Chapter VII Irritation and Consolation
Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of this and that endeavor and dispute;
Better be merry with the fruitful grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter fruit.
—Omar Kháyyám.
I must get on more rapidly with my narrative. It has been a great temptation to me to indulge in conjectures and surmises regarding the soul-displacement that may make my story a presentment worthy of attentive consideration from the Society for Psychical Research. But from the outset I have endeavored to resist this inclination and to give to the reader merely a bald statement of facts in their actual sequence. It must be apparent by this time, furthermore, that I am not fitted by education to discuss the uncanny problems begotten by the strange affliction that had befallen my wife and myself. That I have become perforce a sadder and wiser man may be true, but, despite my practical experience of what may be called instability of soul, I am not in any sense a psychologist. From various points of view; therefore, it seems best that I should eschew all philosophical or scientific comments on the curious phenomena with which I have been forced to deal, leaving, as it were, the circumference of my story to the care of the erudite, and confining my own endeavors strictly to its diameter.
Behold me, then, fresh from Suzanne’s deft hands, confronting Caroline’s bosom friend, Mrs. Taunton, across the luncheon-table. Our conversation, if my memory is not at fault, ran something as follows:
“You look flushed and excited, Caroline,” said Mrs. Taunton, a large, blond, absurdly haughty woman, strangely unlike little Van Tromp, her poetical brother. “Something has happened to upset you, my dear?”
“Well, rather!” I could not refrain from exclaiming. What the deuce was Mrs. Taunton’s given name? If I did not recall it soon she would begin to wonder at Caroline’s peculiar bearing. It was not Mrs. Taunton, however, who was driving me toward hysteria. To find myself again in the realm over which the phlegmatic but terrifying Jones presided was to lose confidence in my ability to stem the tide of disaster. Jones was so conservative! Such a radical change as I had undergone would be even more incomprehensible to him than it had been to me. I realized vaguely that I had grown to be supersensitive, and that what I took to be suspicion in the butler’s eyes must be a product of my own overwrought nerves. But, struggle as I might against the impression, I could not free myself from the feeling that Jones watched me furtively, questioningly, as if he had gained possession of a clue to a great mystery.
“Tell me all about it, Caroline,” urged Mrs. Taunton, sweetly. “If you were not so beautiful, my dear, you would not have so much trouble.”
The blood rushed into Caroline’s cheeks, and I found myself glaring angrily at Jones, who was serving croquettes to Mrs. Taunton. The latter had displayed the most wretched taste in praising my, or rather Caroline’s, appearance before the butler. But Mrs. Taunton evidently looked upon a servant as a mere automaton, not to be considered even in heart-to-heart talks with young women. My growing annoyance made itself manifest in Caroline’s voice, as I stammered:
“My—ah—beauty, such as it is, don’t you know, is only—ah—skin deep. But my troubles—ah— Jones! Don’t be so slow! Spend as much time outside as you can, will you?”
Mrs. Taunton stared at me in amazement, while Jones, showing no signs of emotion, made a most dignified exit.
“What is the matter with you, Caroline?” asked my vis-à-vis, anxiously. “I never heard you speak like that before.”
An explanation seemed to be due to my guest.
“It’s curious, don’t you know,” I began, lamely, trying to recall Mrs. Taunton’s baptismal name, “it’s curious—ah—my dear, what an intense repulsion I feel toward that man Jones. It came upon me suddenly. It’s intermittent, not chronic, I think, but it’s all there, and means business. Did you ever feel that way?”
“Caroline!” gasped Mrs. Taunton, pained surprise resting upon her patrician face.
“It’s beneath me, I acknowledge,” I went on, feverishly, making an effort to eat a croquette between sentences. “A butler’s merely a necessary piece of movable furniture, and should—ah—not arouse a feeling of antagonism. But Jones has got an eye to—ah—induce intoxication.”
“Caroline,” queried Mrs. Taunton, solemnly, “have you—forgive me, my dear, for the question—have you been taking anything?”
“A fair exchange is no robbery,” I remarked, impulsively, in my own defense, but Mrs. Taunton’s face assured me that I had spoken irrelevantly.
“I should advise a cup of black coffee, Caroline,” said my guest, in her iciest tone.
“We’ll wait a bit, if you don’t mind,” I ventured to suggest. “No coffee without Jones. I’m not quite up to Jones at this moment—er—my dear.”
Mrs. Taunton held my gaze to hers, and her light-gray eyes chilled me. It was evident that little Van Tromp’s sister had no poetical nonsense in her make-up. Practical, obstinate, strong-willed she seemed to be, as she endeavored to solve from Caroline’s beautiful eyes the mystery of my eccentric demeanor.
“Your sudden and inexplicable aversion to your butler, Caroline,” remarked my guest, presently, apparently desirous of soothing my nerves by a poultice of gossip, “reminds me of the lecture upon Buddhism that I heard yesterday morning. An adept from India—Yamama, I think, is his name—talked to us, you know, about our Western blindness, as he called it, to the marvels of soul-sensitiveness.”
