Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Well, the room will be there — furnished the way you and I like it. When you want it, make smoke signals or wig-wag.”

  “I will; thank you, Boots.”

  Lansing said unaffectedly, “How soon do you think you can afford a house like this?”

  “I don’t know; you see, I’ve only my income now—”

  “Plus what you make at the office—”

  “I’ve left Neergard.”

  “What!”

  “This morning; for good.”

  “The deuce!” he murmured, looking at Selwyn; but the latter volunteered no further information, and Lansing, having given him the chance, cheerfully switched to the other track:

  “Shall I see whether the Air Line has anything in your line, Phil? No? Well, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t exactly know what I shall do. . . . If I had capital — enough — I think I’d start in making bulk and dense powders — all sorts; gun-cotton, nitro-powders—”

  “You mean you’d like to go on with your own invention — Chaosite?”

  “I’d like to keep on experimenting with it if I could afford to. Perhaps I will. But it’s not yet a commercial possibility — if it ever is to be. I wish I could control it; the ignition is simultaneous and absolutely complete, and there is not a trace of ash, not an unburned or partly burned particle. But it’s not to be trusted, and I don’t know what happens to it after a year’s storage.”

  For a while they discussed the commercial possibilities of Chaosite, and how capital might be raised for a stock company; but Selwyn was not sanguine, and something of his mental depression returned as he sat there by the curtainless window, his head on his closed hand, looking out into the sunny street.

  “Anyway,” said Lansing, “you’ve nothing to worry over.”

  “No, nothing,” assented Selwyn listlessly.

  After a silence Lansing added: “But you do a lot of worrying all the same, Phil.”

  Selwyn flushed up and denied it.

  “Yes, you do! I don’t believe you realise how much of the time you are out of spirits.”

  “Does it impress you that way?” asked Selwyn, mortified; “because I’m really all right.”

  “Of course you are, Phil; I know it, but you don’t seem to realise it. You’re morbid, I’m afraid.”

  “You’ve been talking to my sister!”

  “What of it? Besides, I knew there was something the matter—”

  “You know what it is, too. And isn’t it enough to subdue a man’s spirits occasionally?”

  “No,” said Lansing— “if you mean your — mistake — two years ago. That isn’t enough to spoil life for a man. I’ve wanted to tell you so for a long time.”

  And, as Selwyn said nothing: “For Heaven’s sake make up your mind to enjoy your life! You are fitted to enjoy it. Get that absurd notion out of your head that you’re done for — that you’ve no home life in prospect, no family life, no children—”

  Selwyn turned sharply, but the other went on: “You can swear at me if you like, but you’ve no business to go through the world cuddling your own troubles closer and closer and squinting at everybody out of disenchanted eyes. It’s selfish, for one thing; you’re thinking altogether too much about yourself.”

  Selwyn, too annoyed to answer, glared at his friend.

  “Oh, I know you don’t like it, Phil, but what I’m saying may do you good. It’s fine physic, to learn what others think about you; as for me, you can’t mistake my friendship — or your sister’s — or Miss Erroll’s, or Mr. Gerard’s. And one and all are of one opinion, that you have everything before you, including domestic happiness, which you care for more than anything. And there is no reason why you should not have it — no reason why you should not feel perfectly free to marry, and have a bunch of corking kids. It’s not only your right, it’s your business; and you’re selfish if you don’t!”

  “Boots! I — I—”

  “Go on!”

  “I’m not going to swear; I’m only hurt, Boots—”

  “Sure you are! Medicine’s working, that’s all. We strive to please, we kill to cure. Of course it hurts, man! But you know it will do you good; you know what I say is true. You’ve no right to club the natural and healthy inclinations out of yourself. The day for fanatics and dippy, dotty flagellants is past. Fox’s martyrs are out of date. The man who grabs life in both fists and twists the essence out of it, counts. He is living as he ought to, he is doing the square thing by his country and his community — by every man, woman, and child in it! He’s giving everybody, including himself, a square deal. But the man who has been upper-cut and floored, and who takes the count, and then goes and squats in a corner to brood over the fancy licks that Fate handed him — he isn’t dealing fairly and squarely by his principles or by a decent and generous world that stands to back him for the next round. Is he, Phil?”

