Aliens. William McFee

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СКАЧАТЬ with a touch of great sentiment, something commensurate with the beauty and dignity of the woman's bodily frame, something that would explain and gild with delicate interest the expression of sombre and uncommunicative melancholy that hung like a cloud over her face. I felt reluctant to delve further into a history that was footed upon so unsatisfactory a foundation as this enigmatic creature who had blazed suddenly upon the painter-cousin's vision, a mere spendthrift man of pleasure, inarticulate save in his startlingly decadent behaviour. After all, what had he done, this fine gentleman with an eagle face and iron will? Sold a few automobiles to the aristocracy. Pooh! In America he would pass as a hustling business man with unconventional ideas. In grey, feudal old London, no doubt, he appeared as a meteoric genius, a veritable Napoleon of salesmanship, a marvel. But here——!

      "Well," I said, at length, "what do you think of it?"

      Bill slipped out of her chair and prepared to go in and get the dinner ready. We dine at six.

      "I think," said she, "that there is nothing in it. It's hardly likely that—well, is it?" she asked, vaguely.

      "No," we agreed, "it isn't."

      "Still," I added, "it is a most interesting commentary upon our own little problem. It only shows how indefinitely one might extend the ramifications of a trivial tale. Of course, the children believe implicitly in the statement that he is at sea. If that be a legend, it is clever. But then—it is impossible."

      "It's not a common name," remarked Mac, filling his pipe.

      "It's a very easily assumed one," I argued. "It's a name you can't argue about. It might be Irish, French, Italian, Spanish or American. It tells you nothing."

      Bill paused at the door.

      "I don't suppose he had anything to do with giving the children those awful names," she suggested.

      "Oh, as for that, I have known plenty of mothers who claim that right," I responded. "That does not amount to much. No. There are two points that seem to me to invalidate the claim of this gentleman to any connection with our neighbours, but that is not one of them."

      "What are they?" inquired Mac. Bill opened the door and went in. I cleared my throat.

      "First," I said, "there is the entirely fanciful argument that such a man as Cecil has described would not be attracted by such a woman as—Mrs. Carville. I can't explain in so many words why I think so, but I do. I don't believe she would attract him. If you consider a moment, you will see it. The English gentleman of good family and birth, when he has once broken out of his own social world, does not show much taste and discrimination in the choice of a wife or mistress."

      "Well," said Mac.

      "Second, we have the incontestable fact that Benvenuto Cellini, though sharing his illustrious brother's features and histrionic talent, has blue eyes and fair hair. Where did he get them?"

      "Something in that," my friend admitted, throwing his match into the darkness. "We'll have to hunt round for a tertium quid, so to speak."

      "You put it pithily," I asserted. "Personally I am coming to the conclusion that Cecil's story, while certainly interesting in itself, does not help us at all with our own difficulty. I am inclined to think that he is of our nation and fair complexion. Really, when you reflect, it is unjust to assume your tertium quid and complicate the story—yet. We have no actual evidence of her—obliquity."

      "No," said Mac. "Let's wait."

      "We must," I replied. "The children themselves will no doubt provide us with plenty of food for conjecture if they go on as they have begun. We are good friends now, they and I."

      "You surpassed yourself as an Indian," he laughed.

      "Hostile," I corrected. "Did you notice the realistic way in which Giuseppe Mazzini fell?" He nodded.

      "You'll have to be a cow-boy to-morrow," he remarked. "You might suggest rounding up their confounded chickens and set them to repairing that fence."

      "I shall be a cow-boy with enthusiasm," I said. "Under my breast beats an adventurous heart, believe me. As for the fence, I would rather not get into trouble by interfering with their affairs."

      "She didn't seem any too friendly."

      "Hostile would describe it better."

      "Still, if you could get a word with her, it might elucidate the mystery?" "Yes," I said, as the gong tinkled within.

      "Chop," said he, and we went in to dinner.

      We had reached the cheese and celery before Bill contributed a piece of news that impressed us in different ways.

      "I 'phoned Miss Fraenkel this morning," she said, "and asked her to come up after dinner this evening. She said she'd be tickled to death to come."

      I said nothing at first, and Mac, annexing an unusually large piece of cheese, grinned.

      "Say," he said, "suppose we get Miss Fraenkel's opinion of the chap with the hooked nose. She's American; she'll be sure to have an opinion."

      "No doubt," I conceded. "We shall see whether we have not taken too much for granted. There's only one thing, and that is, are we not exposing Miss Fraenkel to temptation by exciting her curiosity yet more about her neighbour?"

      "Oh, bunk!" said Mac. "Women don't have to be led into that sort of temptation. They take it in with their mother's milk."

      "You cynical old devil!" exclaimed Bill, indignantly.

      "Well, it's true," he defended himself stoutly. "I'll bet you a quarter Miss Fraenkel's already tried them and found them guilty."

      "Of what?" demanded Bill.

      "Oh, ask Miss Fraenkel," said he. "How should I know?"

      "I think," I said, gently, "you are making a mistake. Consider! Miss Fraenkel is no doubt interested in her neighbours, like any other woman. But you make a big mistake if you imagine that ordinary people, people who are not professionally concerned with human nature, are accustomed to draw conclusions and observe character, as—as we do, for example. I have always thought," I went on, stirring my coffee, "that Jane Austen made this same mistake. She takes a small community, much like Netley, N. J., and suggests, by the conversation of the characters, that they are all as observant and as shrewd as herself. We feel it was not so. Nay, we know it was not so, for Jane's genius in that direction was almost uncanny. Now there is, I am safe in saying, nothing uncanny about Miss Fraenkel."

      "She's very nice!" said Bill, nodding blithely at me over her cup.

      I am loth to give any colour to the suspicion that I am about to confuse my narrative with extraneous details; but I must confess that Bill's laconic benison had for me a personal appeal. She was, I felt, entirely and generously right. She had not overstepped the mark at all. Miss Fraenkel was very nice, but—it has nothing to do with my story. It is a point of honour with me to put Miss Fraenkel in her place, if I may express it so without discourtesy, and that place is certainly modest and inconspicuous. Miss Fraenkel's light was very clear and very bright, but illuminated only a small area. She wrote an admirable paper and read it clearly and impressively at the Women's Club on "The Human Touch in Ostrovsky." Indeed, for one who had read so little of Ostrovsky СКАЧАТЬ