Wanderfoot (The Dream Ship)
She knew not where to turn for money, except where nothing but the
prospect of starvation for Bran would let her turn--to the Credit
Lyonnais where lay the accumulating quarterly sums from Westenra.
So when the time came for Haidee to make her entrance at the Lycee, Bran
and Val returned to Paris as well: the latter having written and
re-engaged her old studio which was to let furnished.
Haidee was a changed girl. She seemed to have grown years older and
hard as a stone. She had withdrawn herself from all intimacy with Val,
and was even cold and harsh in her manner to Bran, who could not
understand and was always saying wistfully:
"Don't you love me any more, Haidee?"
"Of course I do," she would answer impatiently.
"Then why do you look at me as if you 'd like to spank me on my tailie?"
"Oh, don't worry me, Bran. You make me tired!"
Mascaret seemed suddenly to have grown old and grey. A great coldness
had settled upon the little village. Bitter winds swept every leaf from
the trees and the sun was hidden in wet mists. The Villa Shai-poo, its
flagstaff bare, its windows shuttered and barred, looked like a bereaved
brooding mother folding arms on her grief. The occupants of Villa Duval
were the last of the visitors to leave the village. Even Sacha had
gone. His people had taken him back to Paris to lie in the family vault
at Pere La Chaise.
From Mascaret to Paris is an eight hours' journey on the worst line in
France, and when they reached St. Lazare Station late in the afternoon
they were all tired out, with hearts as heavy as lead. Val left Bran on
Haidee's lap in the waiting-room while she went to unlock the trunks in
the Customs' shed. There were crowds of travellers and loads of baggage
to be gone through, for the boat-train from Cherbourg was just in also.
Val, very weary, sat on the low table waiting, and staring about her
with sad eyes full of trouble. Suddenly, standing quite near, she saw a
face she knew. She could not immediately place the man in her memory
but she was so sure of knowing him that she smiled and gave a little
nod. Immediately he took off his hat and approached.
"I think you _almost_ remember, Mrs. Valdana, but not quite," he said.
The moment she heard his voice she placed him. It was the French Jew
who had sat next her on board the _Bavaric_.
"How do you do, Mr. Bernstein!" she said cordially, extending her hand.
It was as though she had met an old friend. A look of keen pleasure
came into his shrewd face.
"Such a memory must be a treasure to you as a journalist!"
"A journalist!" The words sounded strange in her ears. How many years
ago since she was a journalist! Since she first met this man! A far
absorbed look came into her eyes.
"I knew you in a minute," he said. "You have not changed at all, only
grown a little"--("sadder," he was going to say, but
substituted)--"younger."
"Ah! you have not changed either," she said dryly.
"You have even the same beautiful chain on you! I hope you have not
forgotten your promise to give me first refusal if ever you want to sell
it?"
A startled look flashed across her face.
"Ah, yes! My chain! You did say that, did n't you?" She stared at him
meditatively. "What do you really think it is worth?"
"It would be hard to say right here." He had grown extremely American
in accent and speech. "But if you would call and see me with it. Are
you staying in Paris?"
"Yes."
He got out a card.
"Well, here is my office address--_Rue de Bach_. Call any time you like,
but soon, as I am off to England again in three days."
"I will come to-morrow," she said. "In the meantime, would n't it be a
good thing for you to take the necklace with you and examine it?"
She detached it from her neck with some little difficulty, for the clasp
was a firm one, and held it out. The Jew looked at her with eyes in
which for a moment there hovered a shade of something like pity that
quickly turned to pleasure. A faint flush came into his face, and as he
took the necklace he pressed her hand warmly. In America where he had
been for the past five years such a trusting spirit as Val's was not met
with every day in the week, and the _rencontre_ refreshed his jaded
Hebraic heart like wine.
"You _just_ come," he said cordially, "and I bet I 'll have something
good to tell you."
Immediately afterwards she was called to open her luggage, and bade him
good-bye, telling him that she had some one waiting for her.
All the way of the long drive across Paris, she sat cogitating the
question of the necklace. Even if it turned out to be of value, ought
she to part with it? Would ill luck come to her for parting with her
mother's mascot? Could any worse luck than she already had, come to
her, she began to ask herself in irony? Then she stopped and flung her
arms round Bran. Yes; yes. Ill luck can always come to mothers.
Mothers are never safe--nor fathers! She thought of Sacha lying still
on the beach, and of that stern look on his father's face!
"Oh God! What are necklaces? ... what is money? ... what is anything
against that pain?" she cried in her heart, and held Bran so tightly
that he gave a yelp. Haidee, as always now, sat wrapt in a sullen
reserve. Neither by look nor word did she exhibit the faintest sympathy
for any troubles but her own. The only thing that seemed to interest
her was the prospect of getting away from Val and Bran to her new life
at school. It chilled Val's heart to have one who had been so close
turn away from her thus. Even worse it was to see Bran's dear little
efforts to be kind and friendly, snubbed. Every rebuff to him was like
a blow in the face to Val. But she would not blame Haidee: the child was
dear to Westenra. Besides she _was_ only a child, and had suffered
through Sacha's death. The shock of it coming on top of her wounded
pride and little lost love-dream was enough to embitter her, thought
Val, and blamed herself for ever having interfered.
