The Moonlit Way: A Novel - Robert Chambers 8 стр.

When she finished, Barres drew her frail arm through his and took her out, seating her. Ceremonies began in silence, and the master of the place was not quite sure whether the flush on Dulcies face indicated unhappy embarrassment or pleasure.

He need not have worried: the child adored it all. The Prophet came in and gravely seated himself on a neighbouring chair, whence he could survey the table and seriously inspect each course.

Dulcie, he said, how grown-up you look with your bobbed hair put up, and your fluffy gown.

She lifted her enchanted eyes to him:

It is my first communion dress Ive had to make it longer for a graduation dress.

Oh, thats so; youre graduating this summer!

Yes.

And what then?

Nothing. She sighed unconsciously and sat very still with folded hands, while Aristocrates refilled her glass of water.

She no longer felt embarrassed; her gravity matched Aristocratess; she seriously accepted whatever was offered or set before her, but Barres noticed that she ate it all, merely leaving on her plate, with inculcated and mathematical precision, a small portion as concession to good manners.

They had, toward the banquets end, water ices, bon-bons, French pastry, and ice cream. And presently a slight and blissful sigh of repletion escaped the childs red lips. The symptoms were satisfactory but unmistakable; Dulcie was perfectly feminine; her capacity had proven it.

The Prophets stately self-control in the fragrant vicinity of nourishment was now to be rewarded: Barres conducted Dulcie to the studio and installed her among cushions upon a huge sofa. Then, lighting a cigarette, he dropped down beside her and crossed one knee over the other.

Dulcie, he said in his lazy, humorous way, its a funny old world any way you view it.

Do you think it is always funny? inquired the child, her deep, grey eyes on his face.

He smiled:

Yes, I do; but sometimes the joke in on ones self. And then, although it is still a funny world, from the worlds point of view, you, of course, fail to see the humour of it I dont suppose you understand.

I do, nodded the child, with the ghost of a smile.

Really? Well, I was afraid Id been talking nonsense, but if you understand, its all right.

They both laughed.

Do you want to look at some books? he suggested.

Id rather listen to you.

He smiled:

All right. Ill begin at this corner of the room and tell you about the things in it. And for a while he rambled lazily on about old French chairs and Spanish chests, and the panels of Mille Fleur tapestry which hung behind them; the two lovely pre-Raphael panels in their exquisite ancient frames; the old Venetian velvet covering triple choir-stalls in the corner; the ivory-toned 72 marble figure on its wood and compos pedestal, where tendrils and delicate foliations of water gilt had become slightly irridescent, harmonising with the patine on the ancient Chinese garniture flanking a mantel clock of dullest gold.

About these things, their workmanship, the histories of their times, he told her in his easy, unaccented voice, glancing sideways at her from time to time to note how she stood it.

But she listened, fascinated, her gaze moving from the object discussed to the man who discussed it; her slim limbs curled under her, her hands clasped around a silken cushion made from the robe of some Chinese princess.

Lounging there beside her, amused, humorously flattered by her attention, and perhaps a little touched, he held forth a little longer.

Is it a nice party, so far, Dulcie? he concluded with a smile.

She flushed, found no words, nodded, and sat with lowered head as though pondering.

What would you rather do if you could do what you want to in the world, Dulcie?

I dont know.

Think a minute.

She thought for a while.

Live with you, she said seriously.

Oh, Dulcie! That is no sort of ambition for a growing girl! he laughed; and she laughed, too, watching his every expression out of grey eyes that were her chiefest beauty.

Youre a little too young to know what you want yet, he concluded, still smiling. By the time that bobbed mop of red hair grows to a proper length, youll know more about yourself.

Do you like it up? she enquired naïvely.

It makes you look older.

I want it to.

I suppose so, he nodded, noticing the snowy neck which the new coiffure revealed. It was becoming evident to him that Dulcie had her own vanities little pathetic vanities which touched him as he glanced at the reconstructed first communion dress and the drooping hyacinth pinned at the waist, and the cheap white slippers on a foot as slenderly constructed as her long and narrow hands.

Did your mother die long ago, Dulcie?

Yes.

In America?

In Ireland.

You look like her, I fancy thinking of Soane.

I dont know.

