CHAPTER IX.
THE WOMAN IN THE CASE.
In the sun-spangled stretch of shade under the acacias of the VillaRossignol four drank coffee and talked of Andrew Vane. Mrs. Carnby hadremained in Paris three weeks beyond her usual time; first, because theweather had been no more than bearably warm; and second, because thedecorator who was renovating the _salon_ of the villa had been somewhatmore than bearably slow. The first of June, however, found her atPoissy, and the Villa Rossignol once more prepared to receive anddischarge a continually varying stream of guests with the regularity ofa self-feeding press.
There was something very admirable about the hospitality of the VillaRossignol. In the first place, there were fourteen bedrooms; and in thesecond, a hostess who never made plans for her guests; and in the third,no fixed hour for first breakfast. People came by unexpected trains,and, finding every one out, ordered, as the sex might be, whiskey andcigarettes, or tea and a powder-box, and were served, and, in general,made themselves at home, till Mrs. Carnby returned from driving orcanoeing. And seemingly there was always a saddle-horse at liberty inthe stable, no matter how many might be riding; and a vacant corner tobe found, inside or out, without regard to the number of _tete-a-tetes_already in progress. In a word, Mrs. Carnby knew to perfection how_laisser aller_ and whom _laisser venir_--the which, all said and done,appear to be the qualities most admirable in an out-of-town hostess, byvery reason, perhaps, of their being the least common.
So, at all events, thought Mrs. Carnby's three guests as they took theircoffee-cups from her and, sipping the first over-hot spoonfulscautiously, shuffled a few topics of conversation, in an attempt to findone which invited elaboration. They were consumedly comfortable: forbreakfast had been served on the stroke of one, with five members of thehouse-party absent. The remaining three were grateful for a punctualitywhich was not concerned with the greatest good of the greatest number.
"It was so wise of you not to wait breakfast, Louisa," observed Mrs.Ratchett, and her voice resembled as much as anything the purr of aparticularly well-bred kitten. "I was as hollow as a shell an hour ago.By this time I'd infallibly have caved in."
"It's nothing short of imbecile to wait for people who're out in anautomobile," replied Mrs. Carnby. "Whenever any one brings a machinedown here, and takes some of my guests to ride, I have all the clocks inthe house regulated, and order Armand to announce breakfast and dinneron the stroke of the hour. It's only just to the sane people who mayhappen to be visiting me."
"In the present instance," put in Radwalader, "it's to be supposed thatthe others will have sense enough to get breakfast at the spot nearestavailable to that of the breakdown."
"The breakdown? You take a deal for granted, Radwalader," said GeraldKennedy, gazing up into the shifting foliage of the acacias.
"I, too, have been _en auto_," answered Radwalader, "and am familiarwith the inevitable feature of a run. At this moment Andrew Vane is inhis shirt-sleeves and a pitiful perspiration, violently turning a crankand talking under his breath. Or else he's flat on his back, under thecar, with only his feet sticking out. Can you believe otherwise, afterthe evidence of those five vacant chairs?"
"How sensible we are, we four!" smiled Mrs. Ratchett.
"Ours is the conservatism of the lilies of the field," supplementedRadwalader. "We spin not, therefore neither do we toil."
"I fancy Vane is regretting having left his chauffeur to breakfast inthe servant's hall," said Kennedy.
"And I, that, if anything, Vane is the better mechanician of the two,"said Radwalader. "The boy's aptitude is really quite astounding. Helearned that machine in an hour, Pivert tells me, and now knows itbetter than Pivert himself. He's only renting it by the week, you know,but old Mr. Sterling will be called upon for the purchase-price, if I'mnot mistaken, before he's a month older."
"One might be justified in remarking," said Mrs. Ratchett, "that AndrewVane is--er--going it--don't you think?--in a fashion little short ofprecipitous."
"_Wein--Weib--Gesang_," murmured Kennedy, with his eyes in the trees.
"I know he sings," commented Mrs. Carnby, "but I hadn't heard of hisdrinking."
"Or of his--oh yes I had, too!" Mrs. Ratchett caught herself upabruptly, with a suspicion of a blush. "Some one told me he was fastgoing to the--er--"
"Cats?" suggested Kennedy amiably.
"Gerald, you're indecent!" exclaimed Mrs. Carnby. "And remember, I won'tlisten to gossip about my guests--except Madame Palffy. For the moment,Mr. Vane's reputation is under the protection of mine."
Radwalader leaned back in his chair, and yawned without shame.
"Vane is developing, that's all," he said. "It's a thing rather to bedesired than otherwise. Paris does such a deal for the raw American, inthe way of opening his eyes. Vane is just beginning to 'learn how.' I'veno doubt that in Boston he ate his lettuce with sugar and vinegar, andthought it effeminate to have his nails manicured. Now that he'sacquiring the art of living, pray make some allowance for the crudecolouring of his _exquisses_. The finished picture will be a creationof marked merit, I warrant you. I've seen a good bit of Vane, and he canbe trusted to take care of himself."
