The Streets of Ascalon. Chambers Robert William

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Karl. I'm afraid I'm no good except in the kind of thing I seem to have a talent for."

      "Fetching and carrying for the fashionable and wealthy," sneered Westguard.

      Quarren's face flushed again: "I suppose that's it."

      Westguard glared at him: "I wish I could shake it out of you!"

      "I guess the poison's there," said Quarren in a low voice. "The worst of it is I like it – except when I understand your contempt."

      "You like to fetch and carry and go about with your pocket full of boudoir keys!"

      "People give me as much as I give them."

      "They don't!" said the other angrily. "They've taken a decent fellow and put him in livery!"

      Quarren bit his lip as the blood leaped to his face.

      "Don't talk that way, Karl," he said quietly. "Even you have no business to take that tone with me."

      There was a silence. After a few moments Westguard came over and held out his hand. Quarren took it, looked at him.

      "I tell you," he said, "there's nothing to me. It's your kindness, Karl, that sees in me possibilities that never were."

      "They're there. I'll do my duty almost to the point of breaking our friendship. But – I'll have to stop short of that point."

      A quick smile came over Quarren's face, gay, affectionate:

      "You couldn't do that, Karl… And don't worry. I'll cut out a lot of frills and try to do things that are worth while. I mean it, really. Don't worry, old fellow."

      "All right," said Westguard, smiling.

      CHAPTER II

      A masked dance, which for so long has been out of fashion in the world that pretends to it, was the experiment selected by Molly Wycherly for the warming up of her new house on Park Avenue.

      The snowy avenue for blocks was a mass of motors and carriages; a platoon of police took charge of the vehicular mess. Outside of the storm-coated lines the penniless world of shreds and patches craned a thousand necks as the glittering costumes passed from brougham and limousine under the awnings into the great house.

      Already in the new ball-room, along the edges of the whirl, masqueraders in tumultuous throngs were crowding forward to watch the dancers or drifting into the eddies and set-backs where ranks of overloaded gilt chairs creaked under jewelled dowagers, and where rickety old beaux impersonated tinselled courtiers on wavering but devoted legs.

      Aloft in their rococo sky gallery a popular orchestra fiddled frenziedly; the great curtains of living green set with thousands of gardenias swayed in the air currents like Chinese tapestries; a harmonious tumult swept the big new ball-room from end to end – a composite uproar in which were mingled the rushing noise of silk, clatter of sole and heel, laughter and cries of capering maskers gathered from the four quarters of fashionable Gath to grace the opening of the House of Wycherly. They were all there, dowager, matron, débutante, old beaux, young gallant, dancing, laughing, coquetting, flirting. Young eyes mocked the masked eyes that wooed them; adolescence tormented maturity; the toothless ogled the toothsome. Unmasking alone could set right this topsy-turvy world of carnival.

      A sinuous Harlequin, his skin-tight lozenge-patterned dress shimmering like the red and gold skin of a Malay snake, came weaving his way through the edges of the maelstrom, his eyes under the black half-mask glittering maliciously at the victims of his lathe-sword. With it he recklessly slapped whatever tempted him, patting gently the rounded arms and shoulders of nymph and shepherdess, using more vigour on the plump contours of fat and elderly courtiers, spinning on the points of his pump-toes, his limber lathe-sword curved in both hands above his head, leaping lithely over a chair here and there, and landing always as lightly as a cat on silent feet – a wiry, symmetrical figure under the rakish bi-corne, instinct with mischief and grace infernal.

      Encountering a burly masker dressed like one of Cromwell's ponderous Ironsides, he hit him a resounding whack over his aluminum cuirass, and whispered:

      "That Ironside rig doesn't conceal you: it reveals you, Karl! Out with your Bible and your Sword and preach the wrath to come!"

      "It will come all right," said Westguard. "Do you know how many hundred thousand dollars are wasted here to-night?.. And yesterday a woman died of hunger in Carmine Street. Don't worry about the wrath of God as long as people die of cold and hunger in the streets of Ascalon."

      "That's not as bad as dying of inanition – which would happen to the majority here if they didn't have things like this to amuse 'em. For decency's sake, Karl, pity the perplexities of the rich for a change!"

      Westguard grunted something under his casque; then, adjusting his aluminum mask:

      "Are you having a good time, Dicky? I suppose you are."

      "Oh, I'm gay enough," returned the Harlequin airily – "but there's never much genuine gaiety among the overfed." And he slapped a passing gallant with his wooden sword, spun around on his toes, bent over gracefully and stood on his hands, legs twinkling above him in the air. Then, with a bound he was on his nimble feet again, and, linking his arm in the arm of the Cromwellian trooper, strolled along the ranks of fanning dowagers, glancing amiably into their masked faces.

      "Same old battle-line," he observed to his companion – "their jewels give them away. Same old tiaras, same old ladies – all fat, all fifty, all fanning away like the damned. Your aunt has on about a ton of emeralds. I think she does it for the purpose of banting, don't you, Karl – "

      The uproar drowned his voice: Westguard, colossal in his armour, gazed gloomily around at the gorgeous spectacle for which his cousin Molly Wycherly was responsible.

      "It's monkey-shines like this that breed anarchists," he growled. "Did you notice that rubbering crowd outside the police lines in the snow? Molly and Jim ought to see it."

      "Oh, cut it out, Karl," retorted the Harlequin gaily; "there'll be rich and poor in the world as long as the bally old show runs – there'll be reserved seats and gallery seats and standing room only, and ninety-nine percent of the world cooling its shabby heels outside."

      "I don't care to discuss the problem with you," observed Westguard. After a moment he added: "I'm going to dance once or twice and get out… I suppose you'll flit about doing the agreeable and fashionable until daylight."

      "I suppose so," said the Harlequin, tranquilly. "Why not? Also you ought to find material here for one of your novels."

      "A man doesn't have to hunt for material. It's in his bedroom when he wakes; it's all around him all day long. There's no more here than there is outside in the snow; and no less… But dancing all night isn't going to help your business, Ricky."

      "It won't hurt any business I'm likely to do."

      "Isn't your Tappan-Zee Park panning out?"

      "Fizzling out. Nobody's bought any building sites."

      "Why not?"

      "How the deuce do I know, Karl! I don't want to talk business, here – "

      He ceased speaking as three or four white masked Bacchantes in fluttering raiment came dancing by to the wild music of Philemon and Baucis. Shaking their be-ribboned tambourines, flowery garlands and lynx-skins flying from their СКАЧАТЬ