  “Do you mean to say, Boots, that you think a man who has made the ghastly mess of his life that I have, ought to feel free to marry?”

  “Think it! Man, I know it. Certainly you ought to marry if you wish — but, above all, you ought to feel free to marry. That is the essential equipment of a man; he isn’t a man if he feels that he isn’t free to marry. He may not want to do it, he may not be in love. That’s neither here nor there; the main thing is that he is as free as a man should be to take any good opportunity — and marriage is included in the list of good opportunities. If you become a slave to morbid notions, no wonder you are depressed. Slaves usually are. Do you want to slink through life? Then shake yourself, I tell you; learn to understand that you’re free to do what any decent man may do. That will take the morbidness out of you. That will colour life for you. I don’t say go hunting for some one to love; I do say, don’t avoid her when you meet her.”

  “You preach a very gay sermon, Boots,” he said, folding his arms. “I’ve heard something similar from my sister. As a matter of fact I think you are partly right, too; but if the inclination for the freedom you insist I take is wanting, then what? I don’t wish to marry, Boots; I am not in love, therefore the prospect of home and kids is premature and vague, isn’t it?”

  “As long as it’s a prospect or a possibility I don’t care how vague it is,” said the other cordially. “Will you admit it’s a possibility? That’s all I ask.”

  “If it will please you, yes, I will admit it. I have altered certain ideas, Boots; I cannot, just now, conceive of any circumstances under which I should feel justified in marrying, but such circumstances might arise; I’ll say that much.”

  Yet until that moment he had not dreamed of admitting as much to anybody, even to himself; but Lansing’s logic, his own loneliness, his disappointment in Gerald, had combined to make him doubt his own methods of procedure. Too, the interview with Alixe Ruthven had not only knocked all complacency and conceit out of him, but had made him so self-distrustful that he was in a mood to listen respectfully to his peers on any question.

  He was wondering now whether Boots had recognised Alixe when he had blundered into the room that night. He had never asked the question; he was very much inclined to, now. However, Boots’s reply could be only the negative answer that any decent man must give.

  Sitting there in the carpetless room piled high with dusty, linen-shrouded furniture, he looked around, an involuntary smile twitching his mouth. Somehow he had not felt so light-hearted for a long, long while — and whether it came from his comrade’s sermon, or his own unexpected acknowledgment of its truth, or whether it was pure amusement at Boots in the rôle of householder and taxpayer, he could not decide. But he was curiously happy of a sudden; and he smiled broadly upon Mr. Lansing:

  “What about your marrying,” he said— “after all this talk about mine! What about it, Boots? Is this new house the first modest step toward the matrimony you laud so loudly?”

  “Sure,” said that gentleman airily; “that’s what I’m here for.”

  “Really?”

&nbs
p; “Well, of course, idiot. I’ve always been in love.”

  “You mean you actually have somebody in view — ?”

  “No, son. I’ve always been in love with — love. I’m a sentimental sentry on the ramparts of reason. I’m properly armed for trouble, now, so if I’m challenged I won’t let my chance slip by me. Do you see? There are two kinds of sentimental warriors in this amorous world: the man and the nincompoop. The one brings in his prisoner, the other merely howls for her. So I’m all ready for the only girl in the world; and if she ever gets away from me I’ll give you my house, cellar, and back yard, including the wistaria and both cats—”

  “You have neither wistaria nor cats — yet.”

  “Neither am I specifically in love — yet. So that’s all right — Philip. Come on; let’s take another look at that fascinating cellar of mine!”