"The question is whether he can be trusted to have other people takecare of him," said Mrs. Ratchett viciously, looking at Radwalader overthe edge of her coffee-cup.
"I don't think you dangerous, dear lady."
"Radwalader is always so unselfish," said Mrs. Carnby. "He escapesembarrassing situations by walking out on other people's heads."
"I deserved it," laughed Mrs. Ratchett. "But I really wasn't thinking ofyou, Radwalader. I heard there was a lady in the case of Mr. Vane."
"I credit him with more originality," said Radwalader. "No, believe me,the facts are no more than must be expected in a young man who has beentied to apron-strings for an appreciable number of years."
"Not that old Mr. Sterling wears aprons," observed Mrs. Carnby.
"And not that I was referring to old Mr. Sterling. I had in mind thevery estimable United States of America, which wash so much dirty linenin public that it would be something more than surprising if there werenot a supply of particularly starchy apron-strings continually onhand--in Boston in particular. Vane has been taught her creed, which isto make a necessity of virtue. His daily fare has been a _rechauffe_ ofworn-out fallacies. I haven't a doubt but what he's been instructedthat an honest man is the noblest work of God, and I've no idea thathe's ever understood till now that vice is its own reward, or howimmaterial it is whether a thing is gold or not, so long as it reallyglitters."
He turned a tiny glass of _fine_ into his coffee, and continued,stirring it thoughtfully:
"What happens when you turn your stable-bred colt out to pasture for thefirst time? Doesn't he kick up his heels and snort? Assuredly. And wedon't take that as an evidence, do we, that, all in good time, he won'trun neck and neck with the best of them, and perhaps carry off the GrandPrix? I always believe in cultivating charity, if only for onecomfortable quality attributed to it. Let's be charitable in the case ofVane. He's only kicking up his heels and snorting."
"If you're going to assume the mantle of charity with the view ofcovering the multitude of your sins--!" suggested Mrs. Carnby.
"We'll have to send it to the tailor's to have the tucks let out," saidRadwalader, with infinite good humour. "Exactly, dear friend. Forgive memy little sermon. You see, the physician doesn't preach, as a rule, andI'm afraid the priest is equally unapt to practise. You must pardon memy shortcomings. I can't very well be all things to all men--much lessto one woman. And, while we are on this subject, it may interest you toknow that Vane has chosen his profession: he's going to be a novelist."
"Do you mean that he's going to write novels?" asked Mrs. Carnby.
Radwalader appeared to reflect.
"No," he said presently. "I think I mean that he's going to be anovelist. I stand open to correction," he added, with an affected air ofhumility.
"By no means," answered Mrs. Carnby. "Prob
ably I don't understand. Itsounds to me a good deal like saying he's going to be a German Emperoror a Pope--that's all."
"Nevertheless, I'm quite sure that's what I mean. He has read me severalchapters of a novel upon which he's at work, and I must say that theydisplay a knowledge of women which, in a man of his years, is nothingless than remarkable."
"That's not impossible," put in Mrs. Carnby. "I had a letter, onlyyesterday, from a woman who knows him, and it appears that he's as goodas engaged to a very charming young American."
"However," said Radwalader mildly, "I think the knowledge of womendisplayed by Vane in the chapters he was so good as to read to me ishardly such as one would expect to deduce from the fact that he is asgood as engaged to a very charming young American."
"His choice of a profession must be a very recent resolution," said Mrs.Carnby. "To be sure, until to-day, I haven't seen him in a week."
"An eternity in Paris," said Kennedy. "Extra-ordinary people, theAmericans! Not content with securing monopolies of tramways andindustrial trusts over here, they appear to control a monopoly offeminine consideration as well. I confess--though only to theacacias--that I'm in the least degree weary of the subject of Mr. AndrewVane. Radwalader, I'll give you twenty at cannons."
"Done!" said Radwalader, rising.
"The cigars are on the corner-table in the billiard-room," observed Mrs.Carnby, "and the Scotch is on the dining-room _buffet_, with ice andsoda. Don't call the servants for a half-hour, at least: it irritatesthem immeasurably to have their eating confused with other people'sdrinking."
"I really don't mean it as gossip," said Mrs. Ratchett, as the menvanished into the house. "I'm interested in Mr. Vane. He seems morerational and cleaner-cut than the American cubs one sees over here as arule; and if he's only going to go the way of the rest of them--ifthere's a woman in the case--"
Mrs. Carnby shrugged her shoulders. "Andrew Vane has been in Paris forten weeks," she said. "I think it not improbable that Paris will be inAndrew Vane for the rest of his natural life."
