sometimes in his letters—and I must read some of them to you—he gives me little glimpses of the hazards he finds in his path. I believe he is really a poet, for nobody but a poet could write as he does. Three or four times a year they come, fat, thick letters, almost like story-books, so crammed full of life and the expression of life are they. He drops into the nearest consulate when he writes. About four years ago I left school with a companion. He insisted that I should see the world. We went everywhere. I crossed his path a hundred times, it seemed to me, but I never caught up with him. Once I almost had him—in Singapore. There was a letter for me there. It was only two days old, they said at the consulate. I had missed a boat from Penang. In missing the boat I missed him. He had gone down to Batavia. My disappointment was so keen that I cried myself to sleep that night. I was in Naples, on my return from wandering, when I received the cable which brought me to New York. He had bought your home, and it was ready for me to occupy. But, fast as I came, once again I missed him. I found a letter—a brief one this time—explaining my finances. I had a home, bank accounts, and stocks and bonds. With the exception of the home, all had been held in trust for me for years." She smiled and looked up at him. "Can't you see how like a fairy-story it is?"
"Where is your father now?"
"He is somewhere in Yucatan, exploring an Aztec ruin. But I expect his return any time now. A funny thing happened last night. A taxicab, filled with luggage, drew up in front of the house, and I thought it was he. I sent the butler dashing out. Somebody had got the wrong number."
"That was I," said Armitage. "I'd forgotten all about selling the house, and had driven up without thinking."
"Isn't that odd! But I'm going to tell you a secret. Your house is haunted."
"Haunted? Good Heavens! You don't mean to tell me there's a ghost wandering about that I never saw or heard of?"
"Well, during May and June there were times when I felt the presence of some one. Did any one ever look intently at you from behind, so intently that you had to turn your head? Well, it was like that. But last night I nearly caught the ghost. He sneezed! He ran like a deer, and I couldn't catch him."
"You weren't afraid?" Armitage wondered if there was any color to the heat in his cheeks.
"Afraid? A little. But that doesn't matter. Three essentials in life my father has taught me—I might say, drummed into me—to fight fear, to love truth, and never to miss an opportunity to do a kind act. Your lawyer was very nice to me. He came one afternoon to see if everything was all right. I kept him to tea. He was such a funny little old man, just like a character out of Dickens, or an Italian manikin that had been left out in the rain overnight."
"That's Bordman to a dot!"
The girl's voice was exquisite. She had spoken Italian so long that her English had queer little twists to it, unexpected inflections, and her laughter, light and happy, rippled like a Sicilian shepherd's reed. Living in his home, moving among and touching those objects he had loved in the past and still had a mighty craving to see! It was all like some impossible, if alluring, dream. And where, in the name of Michelangelo, were those mortgages?
"Do you still ride?" he asked, presently. Interruptions came occasionally to break in upon their dialogue, but they picked up the threads quickly.
"Nearly every morning."
"What kind of a horse?"
"Lively. I like to feel that I am master of a strong horse."
May I ride with you some morning?"
I shall be very glad to have you. It's twice as much fun with a companion. Even the horses seem to enjoy it more. I ride from nine until eleven. The stable is near by."
"I'll be around to-morrow morning, nine sharp."
Her unaffectedness was a delight to him. Breeding, real breeding, emanated from her with the subtle perfume of an old-fashioned rose. She possessed none of those coy airs, that false reluctance, which hallmarked most of the women he had known. She frankly liked this or that, or didn't. And always there was the recurrence of the amazing thought—she lived in his house!
A hand touched his shoulder lightly, and he turned his head. Standing behind the lounge and smiling down at him was the woman who had driven him forth—and lured him back—Clare Sanderson, born Wendell.
"Jimmie Armitage!" she said. She came around and held out her hand.
Armitage rose and took it, not without some trepidation. Miss Athelstone got up also. She nodded brightly. She understood. These two were old friends. Mrs. Burlingham had given her a glimpse of the history concerning them. But before she moved off Armitage covertly compared these two women. The white peony and the rose; one was magnificent and the other was just lovely.
"I can see that you are old friends, dying to talk," said the rose.
"We are," replied the peony, taking it for granted that she was speaking the truth.
"To-morrow at nine, Mr. Armitage."
"I'll be there."
Clare sat down, and, rather reluctantly, Armitage sat down beside her. After all, he might as well have this thing over with. He could not stay in New York and go among his old friends without meeting Clare.
"I'm glad to see you home again. Betty told me this morning. I suppose you've heard?" she said, with an indicative glance at her black taffeta.
"Oh yes."
"Have you forgiven me, Jimmie?"
Of course. But it was pretty tough at the start."
"I was a fool."
"So was I," he replied, not over-gallantly.
"Then you are cured?"
"Absolutely!" He said it with a smile. Did she expect to wind him around her finger again?
"Isn't that splendid! Then we can be friends like we used to be. I'm changed, Jim, and so are you. Your face shows it. If you had come to the house the next day I believe I should have married you. And now I'm glad you didn't. Let's suppose I married you. To-day both of us would be desperately unhappy. We are not mates, never in this world. I liked you as much as any man. We knew the same people, went to the same houses, and all that. You were the best-looking man of the lot and the straightest. But the kindest thing I ever did was to break with you that last moment. Aren't we human beings funny?"
"We human beings certainly are! Do you honestly mean all that?"
"I honestly do, Jim."
"Shake!" He began to feel entirely at ease. There was not the slightest tremor to his pulse. It was really all over; and Clare was a good sort. A strange exultation crept into his heart.
"Can you keep a secret?" she asked.
