The Black Bag by Louis Joseph Vance (best manga ereader .TXT) đ
- Author: Louis Joseph Vance
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â_Kirkwood, Pless, London. Stay where you are no good coming back
everything gone no insurance letter follows vanderlip_.â
âWhen I got the news in Paris,â Kirkwood volunteered, âI tried the banks;
they refused to honor my drafts. I had a little money in hand,âenough
to see me home,âso closed the studio and came across. Iâm booked on the
Minneapolis, sailing from Tilbury at daybreak; the boat-train leaves at
eleven-thirty. I had hoped you might be able to dine with me and see me
off.â
In silence Brentwick returned the cable message. Then, with a thoughtful
look, âYou are sure this is wise?â he queried.
âItâs the only thing I can see.â
âBut your partner saysââ
âNaturally he thinks that by this time I should have learned to paint well
enough to support myself for a few months, until he can get things running
again. Perhaps I might.â Brentwick supported the presumption with a decided
gesture. âBut have I a right to leave Vanderlip to fight it out alone? For
Vanderlip has a wife and kiddies to support; Iââ
âYour genius!â
âMy ability, such as it isâand that only. It can waitâŠ. No; this means
simply that I must come down from the clouds, plant my feet on solid earth,
and get to work.â
âThe sentiment is sound,â admitted Brentwick, âthe practice of it, folly.
Have you stopped to think what part a rising young portrait-painter can
contribute toward the rebuilding of a devastated city?â
âThe painting can wait,â reiterated Kirkwood. âI can work like other men.â
âYou can do yourself and your genius grave injustice. And I fear me you
will, dear boy. Itâs in keeping with your heritage of American obstinacy.
Now if it were a question of moneyââ
âMr. Brentwick!â Kirkwood protested vehemently. âIâve ample for my present
needs,â he added.
âOf course,â conceded Brentwick with a sigh. âI didnât really hope you
would avail yourself of our friendship. Now thereâs my home in Aspen
VillasâŠ. You have seen it?â
âIn your absence this afternoon your estimable butler, with commendable
discretion, kept me without the doors,â laughed the young man.
âItâs a comfortable home. You would not consent to share it with me
untilâ?â
âYou are more than good; but honestly, I must sail to-night. I wanted only
this chance to see you before I left. Youâll dine with me, wonât you?â
âIf you would stay in London, Philip, we would dine together not once but
many times; as it is, I myself am booked for Munich, to be gone a week,
on business. I have many affairs needing attention between now and the
nine-ten train from Victoria. If you will be my guest at Aspen Villasââ
âPlease!â begged Kirkwood, with a little laugh of pleasure because of the
otherâs insistence. âI only wish I could. Another dayââ
âOh, you will make your million in a year, and return scandalously
independent. Itâs in your American blood.â Frail white fingers tapped an
arm of the chair as their owner stared gravely into the fire. âI confess I
envy you,â he observed.
âThe opportunity to make a million in a year?â chuckled Kirkwood.
âNo. I envy you your Romance.â
âThe Romance of a Poor Young Man went out of fashion years agoâŠ. No, my
dear friend; my Romance died a natural death half an hour since.â
âThere spoke Youthâblind, enviable Youth!⊠On the contrary, you are but
turning the leaves of the first chapter of your Romance, Philip.â
âRomance is dead,â contended the young man stubbornly.
âLong live the King!â Brentwick laughed quietly, still attentive to the
fire. âMyself when young,â he said softly, âdid seek Romance, but never
knew it till its day was done. Iâm quite sure that is a poor paraphrase of
something I have read. In age, oneâs sight is sharpenedâto see Romance in
anotherâs life, at least. I say I envy you. You have Youth, unconquerable
Youth, and the world before youâŠ. I must go.â
He rose stiffly, as though suddenly made conscious of his age. The old eyes
peered more than a trifle wistfully, now, into Kirkwoodâs. âYou will not
fail to call on me by cable, dear boy, if you needâanything? I ask it as
a favorâŠ. Iâm glad you wished to see me before going out of my life. One
learns to value the friendship of Youth, Philip. Good-by, and good luck
attend you.â
Alone once more, Kirkwood returned to his window. The disappointment he
felt at being robbed of his anticipated pleasure in Brentwickâs company at
dinner, colored his mood unpleasantly. His musings merged into vacuity,
into a dull gray mist of hopelessness comparable only to the dismal skies
then lowering over London-town.
Brentwick was good, but Brentwick was mistaken. There was really nothing
for Kirkwood to do but to go ahead. But one steamer-trunk remained to be
packed; the boat-train would leave before midnight, the steamer with the
morning tide; by the morrowâs noon he would be upon the high seas, within
ten days in New York and among friends; and then âŠ
The problem of that afterwards perplexed Kirkwood more than he cared to
own. Brentwick had opened his eyes to the fact that he would be practically
useless in San Francisco; he could not harbor the thought of going
back, only to become a charge upon Vanderlip. No; he was resolved that
thenceforward he must rely upon himself, carve out his own destiny.
Butâwould the art that he had cultivated with such assiduity, yield him a
livelihood if sincerely practised with that end in view? Would the mental
and physical equipment of a painter, heretofore dilettante, enable him to
become self-supporting?
