The Yellow Crayon
“There have been worse similes,” he declared.
“How horrid! And do you know, sir, for all your indignation you have not
yet even inquired after your wife’s health.”
“I trust,” he said, “that she is well.”
“She is in excellent health.”
“Your second visit to this country,” he remarked, “follows very swiftly
upon your first.”
She nodded.
“I am here,” she said, “on your account.”
“You excite my interest,” he declared. “May I know your mission?”
“I have to remind you of your pledge,” she said, “to assure you of
Lucille’s welfare, and to prevent your leaving the country.”
“Marvelous!” he exclaimed, with a slight mocking smile. “And may I ask
what means you intend to employ to keep me here?”
“Well,” she said, “I have large discretionary powers. We have a very
strong branch over on this side, but I would very much rather induce you
to stay here without applying to them.”
“And the inducements?” he asked.
She took a cigarette from a box which stood on the table and lit one.
“Well,” she said, “I might appeal to your hospitality, might I not? I am
in a strange country which you have made your home. I want to be shown
round. Do you remember dining with me one night at the Ambassador’s? It
was very hot, even for Paris, and we drove afterwards in the Bois. Ask
me to dine with you here, won’t you? I have never quite forgotten the
last time.”
Mr. Sabin laughed softly, but with undisguised mirth.
“Come,” he said, “this is an excellent start. You are to play the Circe
up to date, and I am to be beguiled. How ought I to answer you? I do
remember the Ambassador’s, and I do remember driving down the Bois in
your victoria, and holding--I believe I am right--your hand. You have no
right to disturb those charming memories by attempting to turn them into
bathos.”
She blew out a little cloud of tobacco smoke, and watched it
thoughtfully.
“Ah!” she remarked. “I wonder who is better at that, you or I? I may not
be exactly a sentimental person, but you--you are a flint.”
“On the contrary,” Mr. Sabin assured her earnestly, “I am very much in
love with my wife.”
“Dear me!” she exclaimed. “You carry originality to quixoticism. I have
met several men before in my life whom I have suspected of such a thing,
but I never heard any one confess it. This little domestic contretemps
is then, I presume, disagreeable to you!”
“To the last degree,” Mr. Sabin asserted. “So much so that I leave for
England by the Campania.”
She shook her head slowly.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“Why not?”
Lady Carey threw away the end of her cigarette, and looked for a moment
thoughtfully at her long white fingers glittering with rings. Then she
began to draw on her gloves.
“Well, in the first place,” she said, “Lucille will have no time
to spare for you. You will be de trop in decidedly an uncomfortable
position. You wouldn’t find London at all a good place to live in just
now, even if you ever got there--which I am inclined to doubt. And
secondly, here am I--”
“Circe!” he murmured.
“Waiting to be entertained, in a strange country, almost friendless.
I want to be shown everything, taken everywhere. And I am dying to see
your home at Lenox. I do not think your attitude towards me in the least
hospitable.”
“Come, you are judging me very quickly,” he declared. “What
opportunities have I had?”
“What opportunities can there be if you sail by the Campania?”
“You might dine with me to-night at least.”
“Impossible! The Dalkeiths have a party to meet me. Come too, won’t you?
They love dukes--even French ones.”
He shook his head.
“There is no attraction for me in a large party,” he answered. “I am
getting to an age when to make conversation in return for a dinner seems
scarcely a fair exchange.”
“From your host’s point of view, or yours?”
“From both! Besides, one’s digestion suffers.”
“You are certainly getting old,” she declared. “Come, I must go. You
haven’t been a bit nice to me. When shall I see you again?”
“It is,” he answered, “for you to say.”
She looked at him for a moment thoughtfully.
“Supposing,” she said, “that I cried off the yacht race to-day. Would
you take me out to lunch?”
He smiled.
“My dear lady,” he said, “it is for Circe to command--and for me to
obey.”
“And you’ll come and have tea with me afterwards at the Waldorf?”
“That,” Mr. Sabin declared, “will add still further to my happiness.”
“Will you call for me, then--and where shall we have lunch, and at
what time? I must go and develop a headache at once, or that tiresome
Dalkeith boy will be pounding at my door.”
“I will call for you at the Waldorf at half-past one,” Mr. Sabin said.
“Unless you have any choice, I will take you to a little place downtown
where we can imagine ourselves back on the Continent, and where we shall
be spared the horror of green corn.”
“Delightful,” she murmured, buttoning her glove. “Then you shall take
me for a drive to Fifth Avenue, or to see somebody’s tomb, and my woman
shall make some real Russian tea for us in my sitting-room. Really, I
think I’m doing very well for the first day. Is the spell beginning to
work?”
“Hideously,” he assured her. “I feel already that the only thing I dread
in life are these two hours before luncheon.”
She nodded.
“That is quite as it should be. Don’t trouble to come down with me. I
believe that Dalkeith pere is hanging round somewhere, and in view of my
headache perhaps you had better remain in the background for the moment.
At one-thirty, then!”
Mr. Sabin smiled as she passed out of the room, and lit a cigarette.
“I think,” he said to himself, “that the arrival of Felix is opportune.”
CHAPTER VII
They sat together at a small table, looking upon a scene which was
probably unique in the history of the great restaurant. The younger man
was both frankly interested and undoubtedly curious. Mr. Sabin, though
his eyes seemed everywhere, retained to the full extent that nonchalance
of manner which all his life he had so assiduously cultivated.