"Can I! Why, Clare, I'm carrying around one now that would blow up an ordinary man."
"What is it?" eagerly.
"I said I could keep a secret, not tell one."
"Oh! You've heard of Captain the Honorable George Wicklifife?"
"Oh yes," he answered, lying cheerfully. She expected that kind of answer anyhow. "I've heard of him. Englishman, isn't he?"
"Yes." Even in the old days he had found fault with her lack of humor. "Well, I've decided to marry him in December. I'm going to ask Betty to give the announcement dinner."
Armitage held out his hand again and with a smile she accepted it.
Suddenly he laughed; it was a man's laughter, deep, rollicking. She had cost him more than a quarter of a million; she had driven him into far jungles, up mountain-tops, across the seven seas. Never would he quite forget those dreadful nights, the brushwood fires, and yon serene face peering at him from the embers. And he hadn't really loved her, and she hadn't loved him, and she was going to marry Captain the Honorable George Wickliffe!
Some of the women around Betty's tea-table lifted their heads. Each had a singular interpretation for that laughter:
Betty: "He couldn't laugh like that if he still loved her,"
Miss Athelstone: "What a rollicking noise! I thought at first that he might still be in love with her."
Clare: "Now, I wonder what started that?"
Armitage chuckled all the way back to the hotel. Six years gone to pot, a fortune lost, all for some one he hadn't cared about. He now understood the true significance: he had, like many another, fallen in love with love. He was free.
Shortly, he thought, he must look around for an apartment. He hated hotels; and yet the thought of living in an apartment was equally distasteful.
That night he dug his things out of the trunks and cases. A good many of them would have to go to the tailor. So he searched through the pockets. In the handkerchief pocket of his swallow-tailed coat—he hadn't worn it in six years—he found one of his own visiting-cards. On the back was scribbled: "Take mortgages down to Bordman." It all came back clearly. He now knew where those elusive mortgages were. Machiavelli and Hercules, joining forces, might recover them; but how was he, James Armitage? Of all the twisted labyrinths!
For six consecutive mornings he rode through the Park with Doris Athelstone. And for the same number of mornings he heard the splendid and variegated adventures of Hubert Athelstone. For Doris was always harking back to her favorite topic, her father. She recited excerpts from letters. Armitage grew very much interested in this extraordinary man. Ordinarily, being a man, these panegyrics would have bored him. But no man, loved as this man was, could be anything except tremendously interesting. If she loved a father in this beautiful way, how might she love a lover? Once again he pulled himself up sharp. Was he falling in love with this charming usurper? Was Bob right—the first girl he saw? He did know, however, that the happiest hour in twenty-four was this morning ride, and that the other twenty-three hours were livable because there was something to look forward to.
She was really fascinating. He had never met a woman anything like her. She was far better educated than beauty demanded. She knew all the great stories, pictures, cities; she could play and sing and paint. She had personality and magnetism. The shy gray squirrels in the Park would come and take nuts from her hands. Armitage could not get within ten feet of them.
On the morning of the sixth day, as he walked back with her from the stables, she invited him in to have a cup of coffee. The uncanny sensation as he entered that familiar hall with her unnerved him for a moment. She led him into the library and, as his glance turned to the Japanese silk tapestries, he felt a shameful warmth in his cheeks.
"Just a moment," she said. "I'll go and bring the coffee myself"; and she flew from the room.
He did not sit down, but wandered about. The old home! There was his beloved copy of Tom Sawyer. He pulled it from the shelf and thumbed it reverently. Was ever man born of woman thrust into such a situation before? And he could not tell her! He sensed the kindly shades of his father and mother beside him.
The old Bokhara—how many times had he lain sprawled upon it, a book between his elbows! His eyes blurred. He would drink the coffee and excuse himself. He wasn't sure of that lump in his throat. The wrath against Bordman returned headily. The cringing old scoundrel, to have dug this labyrinth!
A line from Bordman's letter came back, a line he had underscored: "You were to me a cipher drawn on a blackboard; something visible through the agency of chalk, but representing—nothing." Was that true? Was he no more than a harmless, worthless idler? The thought hurt a little.
Doris came in with the coffee. She set the salver on the reading-table and took from under her arm a photograph.
"My father. Isn't he splendid?"
The man was singularly handsome; there was a rare combination of beauty and intelligence. No wonder the girl adored him.
"Isn't he glorious? He is gray now. Can't you see the 'bravoes' in his eyes?"
"I can see them in yours," he said. "My own father was a fine chap. He and mother were the jolliest comrades. And they always made me their pal. First it was the mother; father got lonesome, I guess; and then—then I found myself alone. That was fourteen years ago."
"I never knew my mother. She died when I was born. How does it seem to you?" she asked, indicating the room. "Are you sorry you sold it?"
"Not now. But I'm really a bit choked up."
"MY FATHER. ISN'T HE SPLENDID?"
He smiled. "This old copy of Tom Sawyer. It was the first real book my mother ever gave me. You might let me have that."
"It is yours. I feel dreadfully guilty about something, and I cannot tell just what it is, I feel as if I had stolen something."
"You mustn't feel like that on my account. I never expected to return to America to live." He looked at his watch. "Half after eleven, and I'm due at the office."
She went to the door with him. Then she ran back to the window and watched him march down the street, the copy of Tom Sawyer tucked under his arm. She went into the library again and picked up the photograph of her father. Suddenly she fell upon her knees; her forehead touched the edge of the table and rested there. There was little or no sound, but the shake and heave of her shoulders told of strangled sobs, sobs that tore and twisted the brave, unhappy little heart of her.