Joan Thursday: A Novel. Vance Louis Joseph

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СКАЧАТЬ foolish actor: played a sketch of mine in vaudeville for a couple of years and, because that got over, thinks this piece must."

      "But it will, won't it?"

      "I hope so; but I'm glad it's not my money."

      "And where will you open?"

      "Heaven and the Shuberts only know. Rideout books through the Shuberts, you understand."

      "I'm afraid I don't."

      "The Shuberts are the Independents – the opposition to the Syndicate headed by Klaw and Erlanger. You see, the theatres of this country are practically all controlled by one or the other combination. If you want booking for your show, you've got to take sides – serve God or Mammon."

      "And which is which?"

      "The difference is imperceptible to the innocent bystander."

      "But you'll let us know – ?"

      "If we open within motoring distance of Town – rather!"

      Tankerville, edging his plump little body forward on his chair, manœuvred his round and sun-scorched face in vain attempts to catch his wife's eye past the intervening candelabrum. Helena, however, divined his desire.

      "Coffee in the card-room, George?"

      "Please!" Tankerville bleated plaintively.

      There was a concerted movement from the table.

      Venetia lingered with Matthias.

      "It's auction, tonight. Shall you play?"

      "'Fraid I'll have to. So will you. Helena – you know – "

      "Of course. We must. Only" – she sighed, petulant – "I'd rather not. I'd rather talk to you."

      "Heroic measures!" he laughed. "But – consolation note! – we're two over two full tables. Therefore we'll have to cut in and out. That'll give us some time to ourselves."

      "Yes," she agreed: "but it'll be just our luck to be disengaged at different times."

      He paused in amused incredulity. "Do you really want to talk to me as badly as all that?"

      She nodded, curtaining her eyes.

      "Very much," she said softly.

      They entered the card-room and were summoned to different tables. Matthias cut and edged Mrs. Cardrow out by a single pip. How Venetia fared he did not learn, more than that she was to play while Marbridge was to stay out the first rubber.

      He played even less intelligently than usual, with a mind distracted. Venetia's new attitude, pleasant as had been all their association, was a development of disconcerting suddenness; or else he had been witless and blind beyond relief. And yet – how could he say? He was so frequently misled by faculties befogged with dreaming, that overlooked when they did not flatly deny the obvious: it was possible that Helena had been more wise than he.

      A sense of strain handicapped his judgment; whether atmospheric or bred of his own emotion, he could not tell. And yet, plumbing the deeps of his humour, he discovered nothing there more exacting than bewilderment, more exciting than hope. On the other hand, he could fix upon nothing in the bearing of these amiable people to lead him to believe that the feeling of tensity to which he was susceptible was not the creation of his own fancy. They played with a certain abandon of enjoyment, absorbed in their diversion…

      Looking past Venetia, at the other table – Venetia slim and tall and worshipful in a wonderful black gown that rendered dazzling the whiteness of her flesh – he could see Mrs. Cardrow and Marbridge at the piano in the drawing-room. The woman sat all but motionless, white arms alone moving graciously in the half-light as her deft hands wandered over the key-board. Marbridge, his arms folded, lounged over the piano, his back to the card-room. The eloquent movements of his round, dark head, its emphatic nods and argumentative waggings, seemed to indicate that he was bearing the burden of their talk; but the music, hushed though it was, covered his accents. The woman was looking up into his face with an expression of quick, pleased interest, her lips, half-parted, smiling.

      It did not occur to Matthias to wonder about the substance of their conversation. But for a sure clue to the intrigue of Venetia's heart – and his own – he would have given worlds.

      Throwing down his cards, Tankerville announced with satisfaction: "Game – rubber. Jack, you go out – praise the Saints! You've cost Mrs. Pat close onto fifteen dollars, more shame to you!"

      "Sorry!" Matthias smiled cheerfully, rising. "You would have me play."

      "Hearkening and repentance!" retorted Tankerville. "Next time I marry, you can bet your sweet life I'm going to pick out a family of sure-'nough bridgers… Call Mrs. Cardrow, will you now, like a good fellow."

      But Mrs. Cardrow had already left the piano. Matthias held a chair for her, and then, since the rubber at the other table was not yet decided, strolled to a window.

      The night tempted him. Almost unconsciously he stepped out upon the terrace and wandered to the parapet.

      Abstractedly he lighted a cigarette. When the tobacco was aglow he held the match from him at arm's-length over the abyss. Its flame burned as steadily as though protected, flickering out only when, released, it fell. No night ever more still than this: land and water alike spellbound in breathless calm; even on the brow of that high foreland where Tankerville had builded him his lordly pleasure home, no hint of movement in the air! And yet Matthias was conscious of nothing resembling oppression – exhilaration, rather. He smiled vaguely into the darkness.

      From far below, echoing up from the placid waters of Port Madison as from a sounding-board, came the tinkle-tinkle of a banjo and the complaint of a harmonica. When these were silent the wailing of violins was clearly audible, bridging a distance of over a mile across the harbour, from the ball-room of the country club. Far out upon the Sound the night boat for Boston trudged along like a slow-winging firefly; and presently its wash swept inshore to rouse the beach below to sibilant and murmurous protest. In the east the vault of night was pallid, azure and silver, with the promise of the reluctant moon.

      A hand fell gently upon his arm: Venetia's. He had not been aware of her approach, yet he was not startled. He turned his head slowly, smiling. She said softly: "Don't say anything – wait till it rises."

      They waited in silence. Her hand lingered upon his arm; and that last, he knew, was trembling. The nearness of her person, the intimacy of her touch, weighed heavily upon his senses.

      An edge of golden light appeared where the skies came down to the sea; hesitated; increased. That wan and spectral light, waxing, lent emphasis to the rare and delicious wonder of her loveliness, to the impregnable mystery of her womanhood. He regarded her with something near awe, with keen perception of his unworthiness: as a spirit from Heaven had stooped to commune with him. She lived; breathed; the hand upon his arm was warm and strong… Incredible!

      The gibbous disk swung clear of the horizon and like some strange misshapen acrobat climbed a low-lying lattice-work of clouds. The girl turned away to a huge willow basket-chair. Matthias found its fellow and drew near to her. He struggled to speak; he fancied that she waited for him to speak; but his mind refused to frame, his tongue to utter, aught but the stalest of banalities.

      "No dew tonight," he hazarded at length, shame-faced.

      After an instant СКАЧАТЬ