Chapter 82
Once within the club he may have supposed himself perpetually safe, not only because of his hold on Ruthven, but also because, back of his unflagging persistence, back of his determination to shoulder and push deep into the gilded, perfumed crush where purse-strings and morals were loosened with every heave and twist in the panting struggle around the raw gold altar--back of the sordid past, back of all the resentment, and the sinister memory of wrongs and grievances, still unbalanced, lay an enormous vanity.
It was the vanity in him--even in the bitter days--that throbbed with the agony of the bright world's insolence; it was vanity which sustained him in better days where he sat nursing in his crooked mind the crooked thoughts that swarmed there. His desire for position and power was that; even his yearning for corruption was but the desire for the satiation of a vanity as monstrous as it was pa.s.sionless. His to have what was shared by those he envied--the power to pick and choose, to ignore, to punish.
His to receive, not to seek; to dispense, not to stand waiting for his portion; his the freedom of the forbidden, of everything beyond him, of all withheld, denied by this bright, loose-robed, wanton-eyed G.o.ddess from whose invisible altar he had caught a whiff of sacrificial odours, standing there through the wintry years in the squalor and reek of things.
Now he had arrived among those outlying camps where camp-followers and masters mingled. Certain card-rooms were open to him, certain drawing-rooms, certain clubs. Through them he shouldered, thrilled as he advanced deeper into the throng, fired with the contact of the crush around him.
Already the familiarity of his appearance and his name seemed to sanction his presence; two minor clubs, but good ones--in need of dues--had strained at this social camel and swallowed him. Card-rooms welcomed him--not the rooms once flung open contemptuously for his plucking--but rooms where play was fiercer, and where those who faced him expected battle to the limit.
And they got it, for he no longer felt obliged to lose. And that again was a mistake: he could not yet afford to win.
Thick in the chance and circ.u.mstance of the outer camp, heavily involved financially and already a crus.h.i.+ng financial force, meshed in, or spinning in his turn the strands and counter-strands of intrigue, with a dozen men already mortally offended and a woman or two alarmed or half-contemptuously on guard, flattered, covetous, or afraid, the limit of Neergard's intelligence was reached; his present horizon ended the world for him because he could not imagine anything beyond it; and that smirking vanity which had 'squired him so far, hat in hand, now plucked off its mask and leered boldly about in the wake of its close-eyed master.
George Fane, unpleasantly involved in Block Copper, angry, but not very much frightened, turned in casual good faith to Neergard to ease matters until he could cover. And Neergard locked him in the tighter and shouldered his way through Rosamund's drawing-room to the sill of Sanxon Orchil's outer office, treading brutally on Harmon's heels.
Harmon in disgust, wrath, and fear went to Craig; Craig to Maxwell Hunt; Hunt wired Mottly; Mottly, cold and sleek in his contempt, came from Palm Beach.
The cohesive power of caste is an unknown element to the outsider.
That he had unwittingly and prematurely aroused some unsuspected force on which he had not counted and of which he had no definite knowledge was revealed to Neergard when he desired Rosamund to obtain for him an invitation to the Orchils' ball.
It appeared that she could not do so--that even the threatened tendency of Block Copper could not sharpen her wits to devise a way for him. Very innocently she told him that Jack Ruthven was leading the Chinese Cotillon with Mrs. Delmour-Carnes from one end, Gerald Erroll with Gladys from the other--a hint that a card ought to be easy enough to obtain in spite of the strangely forgetful Orchils.
Long since he had fixed upon Gladys Orchil as the most suitable silent partner for the unbuilt house of Neergard, unconcerned that rumour was already sending her abroad for the double purpose of getting rid
Nothing, so far, had checked his progress; why should rumour? Elbow and money had shoved him on and on, shoulder-deep where his thin nose pointed, crowding aside and out of his way whatever was made to be crowded out; and going around, hat off, whatever remained arrogantly immovable.
So he had come, on various occasions, close to the unruffled skirts of this young girl--not yet, however, in her own house. But Sanxon Orchil had recently condescended to turn around in his office chair and leave his amusing railroad combinations long enough to divide with Neergard a quarter of a million copper profits; and there was another turn to be expected when Neergard gave the word.
Therefore, it puzzled and confused Neergard to be overlooked where the gay world had been summoned with an accompanying blast from the public press; therefore he had gone to Rosamund with the curtest of hints; but he had remained, standing before her, checked, not condescending to irritation, but mentally alert to a new element of resistance which he had not expected--a new force, palpable, unlooked for, uncla.s.sified as yet in his schedule for his life's itinerary. That force was the cohesive power of abstract caste in the presence of a foreign irritant threatening its atomic disintegration. That foreign and irritating substance was himself. But he had forgotten in his vanity that which in his rawer shrewdness he should have remembered. Eternal vigilance was the price; not the cancelled vouchers of the servitude of dead years and the half-servile challenge of the strange new days when his vanity had dared him to live.