My fork rattled against my plate, and I gazed down in dismay at Caroline’s trembling hand. Mrs. Taunton overlooked my agitation and continued:
“He was so entertaining! But it’s all absurd, of course. Louise told me that you were going with her to hear him this morning.”
“Yes?” I managed to gasp. “She—ah—Louise called me up by the ’phone. I couldn’t get away, you see—ah—my dear.”
“It’s such utter nonsense, don’t you know,” went on Mrs. Taunton, evidently convinced that the worst was over with me. “I made notes, just for practice. He—the adept, or whatever he was—was a lovely piece of mahogany, with perfectly stunning eyes. I memorized one of my notes. The dear little brownie said—just listen to this, Caroline: ‘The Hindu conception of reincarnation embraces all existence—gods, men, animals, plants, minerals. It is believed that everything migrates, from Buddha down to inert matter. Buddha himself was born an ascetic eighty-three times, a monarch fifty-eight times, the soul of a tree forty-three times, and many other times as an ape, deer, lion, snipe, chicken, eagle, serpent, pig, frog—four hundred times in all!’ Isn’t it all perfectly silly? Good gracious, Caroline, what is the matter with you? Are you faint?”
“Just a bit rocky,” I found sufficient nerve to say. “Are you quite sure—ah—my dear—that he said pigs—and—and—frogs?”
Mrs. Taunton caught her breath, as if she struggled to swallow her amazement.
“You ought to be in bed, Caroline,” she said, severely. “If you could get to sleep, my dear—”
“Et tu, Brute!” I murmured, with sardonic playfulness. “Look here—ah—my dear! You find a change in your Caroline, eh? You have suspected me of drinking, and now you imply that I need sleep. I swear that the next person who hints that I’m not up for all day shall hear something to—ah—her disadvantage.”
Such talk was madness. Mrs. Taunton very naturally resented my childish ultimatum. She arose from her chair with a cool, calm dignity that shocked me like a cold shower-bath.
“I regret, Caroline, that I find my patience exhausted,” she remarked, more in sadness than in wrath, transfixing me with her pale-gray eyes. “I shall leave you now, but not in anger. I can see, plainly enough, that you are not yourself.”
“Don’t you dare to say that in public—ah—Mrs. Taunton,” I cried, hotly, fearful that, as it was, Jones might have overheard her remark. Reason assured me that her words were used figuratively, but the undeniable fact that she had hit the target and rung the bell drove me to desperation. Mrs. Taunton gazed at me for a moment in mingled scorn and astonishment, and then swept from the dining-room with head high in air and a rustle of skirts that seemed to sweep Caroline into outer darkness.
The next thing that I remember, as the flamboyant romancers remark, was an entrance even more theatrical than Mrs. Taunton’s exit. Jones, impressing my errant fancy as Nemesis in the semblance of an imported butler, strode into the room bearing a tray upon which rested a coffee-pot, the aroma from which stirred hope in my heart. Much as I detested Jones, I welcomed the stimulant that he carried toward me. If Mrs. Taunton’s disappearance surprised him, he succeeded in suppressing any outward exhibition of emotion.
Realizing for the moment that my fear of the man was unreasonable, I summoned common sense to my aid and said:
“One good bracer deserves another, Jones. Put a stick into my coffee, will you?”
The butler gave me a furtive glance, a cross between an exclamation and an interrogation.
“Brandy, madam?” he asked, smoothly.
When he had fortified my coffee with a dash of fine old French cognac, I looked him straight in the eye.
“Jones,” I said, impressively, “Mr. Stevens has complained of you of late. But I don’t want you to lose your place. I shall see to it that my—ah—husband becomes reconciled to you, but you must obey my instructions to the letter. To begin with, you are to leave this room at once, close the door, stand on guard outside and allow no one to disturb me until I give you word. If you open the door before I call to you, you leave the house immediately. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, madam,” gasped Jones, thrown out of his orbit for once. But he retained sufficient self-control to make a hurried exit, noisily shutting the door behind him.
I swallowed my coffee—and cognac—at a gulp, and stumbled toward the sideboard. After a short search I came upon a box of excellent cigars. Presently I was seated at the luncheon-table again, sipping a pony of brandy neat and blowing cigar-smoke into the air. For a glorious half-hour, I reflected joyously, I could enjoy myself in my own way. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught sight of my reflection in the sideboard mirror. Caroline, with a long, black panatella between her beautiful lips, held a pony of brandy poised in the air, with the other hand raised to remove the cigar from her mouth. An inexplicable wave of diabolical exultation swept over me. Bowing to my wife’s handsome image—which cordially returned the salutation—I removed my cigar and raised the brandy to Caroline’s mouth.
“Here’s how, my dear!” I cried, gaily. “No heel-taps!”
Caroline’s reflection drank the toast, and the warm glow of good-fellowship that crept through my veins reconciled me for the time being to my strange, uncanny fate.