"Ha! In vaudeville with acrobats and funny men and little suppers to follow."
"Why not big ones?"
"Big what?"
"Big goose!" replied Ca.s.sy, who removed her gloves, took off her hat, ran a pin through it, put it down.
Her father stared. Behind the girl stood a blonde brute whom the supper had evoked. He wore a scowl and a b.l.o.o.d.y ap.r.o.n. In his hand was a bill.
Behind him was the baker, the candlestickmaker. Behind these was the agent, punctual and pertinacious, who had come for the rent. Though but visions, they were real. Moreover, though they evaporated at once, solidly they would return. He had been staring at her, and through her, at them. In staring his eyes filled. Immediately they leaked.
Ca.s.sy bit her lip. The tumbril and the guillotine would not have made her weep. Dry-eyed she would have gone from one to the other. Besides, what on earth was he wowing about? But immediately it occurred to her that he might be experiencing one of the attacks to which he was subject. She leaned over him. "You poor dear, is it your heart?"
He brushed his eyes. Dimly they lighted. With artistic mobility his face creased in a smile. "No, farther down."
Ca.s.sy moved back. "What in the world----"
But now his face clouded again. "I am glad you had supper. To-morrow we"ll starve."
The exaggeration annoyed her, she exclaimed at it and then stopped short. Already she had envisaged the situation. But it was idle, she thought, to excite him additionally.
"Well?" he almost whinnied.
But as he would have to know, she out with it. "There"s the portrait, there"s the violin. Either would tide us over."
In speaking she had approached him again. He shoved her aside. With a jerk he got to his feet, struck an att.i.tude, tapped himself on the breast.
"I, Marquis de Casa-Evora, sell my father"s picture! I, Angelo Cara, sell my violin! And you, my daughter, suggest such a thing! But are you my daughter? Are you--oh!"
It trailed away. The n.o.ble anger, real or a.s.sumed, fell from him. No longer the outraged father, he was but a human being in pain.
Ca.s.sy hurried to the mantel where, in provision of these attacks, were gla.s.s tubes with amyl in them. She took and broke one and had him inhale it.
Then, though presently the spasm pa.s.sed, the wolf remained. But the beast had no terrors for Ca.s.sy. Buoyant, as youth ever is, his fangs amused her. They might close on her, but they would not hurt, at any rate very much, or, in any case, very long. Meanwhile she had had supper and for the morrow she had a plan. That night she dreamed of it. From the dream she pa.s.sed into another. She dreamed she was going about giving money away. The dream of a dream, it was very beautiful, and sometimes, to exceptional beings, beautiful dreams come true, not in the future merely, but in a walk-up.
V
In Park Avenue that night there was no dramatic father in waiting. There were no bills, no scenes, no thought of secret errands; merely a drawing-room in which a fire was burning and where, presently, Margaret and Lennox were alone.
"I have letters to write," Mrs. Austen told them.
She had no letters to write, but she did have a thing or two to consider. What the wolf was to Ca.s.sy"s father, Lennox was to her.
At dinner, Peter Verelst"s advice to do nothing had seemed strategic. At the Splendor, it had seemed stupid. The spectacle of that girl hobn.o.bbing with Lennox had interested her enormously. If a spectacle can drip, that had dripped and with possibilities which, if dim as yet, were none the less providential, particularly when viewed s.p.a.ciously, in the light of other possibilities which Paliser exhaled. Mrs. Austen was a woman of distinction. You had only to look at her to be aware of it.
Yet, at the possible possibilities, she licked her chops.
Meanwhile, with the seriousness of those to whom love is not the sentiment that it once was, or the sensation that it has become, but the dense incarnate mystery that it ever should be, Margaret and Lennox were also occupied with the future.
In connection with it, Lennox asked: "Can you come to-morrow?"
As he spoke, Margaret released her hand. Her mother was entering and he stood up.