"Then there _is_ a woman in the case!" exclaimed Mrs. Ratchett.
"So you say, my dear."
Mrs. Ratchett's pointed slipper began to beat an impatient tattoo on thegrass.
"Could anything be more ludicrous than for us two to beat about thebush in this fashion?" she broke out, after a moment. "You knowperfectly what I mean, Louisa--what one _always_ means, in short, by 'awoman in the case'!"
"Yes, of course I know," agreed Mrs. Carnby frankly. "The women onespeaks of as being in cases are always more or less disreputable. Well,there _is_ a woman in the case of our young friend--and a very engagingwoman at that."
"Engaging appears to be a habit with Mr. Vane's flames," said Mrs.Ratchett. "It's a little hard on the one in America. And pray where did_you_ see her?--the other, I mean."
"Oh, here, there, and everywhere. Vane made the mistake, at first, oftrying to carry on his little affair _sub rosa_. People are always seenwhen they try not to be, you know. Lately, I believe, they've been goingabout quite openly, so it has been almost impossible to keep track ofthem."
"But how do you arrive at the conclusion that the lady--"
"Isn't respectable? I've walked up the Opera Comique stairway behindher, my dear, and there was no mistaking the social grade of herpetticoats. They were entirely beyond a reputable woman's means. Andyou're quite right. It's downright hard on the other one. She's like myown daughter--Margery Palffy is."
"Margery Palffy! Why, how very surprising! I thought you said the girlwas in America."
"No--I said 'a charming young American.' And it's really not surprisingat all. My letter was from Mrs. Johnny Barrister--Madame Palffy'ssister-in-law, you know. She always took charge of Margery during thesummer vacations. They've a big house at Beverly, which I've never seen,and heaps of money. That's how Mr. Vane met Margery, I suppose: he seemsto have had the run of the house. Molly Barrister mentioned himcasually, but quite as if the engagement were a matter of course--quiteas if he had come over here on purpose to see Margery."
"The lady with--er--the petticoats," suggested Mrs. Ratchett, "strikesme in the light of evidence to the contrary."
"One can never tell," said Mrs. Carnby. "He wouldn't be the first man todrive tandem. There's apt to be a leader, you see--a high-stepping,showy thoroughbred, that attracts all the attention, and does none ofthe work: and then, an earnest, faithful little cob, as wheeler. After atime, a man gets tired of the frills and furbelows, sells the leader tobreak some other fellow's neck, and settles down. Then you'll see theearnest little wheeler as much appreciated as may be, and dragging thedomestic tilbury along at a rational, _bourgeois_ rate of speed. One cannever tell, my dear."
"All that," observed Mrs. Ratchett dryly, "doesn't ring true, Louisa,and--what's worse--it isn't even clever. You're fond of Margery Palffy."
"It's froth!" exclaimed Mrs. Carnby, "the kind of froth one sticks onthe top of a horrid little pudding to conceal its disgusting lack ofmerit. Don't ask me what I think of men, Ethel. I couldn't tell you,without employing certain violent expletives, and nowadays no reallyoriginal woman swears!"
A distant, whirring snore, very faint at first, had grown louder as theywere speaking, and now swelled into a muffled roar, as Andrew'sautomobile lunged up the driveway, and stopped, sobbing, before thevilla. Mrs. Carnby raised her voice, to carry across the lawn:
"Have you had breakfast?"
Andrew, turning from the automobile, waved his hand in reply.
"We broke down near the Pavilion Henri Quatre," he called. "The othershad breakfast while I was making repairs. I coffeed so late that Iwasn't hungry. I knew that I could hold over till tea-time."
The party, five in number, came chattering toward them across the lawn.Old Mrs. Lister led the way, followed by her son and Madame Palffy, whomMrs. Carnby always invited to Poissy for the first Sunday of theseason--"to get it over with," as she had been heard to say. Behind wereAndrew and Margery. Jeremy was to bring Palffy, De Boussac, and Ratchettdown by the late train, and these, with Kennedy, Radwalader, and Mrs.Ratchett, completed the house-party.
Mrs. Lister, whom Radwalader had described to Andrew as "thejail-breaker, because she never finishes a sentence," plunged abruptlyinto one of her disconnected prolations, addressing herself to Mrs.Carnby:
"Of course, we are _most_ reprehensibly late--but you see--I don'tunderstand about these things--Mr. Vane said--it's so difficult tocomprehend--but it was something that the gravel--or was it thedust?--at all events--and I always say that meals above _all_things--but then accidents are simply _bound_ to occur--I do hope youdidn't wait--and it was delightful--my first experience--but of coursewe _had_ to--there was no telling how long--though fortunately--and I'mquite fagged out, dear Mrs. Carnby--as I say to Jack--when one is young,you know--but when one gets to fifty-four--though I don't complain--Ithink one should never regret--and I enjoyed the drive--or does one sayride?--it's so difficult--"
She paused for breath, and Madame Palffy took up the tale.
