Ainslee's magazine, Volume 16, No. 3, October, 1905. Various
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late,” she said, “and you were coming early, you know. Do you think you deserve caravan tea with a dash of burgundy in it?”
“I think I deserve all the good things I can get to-day,” he said, and though his tone was light, there was an undertone that suggested that he meant it.
“It tastes to me more like burgundy with a dash of caravan tea,” said Mrs. Van Velt. “After a while they will forget to put in the tea at all.”
“And then, Monsieur Velantour?” said Carrington, amusedly; for the old Frenchman was sipping the mixture cautiously.
“Then it will not need mademoiselle’s hands to make it perfection,” said Velantour, with a humorous twist of his keen old lips.
His gray eyes gleamed as they applauded him laughingly. Age had intensified in him the love of appreciation which is innate in the Gallic heart.
“While we have tea, let us have toast,” said Bobbins, promptly. “I propose a toast to Monsieur Velantour. Turn it into rhyme, Ned. You’re a crack improvisatore.”
Carrington stood up, with the easy grace of an Italian. He had the temperament of a troubadour, and he loved in turn a compliment.
“To Monsieur Velantour” (he began) “whose name
Is but a synonym for fame – ”
He had the improvisatore’s trick of lingering on the final syllable until it brought its own suggestion.
“Bravo!” they applauded him; while Velantour enjoyed the adulation with the frankness of a child.
“So irresistible that Art” (he glanced with gay raillery at Velantour)
“Quite womanlike, has lost her heart.
Yet knows it in his keeping, sure.
A health to Monsieur Velantour!”
They drank it in hilarious mood.
Velantour was on his feet the next instant.
“If I could but make one littl’ Americain verse,” he implored, expansively. “But I speak so poorly. You mus’ help me a littl’.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Van Velt, practically, “you have to begin with the street he lives on, or something like that. Rue Boissonade– ” she began, and halted.
“Shall have its Claude,” suggested Bobbins.
“Bon!” cried Velantour. “Now I have it.
“Rue Boissonade
Shall have its Claude,
And l’Amerique
The new Van Dyck.”
His naïf delight was contagious.
He patted Carrington’s arm affectionately.
“But we shall paint, cher Edouard!” he said, fondly. “And you are quite ready?”
“More than ready,” laughed Carrington.
He glanced at the little clock on the mantel.
“And our train goes in just two hours,” he whispered, triumphantly.
“Till then,” said Velantour, gayly. Then he crossed over to Elenore. “Mademoiselle, I will guard your brother as though he was – what is mos’ perishable in English – a bubbl’, is it not? Madame” – he bowed to Mrs. Van Velt. “Mademoiselle” – he inclined to Carol. “In two littl’ hours,” he called to Carrington from the doorway, and was gone.
“Isn’t he the dearest thing?” Carol demanded, frankly, of Bobbins.
“He’s an old brick, but not my idea of the dearest thing,” that discriminating individual replied, promptly. “I don’t suppose you could guess what my idea would be,” he insinuated.
“Oh, that’s too much of an antique,” said Miss Van Velt, with crushing promptness.
“Antique! I bought it this year,” said Bobbins, tacking, unharmed.
“Then some one is selling you back numbers,” Miss Van Velt assured him. “Try to get your money back. It’s been taking candy from children, and it ought to be stopped.”
“The police won’t give it back,” said Bobbins, mysteriously.
“The police!” said Miss Van Velt, startled. “What have they to do – ”
“With my Mercedes?” said Bobbins, cheerfully. “That’s just the attitude I’ve tried to take with them. But it has cost me five hundred francs this week, and this is only Wednesday. The dearest thing on earth to me is Mercedes, my Mercedes,” he hummed, pathetically.
“You naturally would lavish your young affection on machines,” Miss Van Velt remarked, cruelly, but she gave him a look of decided favor.
“So long as you think I am in the running,” said Bobbins, placidly.
The maid had brought in a letter with an American postmark. Carrington held it in his hand as he crossed over to join the group around the tea table.
Mrs. Van Velt was enjoying her usual volubility, and Hastings was paying her the flattery of an apparent attention and a comprehendingly amused smile, while his eyes gave the deeper homage of frequent and involuntary glances to Elenore.
For him, at least, Elenore was the central figure. Nor was it only for him. Things were quite apt to gravitate around Elenore. Ned himself did not overshadow his twin. If there is any truth in theosophic theories, she had an unusually powerful aura; if we discard the esoteric for the exoteric, beauty and wit and reserve force, cast in the mold of an alluring femininity, are quite as attractive as the same buoyant youth, plus tremendous talent, in masculine fiber.
Elenore had, too, a certain firm, keen grasp on the realities of life which Carrington, with all his localized talent, lacked. One felt that she would not fail in any qualm, that she would not be daunted by any obstacle, that in crises she would think not of surrender or sacrifice, but of resource and expedient.
Mrs. Van Velt was concluding her story of a recent tea given for a famous woman novelist.
“Did she talk about her work?” she exclaimed. “She never got away from her books, and she drenched us with her successes until our ardor was more than dampened. It was soaked. She gave us to understand that she had Browning beaten on obscurity, Ibsen on subtlety, and Maeterlinck on imagination. And when she left there was a heavy silence for a minute, and then Alec Carter said: ‘Now let’s talk nursery rhymes for a while. We might begin on “Little bas bleu, come blow your horn.”’”
She made her adieux on the strength of that, collecting her purse, her feather boa and her daughter from different parts of the room, with surprising promptitude.
It was her practice to save her best rocket for the last, and disappear in the glory of its swish.
Bobbins accompanied the Van Velts to their carriage, and, to misquote long-suffering Omar, once departed, he returned no more.
Carrington turned to Hastings the moment they were out of the door.
“You’ll excuse me if I read dad’s letter, won’t you? My time is getting so short,” he said, apologetically; and went over to one of the long windows to get the benefit of its light.
Elenore turned to Hastings with the question that had been hovering on her lips for the last half-hour.
“Tell me why you are so serious,” she said. “Has anything gone wrong? It doesn’t mean that you are not coming to Brittany to see the Waldens and – me – this summer, does it?”
“It means a great deal more than that,” said Hastings, soberly. “Yesterday I thought I was on my way to being a rising architect. To-day I am simply cast into outer darkness. The shears of fate have clipped this piece of my life short, and I can’t