The Danger Mark. Robert W. Chambers
Читать онлайн книгу.
He glanced up and saw Dysart still watching them. Suddenly he dropped his hand over hers.
"Perhaps you may find that compensation in me some day," he said. "How do you know?"
"What a silly thing to say! Don't paw me, Duane; you hurt my hand. Look at what you've done to my fan!"
"It came between us. I'm sorry for anything that comes between us."
Both were smiling fixedly; he said nothing for a moment; their gaze endured until she flinched.
"Silly," she said, "you are trying to tyrannise over me as you did when we were children. I remember now——"
"You did the bullying then."
"Did I? Then I'll continue."
"No, you won't; it's my turn."
"I will if I care to!"
"Try it."
"Very well. Take me to Kathleen."
"Not until I have the dances I want!"
Again their eyes met in silence. Dark little lights glimmered in hers; his narrowed. The fixed smile died out.
"The dances you want!" she repeated. "How do you propose to secure them? By crushing my fingers or dragging me about by my hair? I want to tell you something, Duane: these blunt, masterful men are very amusing on the stage and in fiction, but they're not suitable to have tagging at heel——"
"I won't do any tagging at heel," he said; "don't count on it."
"I have no inclination to count on you at all," she retorted, thoroughly irritated.
"You will have it some day."
"Oh! Do you think so?"
"Yes. … I didn't mean to speak the way I did. Won't you give me a dance or two?"
"No. I had no idea how horrid you could be. … I was told you were. … Now I can believe it. Take me to Kathleen; do you hear me?"
After a step or two he said, not looking at her:
"I'm really sorry, Geraldine. I'm not a brute. Something about that fellow Dysart upset me."
"Please don't talk about it any more."
"No. … Only I am glad to see you again, and I do care for your regard."
"Then earn it," she said unevenly, as her anger subsided. "I don't know very much about men in the world, but I know enough to understand when they're offensive."
"Was I?"
"Yes. … Because you carried me away with a high hand, you thought it the easiest way to take with me on every occasion. … Duane, do you know, in some ways, we are somewhat alike? And that is why we used to fight so."
"I believe we are," he said slowly. "But—I was never able to keep away from you."
"Which makes our outlook rather stormy, doesn't it?" she said, turning to him with all of her old sweet friendly manner. "Do let us agree, Duane. Mercy on us! we ought to adore each other—unless we have forgotten the quarrelsome but adorable friendship of our childhood. I thought you were the perfection of all boys."
"I thought there was no girl to equal you, Geraldine."
She turned audaciously, not quite knowing what she was saying:
"Think so now, Duane! It will be good for us both."
"Do you mean it?"
"Not—seriously," she said. … "And, Duane, please don't be too serious with me. I am—you make me uncertain—you make me uncomfortable. I don't know just what to say to you or just how it will be taken. You mustn't be—that way—with me; you won't, will you?"
He was silent for a moment; then his face lighted up. "No," he said, laughing; "I'll open another can of platitudes. … You're a dear to forgive me."
Dancing had been general before the cotillion; débutantes continued to arrive in shoals from other dinners, a gay, rosy, eager throng, filling drawing-rooms, conservatory, and library with birdlike flutter and chatter, overflowing into the breakfast-room, banked up on the stairs in bright-eyed battalions.
The cotillion, led by Jack Dysart dancing alone, was one of those carefully thought out intellectual affairs which shakes New York society to its intellectual foundations.
In one figure Geraldine came whizzing into the room in a Palm Beach tricycle-chair trimmed with orchids and propelled by Peter Tappan; and from her seat amid the flowers she distributed favours—live white cockatoos, clinging, flapping, screeching on gilded wands; fans spangled with tiny electric jewels; parasols of pink silk set with incandescent lights; crystal cages containing great, pale-green Luna moths alive and fluttering; circus hoops of gilt filled with white tissue paper, through which the men jumped.
There was also a Totem-pole figure—and other things, including supper and champagne, and the semi-obscurity of conservatory and stairs; and there was the usual laughter to cover heart-aches, and the inevitable torn gowns and crushed flowers; and a number of young men talking too loud and too much in the cloak-room, and Rosalie Dysart admitting to Scott Seagrave in the conservatory that nobody really understood her; and Delancy Grandcourt edging about the outer borders of the flowery, perfumed vortex, following Geraldine and losing her a hundred times.
On one of these occasions she was captured by Duane Mallett and convoyed to the supper-room, where later she became utterly transfigured into a laughing, blushing, sparkling, delicious creature, small ears singing with her first venturesome glass of champagne.
All the world seemed laughing with her; life itself was only an endless bubble of laughter, swelling the gay, unending chorus; life was the hot breeze from scented fans stirring a thousand roses; life was the silken throng and its whirling and its feverish voices crying out to her to live!
Her childhood's playmate had come back a stranger, but already he was being transformed, through the magic of laughter, into the boy she remembered; awkwardness of readjusting her relations with him had entirely vanished; she called him dear Duane, laughed at him, chatted with him, appealed, contradicted, rebuked, tyrannised, until the young fellow was clean swept off his feet.
Then Dysart came, and for the second time the note of coquetry was struck, clearly, unmistakably, through the tension of a moment's preliminary silence; and Duane, dumb, furious, yielded her only when she took Dysart's arm with a finality that became almost insolent as she turned and looked back at her childhood's comrade, who followed, scowling at Dysart's graceful back.
Confused by his hurt and his anger, which seemed out of all logical proportion to the cause of it, he turned abruptly and collided with Grandcourt, who had edged up that far, waiting for the opportunity of which Dysart, as usual, robbed him.
Grandcourt apologised, muttering something about Mrs. Severn wishing him to find Miss Seagrave. He stood, awkwardly, looking after Geraldine and Dysart, but not offering to follow them.
"Lot of débutantes here—the whole year's output," he said vaguely. "What a noisy supper-room—eh, Mallett? I'm rather afraid champagne is responsible for some of it."
Duane started forward, halted.
"Did you say Mrs. Severn wants Miss Seagrave?"
"Y—yes. … I'd better go and tell her, hadn't I?"
He flushed heavily, but made no movement to follow Geraldine and Dysart, who had now entered the conservatory and disappeared.
For a full minute, uncomfortably silent, the two men stood side by side; then Duane said in a constrained voice:
"I'll speak to Miss Seagrave, if you'll find her brother and Mrs. Severn"; and walked slowly toward the palm-set rotunda.
When he found them—and he found them easily, for Geraldine's overexcited