  But Selwyn laughingly declined, and after a little while he went away, first to look up a book which he was having bound for Eileen, then to call on his sister who, with Eileen, had just returned from a week at Silverside with the children, preliminary to moving the entire establishment there for the coming summer; for the horses and dogs had already gone; also Kit-Ki, a pessimistic parrot, and the children’s two Norwegian ponies.

  “Silverside is too lovely for words!” exclaimed Nina as Selwyn entered the library. “The children almost went mad. You should have seen the dogs, too — tearing round and round the lawn in circles — poor things! They were crazy for the fresh, new turf. And Kit-Ki! she lay in the sun and rolled and rolled until her fur was perfectly filthy. Nobody wanted to come away; Eileen made straight for the surf; but it was an arctic sea, and as soon as I found out what she was doing I made her come out.”

  “I should think you would,” he said; “nobody can do that and thrive.”

  “She seems to,” said Nina; “she was simply glorious after the swim, and I hated to put a stop to it. And you should see her drying her hair and helping Plunket to roll the tennis-courts — that hair of hers blowing like gold flames, and her sleeves rolled to her arm-pits! — and you should see her down in the dirt playing marbles with Billy and Drina — shooting away excitedly and exclaiming ‘fen-dubs!’ and ‘knuckle-down, Billy!’ — like any gamin you ever heard of. Totally unspoiled, Phil! — in spite of all the success of her first winter! — and do you know that she had no end of men seriously entangled? I don’t mind your knowing — but Sudbury Gray came to me, and I told him he’d better wait, but in he blundered and — he’s done for, now; and so are my plans. He’s an imbecile! And then, who on earth do you think came waddling into the arena? Percy Draymore! Phil, it was an anxious problem for me — and although I didn’t really want Eileen to marry into that set — still — with the Draymores’ position and tremendous influence — But she merely stared at him in cold astonishment. And there were others, too, callow for the most part. . . . Phil?”

  “What?” he said, laughing.

  His sister regarded him smilingly, then partly turned around and perched herself on the padded arm of a great chair.

  “Phil, am I garrulous?”

  “No, dear; you are far too reticent.”

  “Pooh! Suppose I do talk a great deal. I like to. Besides, I always have something interesting to say, don’t I?”

  “Always!”

  “Well, then, why do you look at me so humorously out of those nice gray eyes? . . . Phil, you are growing handsome! Do you know it?”

  “For Heaven’s sake!” he protested, red and uncomfortable, “what utter nonsense you—”

  “Of course it bores you to be told so; and you look so delightfully ashamed — like a reproved setter-puppy! Well, then, don’t laugh at my loquacity again! — because I’m going to say something else. . . . Come over here, Phil; no — close to me. I wish to put my hands on your shoulders; like that. Now look at me! Do you really love me?”

  “Sure thing, Ninette.”

  “And you know I adore you; don’t you?”

  “Madly, dear, but I forgive you.”

  “No; I want you to be serious. Because I’m pretty serious. See, I’m not smiling now; I don’t feel like it. Because it is a very, very important matter, Phil — this thing that has — has — almost happened. . . . It’s about Eileen. . . . And it really has happened.”

  “What has she done?” he asked curiously.

  His sister’s eyes were searching his very diligently, as though in quest of something elusive; and he gazed serenely back, the most unsuspicious of smiles touching his mouth.

  “Phil, dear, a young girl — a very young girl — is a vapid and uninteresting proposition to a man of thirty-five; isn’t she?”

  “Rather — in some ways.”

  “In what way is she not?”

  “Well — to me, for example — she is acceptable as children are acceptable — a blessed, sweet, clean relief from the women of the Fanes’ set, for example?”

  “Like Rosamund?”

  “Yes. And, Ninette, you and Austin seem to be drifting out of the old circles — the sort that you and I were accustomed to. You don’t mind my saying it, do you? — but there were so many people in this town who had something besides millions — amusing, well-bred, jolly people who had no end of good times, but who didn’t gamble and guzzle and stuff themselves and their friends — who were not eternally hanging around other people’s wives. Where are they, dear?”