Knotting his brows in concentration of effort to divine the future, he
doubted himself, darkly questioning alike his abilities and his temper
under trial; neither ere now had ever been put to the test. His eyes became
somberly wistful, his heart sore with regret of Yesterdayâhis Yesterday of
care-free youth and courage, gilded with the ineffable, evanescent glamour
of Romanceâof such Romance, thrice refined of dross, as only he knows who
has wooed his Art with passion passing the love of woman.
Far away, above the acres of huddled roofs and chimney-pots, the
storm-mists thinned, lifting transiently; through them, gray, fairy-like,
the towers of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament bulked monstrous
and unreal, fading when again the fugitive dun vapors closed down upon the
city.
Nearer at hand the Shade of Care nudged Kirkwoodâs elbow, whispering
subtly. Romance was indeed dead; the world was cold and cruel.
The gloom deepened.
In the cant of modern metaphysics, the moment was psychological.
There came a rapping at the door.
Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say âCome
in!â pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, turning on one heel, beheld
hesitant upon the threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of the Pless
pages.
âMr. Kirkwood?â
Kirkwood nodded.
âGentleman to see you, sir.â
Kirkwood nodded again, smiling if somewhat perplexed. Encouraged, the child
advanced, proffering a silver card-tray at the end of an unnaturally rigid
forearm. Kirkwood took the card dubiously between thumb and forefinger and
inspected it without prejudice.
ââGeorge B. Calendar,ââ he read. ââGeorge B. Calendar!â But I know no such
person. Sure thereâs no mistake, young man?â
The close-cropped, bullet-shaped, British head was agitated in vigorous
negation, and âCard for Mister Kirkwood!â was mumbled in dispassionate
accents appropriate to a recitation by rote.
âVery well. But before you show him up, ask this Mr. Calendar if he is
quite sure he wants to see Philip Kirkwood.â
âYessir.â
The child marched out, punctiliously closing the door. Kirkwood tamped
down the tobacco in his pipe and puffed energetically, dismissing the
interruption to his reverie as a matter of no consequenceâan obvious
mistake to be rectified by two words with this Mr. Calendar whom he did not
know. At the knock he had almost hoped it might be Brentwick, returning
with a changed mind about the bid to dinner.
He regretted Brentwick sincerely. Theirs was a curious sort of
friendshipâextraordinarily close in view of the meagerness of eitherâs
information about the other, to say nothing of the disparity between their
ages. Concerning the elder man Kirkwood knew little more than that they had
met on shipboard, âcoming overâ; that Brentwick had spent some years in
America; that he was an Englishman by birth, a cosmopolitan by habit, by
profession a gentleman (employing that term in its most uncompromisingly
British significance), and by inclination a collector of âarticles of
virtue and bigotry,â in pursuit of which he made frequent excursions to the
Continent from his residence in a quaint quiet street of Old Brompton. It
had been during his not infrequent, but ordinarily abbreviated, sojourns in
Paris that their steamer acquaintance had ripened into an affection almost
filial on the one hand, almost paternal on the otherâŠ.
There came a rapping at the door.
Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say âCome
in!â pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, swinging on one heel,
beheld hesitant upon the threshold a rather rotund figure of medium height,
clad in an expressionless gray lounge suit, with a brown âbowlerâ hat held
tentatively in one hand, an umbrella weeping in the other. A voice, which
was unctuous and insinuative, emanated from the figure.
âMr. Kirkwood?â
Kirkwood nodded, with some effort recalling the name, so detached had been
his thoughts since the disappearance of the page.
âYes, Mr. Calendarâ?â
âAre youâahâbusy, Mr. Kirkwood?â
âAre you, Mr. Calendar?â Kirkwoodâs smile robbed the retort of any flavor
of incivility.
Encouraged, the man entered, premising that he would detain his host but a
moment, and readily surrendering hat and umbrella. Kirkwood, putting the
latter aside, invited his caller to the easy chair which Brentwick had
occupied by the fireplace.
âIt takes the edge off the dampness,â Kirkwood explained in deference to
the otherâs look of pleased surprise at the cheerful bed of coals. âIâm
afraid I could never get acclimated to life in a cold, damp roomâor a damp
cold roomâsuch as you Britishers prefer.â
âIt is grateful,â Mr. Calendar agreed, spreading plump and well cared-for
hands to the warmth. âBut you are mistaken; I am as much an American as
yourself.â
âYes?â Kirkwood looked the man over with more interest, less
matter-of-course courtesy.
He proved not unprepossessing, this unclassifiable Mr. Calendar; he was
dressed with some care, his complexion was good, and the fullness of his
girth, emphasized as it was by a notable lack of inches, bespoke a nature
genial, easy-going and sybaritic. His dark eyes, heavy-lidded, were
activeâcuriously, at times, with a subdued glitterâin a face large,
round, pink, of which the other most remarkable features were a mustache,
close-trimmed and showing streaks of gray, a chubby nose, and duplicate
chins. Mr. Calendar was furthermore possessed of a polished bald spot,
girdled with a tonsure of silvered hairâcircumstances which lent some
factitious distinction to a personality otherwise commonplace.
His manner might be best described as uneasy with assurance; as though he
frequently found it necessary to make up for his unimpressive stature by
assuming an unnatural habit of authority. And there you have him; beyond
these points, Kirkwood was conscious of no impressions; the man was
apparently neutral-tinted of mind as well as of body.
âSo you knew I was an American, Mr. Calendar?â suggested Kirkwood.
ââSaw your name on the register; we both hail from the same neck of the
woods, you know.â
âI didnât know it, andââ
âYes; Iâm
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