“It is wonderful, my dear Felix,” he said, leisurely drawing his
cigarette-case from his pocket, “wonderful what good fellowship can
be evolved by a kindred interest in sport, and a bottle or so of good
champagne. But, after all, this is not to be taken seriously.”
“Shamrock the fourth! Shamrock the fourth!”
A tall young American, his thick head of hair, which had once been
carefully parted in the middle, a little disheveled, his hard, clean-cut
face flushed with enthusiasm, had risen to his feet and stood with a
brimming glass of champagne high over his head. Almost every one in the
room rose to their feet. A college boy sprang upon a table with extended
arms. The Yale shout split the room. The very glasses on the table
rattled.
“Columbia! Columbia!”
It was an Englishman now who had leaped upon a vacant table with
upraised glass. There was an answering roar of enthusiasm. Every one
drank, and every one sat down again with a pleasant thrill of excitement
at this unique scene. Felix leaned back in his chair and marveled.
“One would have imagined,” he murmured, “that America and England
together were at war with the rest of the world and had won a great
victory. To think that this is all the result of a yacht race. It is
incredible!”
“All your life, my dear Felix,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “you have underrated
the sporting instinct. It has a great place amongst the impulses of the
world. See how it has brought these people together.”
“But they are already of the same kin,” Felix remarked. “Their interests
and aims are alike. Their destinies are surely identical.”
Mr. Sabin, who had lit his cigarette, watched the blue smoke curl
upwards, and was thoughtful for a moment.
“My dear Felix!” he said. “You are very, very young. The interests of
two great nations such as America and England can never be alike. It is
the language of diplomacy, but it is also the language of fools.”
Their conversation was for the moment interrupted by a fresh murmur of
applause, rising above the loved hum of conversation, the laughter of
women, and the popping of corks. A little troop of waiters had just
wheeled into the room two magnificent models of yachts hewn out of
blocks of solid ice and crowned with flowers. On the one were the Stars
and Stripes, on the other the Shamrock and Thistle. There was much
clapping of hands and cheering. Lady Carey, who was sitting at the next
table with her back to them, joined in the applause so heartily that
a tiny gold pencil attached to her bracelet became detached and rolled
unobserved to Mr. Sabin’s side. Felix half rose to pick it up, but was
suddenly checked by a quick gesture from his companion.
“Leave it,” Mr. Sabin whispered. “I wish to return it myself.”
He stooped and picked it up, a certain stealthiness apparent in his
movement. Felix watched him in amazement.
“It is Lady Carey’s, is it not?” he asked.
“Yes. Be silent. I will give it back to her presently.”
A waiter served them with coffee. Mr. Sabin was idly sketching something
on the back of his menu card. Felix broke into a little laugh as the man
retired.
“Mysterious as ever,” he remarked.
Mr. Sabin smiled quietly. He went on with his sketch.
“I do not want,” Felix said, “to seem impatient, but you must remember
that I have come all the way from Europe in response to a very urgent
message. As yet I have done nothing except form a very uncomfortable
third at a luncheon and tea party, and listen to a good deal of
enigmatic conversation between you and the charming Lady Carey. This
evening I made sure that I should be enlightened. But no! You have given
me a wonderful dinner--from you I expected it. We have eaten terrapin,
canvas-back duck, and many other things the names of which alone were
known to me. But of the reason for which you have summoned me here--I
know nothing. Not one word have you spoken. I am beginning to fear from
your avoidance of the subject that there is some trouble between you and
Lucille. I beg that you will set my anxiety at rest.”
Mr. Sabin nodded.
“It is reasonable,” he said. “Look here!”
He turned the menu card round. On the back he had sketched some sort of
a device with the pencil which he had picked up, and which instead of
black-lead contained a peculiar shade of yellow crayon. Felix sat as
though turned to stone.
“Try,” Mr. Sabin said smoothly, “and avoid that air of tragedy. Some of
these good people might be curious.”
Felix leaned across the table. He pointed to the menu card.
“What does that mean?” he muttered.
Mr. Sabin contemplated it himself thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I
rather thought that you might be able to explain that to me. I have
an idea that there is a society in Europe--sort of aristocratic
odd-fellows, you know--who had adopted it for their crest. Am I not
right?”
Felix looked at him steadfastly.
“Tell me two things,” he said. “First, why you sent for me, and
secondly, what do you mean--by that?”
“Lucille,” Mr. Sabin said, “has been taken away from me.”
“Lucille! Great God!”
“She has been taken away from me,” Mr. Sabin said, “without a single
word of warning.”
Felix pointed to the menu card.
“By them?” he asked.
“By them. It was a month ago. Two days before my cable.”
Felix was silent for several moments. He had not the self-command of his
companion, and he feared to trust himself to speech.
“She has been taken to Europe,” Mr. Sabin continued. “I do not know, I
cannot even guess at the reason. She left no word. I have been warned
not to follow her.”
“You obey?”
“I sail to-morrow.”
“And I?” Felix asked.
Mr. Sabin looked for, a moment at the drawing on the back of the menu
card, and up at Felix. Felix shook his head.
“You must know,” he said, “that I am powerless.”