Rosamund, smoothly groomed, golden-headed, and smiling, rose as Neergard moved slowly forward to take his leave.
"So stupid of them to have overlooked you," she said; "and I should have thought Gladys would have remembered--unless--"
His close-set eyes focussed so near her own that she stopped, involuntarily occupied with the unusual phenomenon.
"Unless what?" he asked.
She was all laughing polished surface again. "Unless Gladys's intellect, which has only room for one idea at a time, is already fully occupied."
"With what?" he demanded.
"Oh, with that Gerald boy "--she shrugged indulgently--"perhaps with her pretty American Grace and the outlook for the Insular invasion."
Neergard's apple face was dull and mottled, and on the thin bridge of his nose the sweat glistened. He did not know what she meant; and she knew he did not.
As he turned to go she paced him a step or two across the rose-and-gold reception-room, hands linked behind her back, bending forward slightly as she moved beside him.
"Gerald, poor lad, is to be disciplined," she observed. "The prettiest of American d.u.c.h.esses takes her over next spring; and Heaven knows the household cavalry needs green forage... Besides, even Jack Ruthven may stand the chance they say he stands if it is true he has made up his mind to sue for his divorce."
Neergard wheeled on her; the sweat on his nose had become a bright bead.
"Where did you hear that?" he asked.
"What? About Jack Ruthven?" Her smooth shoulders fluttered her answer.
"You mean it's talked about?" he insisted.
"In some sets," she said with an indifference which coolly excluded the probability that he could have been in any position to hear what was discussed in those sets.
Again he felt the check of something intangible but real; and the vanity in him, flicked on the raw, peered out at her from his close-set eyes.
For a moment he measured her from the edge of her skirt to her golden head, insolently.
"You might remind your husband," he said, "that I'd rather like to have a card to the Orchil affair."
"There is no use in speaking to George," she replied regretfully, shaking her head.
"Try it," returned Neergard with the hint of a snarl; and he took his leave, and his hat from the man in waiting, who looked after him with the slightest twitching of his shaven upper lip. For the lifting of an eyebrow in the drawing-rooms becomes warrant for a tip that runs very swiftly below stairs.
That afternoon, alone in his office, Neergard remembered Gerald. And for the first time he understood the mistake of making an enemy out of what he had known only as a friendly fool.
But it was a detail, after all--merely a slight error in a.s.suming too early an arrogance he could have afforded to wait for. He had waited a long, long while for some things.
As for Fane, he had him locked up with his short account. No doubt he'd hear from the Orchils through the Fanes. However, to clinch the matter, he thought he might as well stop in to see Ruthven. A plain word or two to Ruthven indicating his own wishes--perhaps outlining his policy concerning the future house of Neergard--might as well be delivered now as later.
So that afternoon he took a hansom at Broad and Wall streets and rolled smoothly uptown, not seriously concerned, but willing to have a brief understanding with Ruthven on one or two subjects.
As his cab drove up to the intricately ornamental little house of gray stone, a big touring limousine wheeled out from the curb, and he caught sight of Sanxon Orchil and Phoenix Mottly inside, evidently just leaving Ruthven.
His smiling and very cordial bow was returned coolly by Orchil, and apparently not observed at all by Mottly. He sat a second in his cab, motionless, the obsequious smile still stencilled on his flushed face; then the flush darkened; he got out of his cab and, bidding the man wait, rang at the house of Ruthven.
Admitted, it was a long while before he was asked to mount the carved stairway of stone. And when he did, on every step, hand on the bronze rail, he had the same curious sense of occult resistance to his physical progress; the same instinct of a new element arising into the scheme of things the properties of which he felt a sudden fierce desire to test and comprehend.
Ruthven in a lounging suit of lilac silk, sashed in with flexible silver, stood with his back to the door as Neergard was announced; and even after he was announced Ruthven took his time to turn and stare and nod with a deliberate negligence that accented the affront.
Neergard sat down; Ruthven gazed out of the window, then, soft thumbs hooked in his sash, turned leisurely in impudent interrogation.
"What the h.e.l.l is the matter with you?" asked Neergard, for the subtle something he had been encountering all day had suddenly seemed to wall him out of all he had conquered, forcing him back into the simpler sordid territory where ways and modes of speech were more familiar to him--where the spontaneous crudity of expression belonged among the husks of all he had supposed discarded for ever.
"Really," observed Ruthven, staring at the seated man, "I scarcely understand your remark."
"Well, you'll understand it perhaps when I choose to explain it," said Neergard. "I see there's some trouble somewhere. What is it? What's the matter with Orchil, and that hatchet-faced beagle-pup, Mottly? _Is_ there anything the matter, Jack?"
"Nothing important," said Ruthven with an intonation which troubled Neergard. "Did you come here to--ah--ask anything of me? Very glad to do anything, I'm sure."
"Are you? Well, then, I want a card to the Orchils'."