Barres had heard Soane hold forth in his cups on one or two occasions nothing more than the vague garrulousness of a Celt made more loquacious by the whiskey of one Grogan something about his having been a gamekeeper in his youth, and that his wife God rest her! might have held up her head with anny wan o thim in th Big House.

Recollecting this, he idly wondered what the story might have been a young girls perverse infatuation for her fathers gamekeeper, perhaps a handsome, common, ignorant youth, reckless and irresponsible enough to take advantage of her probably some such story resembling similar histories of chauffeurs, riding-masters, grooms, and coachmen at home.

The Prophet came noiselessly into the studio, stopped at sight of his little mistress, twitched his tail reflectively, then leaped onto a carved table and calmly began his ablutions.

Barres got up and wound up the Victrola. Then he kicked aside a rug or two.

This is to be a real party, you know, he remarked. You dont dance, do you?

Yes, she said diffidently, a little.

Oh! Thats fine! he exclaimed.

Dulcie got off the sofa, shook out her reconstructed gown. When he came over to where she stood, she laid her hand in his almost solemnly, so overpowering had become the heavenly sequence of events. For the rite of his hospitality had indeed become a rite to her. Never before had she stood in awe, enthralled before such an altar as this mans hearthstone. Never had she dreamed that he who so wondrously served it could look at such an offering as hers herself.

But the miracle had happened; altar and priest were accepting her; she laid her hand, which trembled, in his; gave herself to his guidance and to the celestial music, scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing his voice.

You dance delightfully, he was saying; youre a born dancer, Dulcie. I do it fairly well myself, and I ought to know.

He was really very much surprised. He was enjoying it immensely. When the Victrola gave up the ghost he wound it again and came back to resume. Under his suggestions and tutelage, they tried more intricate steps, devious and ambitious, and Dulcie, unterrified by terpsichorean complications, surmounted every one with his whispered coaching and expert aid.

Now it came to a point where time was not for him. He was too interested, enjoying it too genuinely.

Sometimes, when they paused to enable him to resurrect the defunct music in the Victrola, they laughed at the Prophet, who sat upon the ancient carved table, gravely surveying them. Sometimes they rested because 75 he thought she ought to himself a trifle pumped only to find, to his amazement, that he need not be solicitous concerning her.

A tall and ancient clock ringing midnight from clear, uncompromising bells, brought Barres to himself.

Good Lord! he exclaimed, this wont do! Dear child, Im having a wonderful time, but Ive got to deliver you to your father!

He drew her arm through his, laughingly pretending horror and haste; she fled lightly along beside him as he whisked her through the hall and down the stairs.

A candle burned on the desk. Soane sat there, asleep, and odorous of alcohol, his flushed face buried in his arms.

But Soane was what is known as a sob-souse; never ugly in his cups, merely inclined to weep over the immemorial wrongs of Ireland.

He woke up when Barres touched his shoulder, rubbed his swollen eyes and black, curly head, gazed tragically at his daughter:

Gwan to bed, ye little scut! he said, getting to his feet with a terrific yawn.

Barres took her hand:

Weve had a wonderful party, havent we, Sweetness?

Yes, whispered the child.

The next instant she was gone like a ghost, through the dusky, whitewashed corridor where distorted shadows trembled in the candlelight.

Soane, said Barres, this wont do, you know. Theyll sack you if you keep on drinking.

The man, not yet forty, a battered, middle-aged by-product of hale and reckless vigour, passed his hands 76 over his temples with the dignity of a Hibernian Hamlet:

The harp that wanst through Taras halls he began; but memory failed; and two tears by-products, also, of Grogans whiskey sparkled in his reproachful eyes.

Im merely telling you, remarked Barres. We all like you, Soane, but the landlord wont stand for it.

May God forgive him, muttered Soane. Was there ever a landlord but he was a tyrant, too?

Barres blew out the candle; a faint light above the Fu-dog outside, over the street door, illuminated the stone hall.

You ought to keep sober for your little daughters sake, insisted Barres in a low voice. You love her, dont you?

I do that! said Soane God bless her and her poor mother, who could hould up her pretty head with anny wan till she tuk up with th like o me!

His brogue always increased in his cups; devotion to Ireland and a lofty scorn of landlords grew with both.