"Such things are safe in God's hands! He takes care of children and
drunkards. Who am I to have arrogated His rights?"
But Haidee's attitude acutely added to the misery and uncertainty of
life at this time, and in the dusky shadows of the cab as it rumbled
over to the Latin Quarter, Val held her boy's head against her breast
and slow tears stole down her face and were drawn in between her lips,
drying her throat with their salty flavour. Life too tasted salt and
acrid. It seemed to her that in everything she had put her hand to she
had failed and fallen short.
At _rue Campaigne premiere_ the concierge almost embraced them, so
delighted was she to see them again.
"Many people have been looking for Madame and wishing her back," she
announced. "Not only artists but persons very _chic_ also have been to
call."
"Locusts!" said Val to herself. "Locusts and devourers all!" She knew
those _chic_ ones well. People who would not work themselves and could
not bear to see others achieving. All artists have this class to
contend with.
"I told every one you would be back this week. I know you owe no one
money, and are not afraid, like some artists, of visitors," said the
concierge cheerfully, and Val gave a groan. She resolved to be up early
the next day and take Haidee off to school before there was a chance of
meeting any early-fliers.
Before she went to bed, however, she unpacked her papers and found a
little old parchment letter which dealt with the gift to her mother of
the comfort necklace. It was written in Russian and neither she nor her
mother had ever had the curiosity to have it translated, but Iolita had
always been careful to preserve it, and it had marvellously survived all
Val's many packings and wanderings. She now sealed it up and forwarded
it to Bernstein on the vague chance of its being of use in the valuation
of the necklace.
At seven in the morning she received a _petit bleu_ from him, evidently
sent off the night before, but posted after tea, asking her to call
without fail at three o'clock that afternoon. Immediately she sent out
her _femme de menage_ to see if Bran's old governess, the young American
girl, could take charge of him for the day, giving him lunch and tea at
her mother's home. That matter satisfactorily settled, she started for
the Gare Montparnasse with Haidee, en route for Versailles. It took the
whole morning to settle Haidee in, pay her bills, and talk over with the
Directrice her future course of study. Asked to lunch with the girls at
the Lycee she would not stay. It was no pleasure to be with Haidee
while she preserved that sullen, resentful manner. Life was grim
enough! So Val took lunch in a little _cremerie_ in the avenue de
Paris, and returned to Paris by tram to the _Pont Royal_, where she
dismounted and took a bus to Bernstein's number in the _Rue de Bach_.
He received her with a manner full of some suppressed excitement which
quickly communicated itself to her.
"You have something to tell me?" she said, trembling with she knew not
what fear. She had almost forgotten the necklace. With her curious
sense of prevision it was revealed to her in some way that for the
moment the Jew was arbiter of her destiny.
"Sit down," he said, pushing a comfortable chair towards her. "I want
you to tell me the history of the necklace."
"Oh, as to that, Mr. Bernstein, I know very little. My mother gave it
to me when she died. She had always worn it, ever since I can remember.
She loved the beautiful little pictures, and she had an idea that it was
not only a mascot against extreme poverty but also that it possessed
some healing power in sickness. Many times when we were very poor
indeed she was asked by people who liked curious things to sell it, but
she never would. She always remembered that the old Russian man who
gave it to her told her that in the day of trouble it would bring
comfort to her and hers. He was a strange old man who lived in exile in
Spain. He had committed some political crime and had fled from Russia;
was very wealthy but lived with great simplicity in quite a poor part of
Seville, and it was there that he made great friends with my mother and
her father, who was blind but had been a great adventurer and soldier of
fortune. The old Russian grew to love my mother--every one who knew my
mother loved her. And one day he gave her the necklace. She took it
because it was so pretty and yet did not seem very valuable. She never
took jewels from people, though of course many were offered her, as to
all dancers. But this man was very old and gentle and his gift seemed
simple too. Only, he strangely insisted on giving her, with it, that
paper which I sent you last night. That was to show that it was a deed
of gift, and no one could take it from her. But no one ever tried. He
was assassinated a year or two later and all his papers and jewels
mysteriously stolen, but my mother had left Spain then and was in London
and no one ever claimed the necklace. She loved it and I love it. It
hardly seems to me, Mr. Bernstein, after talking about it that I can
part with it after all." She took it up and fingered the glowing,
luminous beads tenderly.
"Not even for seventy-five thousand pounds!" he said quietly.
"What!" She stared at him. She thought he had gone mad.
"That is what I offer you," he said in a business-like tone.
"But...?"
"They are pearls of the first quality."
"Pearls!"
"Yes, the pale green colour is only a clever coating of paint that can
be removed easily by the use of a certain spirit. Look here where I
have worked at this one a little--I had to, you know, in order to be
certain. I have n't harmed the painting."
He showed her a bead that had a picture of a desert on it, with tiny