"Mrs. Austen," he resumed, "won"t you and Margaret have tea at my apartment to-morrow?"
He would have reseated himself but the lady saw to it that he did not.
"You have such pleasant programmes, Mr. Lennox. You are not going though, are you? Well, if you must, good-night."
It was boreal, yet, however arctic, it was smiling, debonair. As such, Lennox had no recourse but to accept it. He bent over Margaret"s hand, touched two of Mrs. Austen"s fingers. In a moment, he had gone.
Mrs. Austen, smiling still, sat down.
"Nice young man. Very nice. Nice hats, nice ties, nice coats. Then also he is a theosophist, I suppose, or, if not, then by way of becoming one.
What more could the heart desire? Would you mind putting out one of those lights? Not that one--the other."
Gowned in grey which in spite of its hue contrived to be brilliant, Mrs.
Austen rustled ever so slightly. Always a handsome woman and well aware of it, she was of two minds about her daughter"s looks. They far surpa.s.sed her own and she did not like that. On the other hand they were an a.s.set on which she counted.
She rustled, quite as slightly again.
"And such a taking way with him! That little singing-girl whom we saw to-night, quite a pretty child, didn"t you think? She seemed quite smitten. Then there are others, one may suppose. Yes, certainly, a very nice young man."
"Mother!"
"Well, what? Young men will be young men. Only a theosophist could imagine that they would be young girls. I make every allowance from him--as doubtless he does for others. This is quite as it should be. I have no patience with model young men. Model young men delight their mothers" hearts and ruin their wives" temper. They remodel themselves after marriage. Whereas a young man who is not model at all, one who has had his fling beforehand, settles down and becomes quite fat. You have chosen very wisely, my dear. If you had waited you might have had Paliser and I should not have liked that. He is too good."
Margaret stretched a hand to the fire. She was not cold and the movement was mechanical. But she made no reply. In Matthew we are told that for every idle word we utter we shall answer at the day of judgment. That pa.s.sage she had longly meditated. She did not believe that Matthew wrote it and she did not believe in a day of judgment. Matthew was a peasant who spoke Syro-Chaldaic. It was not supposable that he could write in Greek. It was not supposable that there can be a specific day of judgment, since every moment of our days is judged. But through Margaret had her tolerant doubts, she knew that the message itself was sound. It did not condemn evil and vulgar words, for they condemn themselves. What it condemned was idle words and she regretted that her mother employed them. But theosophy is, primarily, a school of good manners. The Gospel condemns idle words, theosophy forbids disagreeable ones.
To her mother"s remarks, she made therefore no reply. Instead, she changed the subject.
"Will you care to go with me to his rooms to-morrow?"
With a mimic of surprise and of gentle remonstrance that was admirably a.s.sumed, Mrs. Austen lifted a hand.
"But, my dear! Were you thinking of going alone?"
The remonstrance, however gentle, was absurd and she knew it. Margaret could go where she liked. It would all be chaste as a piano-recital. But the flea that she had been trying to put in the girl"s ear seemed very ineffective. She is just as I was at her age, thought this lady, who, in so thinking, flattered herself extraordinarily.
She shook her head. "For if you were, it would not do. Such things may pa.s.s in London, they don"t here. But to-morrow is Sat.u.r.day, isn"t it?
Yes, to-morrow is Sat.u.r.day. At three I have an appointment with the dentist. I"ll telephone though. That always pains them and, where a dentist is concerned, I do think turn about is fair play."
It was pleasantly said. To make it pleasanter, she stood up and added: "Are you to sit here and read? There is a French book lying around somewhere that belonged to your dear father. I don"t remember who wrote it and I have forgotten the t.i.tle, but you are sure to like it. There! I have it. It is called: "L"art de tromper les femmes.""
Mrs. Austen moved to the door and looked back.
"But if you don"t find it readily, let it go for to-night. Your young man is sure to have a copy. No nice young man is without one."