Youd better keep away from Grogans, remarked Barres.

I had a bite an a sup at Grogans. Is there anny harrm in that, sorr?

Cut out the sup, Larry. Cut out that gang of bums at Grogans, too. There are too many Germans hanging out around Grogans these days. You Sinn Feiners or Clan-na-Gael, or whatever you are, had better manage your own affairs, anyway. The old-time Feinans stood on their own sturdy legs, not on German beer-skids.

Wisha then, sorr, dye mind th ould song they sang in thim days:

Thatll do, said Barres drily. Do you want to wake the house? Dont go to Grogans and talk about Ireland to any Germans. Ill tell you why: well probably be at war with Germany ourselves within a year, and thats a pretty good reason for you Irish to keep clear of all Germans. Go to bed!

VI

DULCIE

One warm afternoon late in spring, Dulcie Soane, returning from school to Dragon Court, found her father behind the desk, as usual, awaiting his daughters advent, to release him from duty.

A tall, bony man with hectic and sunken cheeks and only a single eye was standing by the desk, earnestly engaged in whispered conversation with her father.

He drew aside instantly as Dulcie came up and laid her school books on the desk. Soane, already redolent of Grogans whiskey, pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

Gwan in fr a bite an a sup, he said to his daughter, while I talk to the gintleman.

So Dulcie went slowly into the superintendents dingy quarters for her mid-day meal, which was dinner; and between her and a sloppy scrub-woman who cooked for them, she managed to warm up and eat what Soane had left for her from his own meal.

When she returned to the desk in the hall, the one-eyed man had gone. Soane sat on the chair behind the desk, his face over-red and shiny, his heels drumming the devils tattoo on the tessellated pavement.

Ill be at Grogans, he said, as Dulcie seated herself in the ancient leather chair behind the desk telephone, and began to sort the pile of mail which the postman evidently had just delivered.

Very well, she murmured absently, turning around 79 and beginning to distribute the letters and parcels in the various numbered compartments behind her. Soane slid off his chair to his feet and straightened up, stretching and yawning.

Av anny wan tilliphones to Misther Barres, he said, listen in.

What!

Listen in, Im tellin you. And if its a lady, ask her name first, and then listen in. And if she says her name is Quellen or Dunois, mind what she says to Misther Barres.

Why? enquired Dulcie, astonished.

Becuz Im tellin ye!

I shall not do that, said the girl, flushing up.

Ah, bother! Sure, theres no harm in it, Dulcie! Would I be askin ye to do wrong, asthore? Me who is your own blood and kin? Listen then: Tis a woman what do be botherin the poor young gentleman, an Ill not have him fr to be put upon. Listen, macushla, and if airy a lady tilliphones, or if she comes futtherin an muttherin around here, call me at Grogans and Ill be soon dishposen av the likes av her.

Has she ever been here this lady? asked the girl, uncertain and painfully perplexed.

Sure has she! Mannys the time Ive chased her out, replied Soane glibly.

Oh. What does she look like?

God knows annything ye dont wish fr to look like yourself! Sure, I disremember what make of woman she might be her names enough for you. Call me up if she comes or rings. She may be a dangerous woman, at that, he added, so speak fair to her and listen in to what she says.

Dulcie slowly nodded, looking at him hard.

Soane put on his faded brown hat at an angle, fished 80 a cigar with a red and gold band from his fancy but soiled waistcoat, scratched a match on the seat of his greasy pants, and sauntered out through the big, whitewashed hallway into the street, with a touch of the swagger which always characterised him.

Dulcie, both hands buried in her ruddy hair and both thin elbows on the desk, sat poring over her school books.

Graduation day was approaching; there was much for her to absorb, much to memorise before then.

As she studied she hummed to herself the air of the quaint song which she was to sing at her graduation exercises. That did not interfere with her concentration; but as she finished one lesson, cast aside the book, and opened another to prepare the next lesson, vaguely happy memories of her evening party with Barres came into her mind to disturb her thoughts, tempting her to reverie and the delicious idleness she knew only when alone and absorbed in thoughts of him.

But she resolutely put him out of her mind and opened her book.

The hall clock ticked loudly through the silence; slanting sun rays fell through the street grille, across the tessellated floor where flies crawled and buzzed.