Part 29 (2/2)
”Imagine Tristram furious,” said Harry.
”A smothered volcano. I have committed to-day the sin against the Holy Ghost. Guess what that is?”
”Success,” said the Violet.
”Candor,” the count.
”Bachelorhood,” Miss Milly Mills.
”Punning,” his sister Rosalie.
But Tristram shook his head drearily at each response.
”Well, then, tell us,” cried a chorus of impatient voices.
”I have prost.i.tuted art to lucre--having disposed of my great design of Ajax's s.h.i.+eld--for what purpose, do you think?”
All the guesses were wild again.
”For a bed-spread,” said Tristram, and there was a chorus of laughter, amid which the circle broke up into little moving knots, all electrically united, however, so that the talk flew from one part of the room to another.
It was one of Tristram's soirees, which were the events of the season in Lenox. The flavor of art was subst.i.tuted for that of artificiality, and usually some souvenir, bearing the touch of the host's own fanciful hand, was carried away by each of the guests. The coveted invitation for this night's affair announced ”a purple tea,” and the furnis.h.i.+ngs verified the description. Rich muslin shades over the chandeliers (Rosalie's work) purpled all the atmosphere of the parlors. Purple hangings here and there carried out the suggestion, but not too obtrusively, and each of the guests appeared with some purple garment.
Among the ladies these generally verged toward the wine-colored shades, for they were all too young to carry well the full warmth of the Tyrian. Thus the Violet's mantilla, Rosalie's cloud, Harry Arnold's sash, were all steeped to the same dye, now the crimson, now the blue element prevailing in the mixture. Count L'Alienado alone appeared to have evaded the rule until, raising his right hand to smell a rose, he scattered a pencil of purple light from an opalescent stone which none present were learned enough in lapidary science to name.
”Let's have tableau charades!” cried Miss Milly Mills, who flitted from person to person, from subject to subject, like a b.u.t.terfly, and was accused of a partiality for spruce gum. The suggestion was taken up with approval, and nearly every one present acted out the first word that came to him on the spur of the moment.
Tristram gave what he called a definition of himself in lengthy pantomime which no one could fathom. So he was obliged to explain that meed--eye--ochre--tea, summed up ”mediocrity,” at which one and all protested. Most of the other attempts were quite as laborious. But when the Violet stepped forward and trilled an upper C, then buzzed like an insect and put her right foot forward, there was a unanimous cry of ”Trilby!” and the flatness began to be taken out of the game.
Then the pleasures grew more miscellaneous and Count L'Alienado found himself for a time alone on the outer balcony with Mme. Violet. The sky was starlit above, the shadows lay deep in the garden bushes below, and the diamonds burned amid her braids. They talked of the Persian poets till the light voice of Tristram within interrupted them and a ripple of laughter from the purple interior reached their ears.
”Ah, this is not fair; that our wisest and wittiest should impoverish the company by their absence. Your places are waiting and the bell is tired of tinkling to you.”
”We were lost among the stars,” replied Count L'Alienado.
Opposite the count sat Harry Arnold; opposite the Violet, Rosalie. Waiters were serving refreshments, and a purple tea was poured into the wine-colored cups. On each table lay a souvenir containing verse or prose by Tristram March, with fantastic decorations in the border. Harry Arnold was just pa.s.sing the souvenir of their table to Rosalie. It contained a caricature in profile of Tristram himself, and a brief ”Autobiography,” which Harry read aloud: ”I went to school To Ridicule. He taught me civility, The peac.o.c.k humility, Depth and subtility Feste, the fool.
Meeker and meeker becomes my mood From studying Conscious Rect.i.tude; And if my speech be firm and pat, Madam Garrulity taught me that.”
”Oh, I hate sarcasm,” burst out Rosalie. ”Why won't you be literal, commonplace, something positive, if it's only a woman-hater?”
”An abominable fault, brother Tristram,” said Harry, sternly.
”Hideous!” cried the others, drowning poor Rosalie's homily in a flood of irony more heartless than Tristram's own.
Then Rosalie gave him up as incorrigible.
”I wonder if Count L'Alienado's jewel has not a legend attached to it?” said some one.
”It is an alamandine ruby from Siam,” began the count.
”Oh, do go on,” cried Miss Milly Mills from the rear, who had been listening over her shoulder. ”Tell us the story. I'm sure it will be better than Cleverly's last book.”
”Oh, if it isn't better than that----”
”But the setting was fresh,” said Tristram, who was Cleverly's friend. ”He rehangs his gallery well, even if the portraits are familiar.”
”This talisman of mine has indeed a story attached to it,” said Count L'Alienado at last, ”but you may read hundreds better in any book of oriental tales. Its quality, however, is curious. You know that mesmerism has long been known in the east, and that many of the occult feats of the Hindoo magicians are ascribed to that power. It was an Arab caliph who first attributed to this stone the quality of securing immunity to its possessor from the magic trance. As a matter of fact, I have never been hypnotized while I wore it.”
”A challenge, Harry,” said Tristram.
”You possess the power?” asked the count.
”So I am told,” laughed Harry.
”People go to sleep at his bidding,” said Tristram. ”He is the surest recipe I have seen for insomnia.”
”Except the Rev. Dr. Fourthly,” whispered Miss Milly Mills, but at this Dorothea Goodbody looked shocked.
”Shall I hypnotize you, Rosalie?” smiled Harry to his sweetheart.
But Rosalie shook her head with a little shudder.
”The count,” said the Violet.
”The count! Hypnotize the count!” a chorus echoed.
”Very well,” said the Spaniard; ”a moment till I invoke the genii of the carbuncle. Now.”
”Are you ready?” said Harry, laughing a little awkwardly. He made one or two cabalistic pa.s.ses with his hands, looking straight into the eyes of the count. They were large burning eyes, the like of which Harry had never met before. Gazing into their depths, he seemed to feel a new spell. They were drawing him, drawing his soul away. Other objects disappeared. Rosalie, Tristram, the Violet--he clutched at them, but they were gone. The count himself grew shadowy. Only his eyes--fixed, haunting, luminous--remained, centering a vast drab vault, which was all that was left of the populous world and its occupants. What could Harry do but surrender his faculties and be absorbed like the rest?
”It is Harry who is hypnotized,” cried Tristram. Rosalie fixed her gaze on her lover's face.
”Raise your right hand,” said the count. Harry obeyed. His stare was gla.s.sy, his lower lip stupidly dropped.
”Do you know this glove?” asked the count, raising a lemon-colored kid.
”I do,” came the answer, mechanical, monotonous.
”Try it on.”
Harry drew the glove on his right hand, his eyes never leaving those of the count.
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