"It was _fas_--cinating, _fas_--cinating," she said, "and most exciting.I reached St. Germain quite _en deshabille_. Mr. Vane kindly tookMargery on the front seat. Mrs. Lister and I sat behind, and Mr. Listeron the floor, with his feet on the step. It was flying."
And she waved her fat hands, and sank ponderously into a chair.
"My most humble apologies, Mrs. Carnby," said Andrew. "It couldn'treally be helped, and I provided my crew with sufficient nourishment tokeep them alive till dinner."
"You're forgiven," replied his hostess, "only don't do it again. Afterall," she added, looking Andrew wickedly in the eye, "your crime, likedear old Sir Peter Teazle's, carried its punishment along with it."
"Now I come to think of it," observed young Lister vacuously, "she's hissecond wife, Madame Palffy--or _is_ she? Do you know theFlament-Gontouts, Mrs. Carnby? No? They live up in the Monceau quarter.She was an American, a Bostonian. Her maiden name was Fayne--sister ofClarence Fayne, the painter,
who married Mary Clemin, the daughter ofAnthony Clemin, who used to own the Parker House--"
He did not appear to be addressing any one in particular, which wasfortunate, as no one had ever been known to vouchsafe him the complimentof attention. He spoke with as much variety of expression as anaccountant making comparisons, and invariably, as now, upon the subjectof birth, marriage, and death--a hopelessly dull young man.
"_He_ write plays?" said Mrs. Carnby, when the purpose of his presencein Paris had been explained to her. "Never! But he may have written thethirty-sixth chapter of Genesis."
"I'm afraid that's quite cold," said Mrs. Carnby, as, in compliance witha request, she handed Andrew a cup of coffee, "but it's your own fault."
"Never mind," he laughed. "Coffee is one of the few things which aremore or less good all the way up and down the thermometer fromthirty-two to two hundred and twelve."
Mrs. Carnby looked at him critically, as he stirred, and told herselfthat he came up strikingly well to many standards. His hair was neithertoo short nor too long, he was perfectly shaved, his stock was tied to anicety, his clothes were on friendly terms with him, his hands wereexcellently well-kept--and an hour before he had been tinkering with amotor!--and his teeth were even and studiously cared for. He was anaristocrat, a patrician, from his head to his heels--and it _would_ be apity, thought Mrs. Carnby, to have him go the way of what Mrs. Ratchetthad called "the rest of them"--the way of Tommy Clavercil, for example,whose late _affaire_ had been so crudely mismanaged that he was nolonger invited to the best tables in the Colony, or the way ofRadwalader's young acquaintance, Ernest Baxter, who ended up in theMorgue. And then there was Margery--
Mrs. Carnby's eyes came round to her, instantly narrowed, and dropped.There are moments when the souls of us come to their twin windows, andlook out, and shout our secrets to the veriest passer-by. Margery waslooking at Andrew Vane--and Mrs. Carnby _saw_!
"_Good_ Lord!" she thought. "Then at least half of the story's true--andI'm afraid that's about fifty per cent. too much!"
"The list of my offences isn't complete, as yet, Mrs. Carnby," saidAndrew. "I very stupidly left my camera at the Pavilion. I'm afraid Ishall have to go back for it."
Once more Mrs. Carnby looked at him.
"I'll go with you," she said suddenly. "I haven't had a chance to seehow your machine runs, as yet, and, besides, every one of these lazypeople will be wanting to take a nap presently. I know them of old. Inever nap myself. It's a fattening habit."
"Delighted to have you, I'm sure, Mrs. Carnby."
There was the slightest trace of hesitation in Andrew's voice, but Mrs.Carnby rose to her feet.
"I may be back to tea, and I may be back to-morrow," she said to theothers. "One never knows, _en automobile_."
She was still frowning perplexedly, as Andrew steered the automobiledeftly out of the gate.
"It's turned a bit windy," he said. "We didn't use the dust-clothscoming over, but there's one under the seat. What do you say--shall wehave it?"
He bent forward, as she nodded, and dragged the cloth from its placebeneath them. Something heavy rapped smartly on Mrs. Carnby's foot, andshe looked down with a little exclamation.
"What's that?"
"That?" answered Andrew. "Why--er, that's my camera."
Mrs. Carnby leaned back in her seat, drawing the dust-cloth smoothlyover her knees.
"Don't you think," she said deliberately, "that you had better tell meyour _real_ reason for wanting to go back to St. Germain--and wanting togo back alone?"