  “If you are indicting all of my friends, Phil—”

  “I don’t mean all of your friends — only a small proportion — which, however, connects your circle with that deadly, idle, brainless bunch — the insolent chatterers at the opera, the gorged dowagers, the worn-out, passionless men, the enervated matrons of the summer capital, the chlorotic squatters on huge yachts, the speed-mad fugitives from the furies of ennui, the neurotic victims of mental cirrhosis, the jewelled animals whose moral code is the code of the barnyard — !”

  “Philip!”

  “Oh, I don’t mean that they are any more vicious than the idle and mentally incompetent in any walk of life. East Side, West Side, Harlem, Hell’s Kitchen, Fifth Avenue, Avenue A, and Abingdon Square — the denizens are only locally different, not specifically — the species remains unchanged. But everywhere, in every quarter and class and set and circle there is always the depraved; and the logical links that connect them are unbroken from Fifth Avenue to Chinatown, from the half-crazed extravagances of the Orchils’ Louis XIV ball to a New Year’s reception at the Haymarket where Troy Lil’s diamonds outshine the phony pearls of Hoboken Fanny, and Hatpin Molly leads the spiel with Clarence the Pig.”

  “Phil, you are too disgusting!”

  “I’m sorry — it isn’t very nice of me, I suppose. But, dear, I’m dead tired of moral squalor. I do like the brightness of things, too, but I don’t care for the phosphorescence of social decay.”

  “What in the world is the matter?” she exclaimed in dismay. “You are talking like the wildest socialist.”

  He laughed. “We have become a nation of what you call ‘socialists’ — though there are other names for us which mean more. I am not discontented, if that is what you mean; I am only impatient; and there is a difference. . . . And you have just asked me whether a young girl is interesting to me. I answer, yes, thank God! — for the cleaner, saner, happier hours I have spent this winter among my own kind have been spent where the younger set dominated.

  “They are good for us, Nina; they are the hope of our own kind — well-taught, well-drilled, wholesome even when negative in mind; and they come into our world so diffident yet so charmingly eager, so finished yet so unspoiled, that — how can they fail to touch a man and key him to his best? How can they fail to arouse in us the best of sympathy, of chivalry, of anxious solicitude lest they become some day as we are and stare at life out of the faded eyes of knowledge!”

  He laid his hands in hers, smiling a little at his own earnestness.

  “Alarmist? No! The younger set are better than those who bre
d them; and if, in time, they, too, fall short, they will not fall as far as their parents. And, in their turn, when they look around them at the younger set whom they have taught in the light and wisdom of their own shortcomings, they will see fresher, sweeter, lovelier young people than we see now. And it will continue so, dear, through the jolly generations. Life is all right, only, like art, it is very, very long sometimes.”

  “Good out of evil, Phil?” asked his sister, smiling; “innocence from the hotbeds of profligacy? purity out of vulgarity? sanity from hideous ostentation? Is that what you come preaching?”

  “Yes; and isn’t it curious! Look at that old harridan, Mrs. Sanxon Orchil! There are no more innocent and charming girls in Manhattan than her daughters. She knew enough to make them different; so does the majority of that sort. Look at the Cardwell girl and the Innis girl and the Craig girl! Look at Mrs. Delmour-Carnes’s children! And, Nina — even Molly Hatpin’s wastrel waif shall never learn what her mother knows if Destiny will help Madame Molly ever so little. And I think that Destiny is often very kind — even to the Hatpin offspring.”

  Nina sat silent on the padded arm of her chair, looking up at her brother.

  “Mad preacher! Mad Mullah! — dear, dear fellow!” she said tenderly; “all ills of the world canst thou discount, but not thine own.”

  “Those, too,” he insisted, laughing; “I had a talk with Boots — but, anyway, I’d already arrived at my own conclusion that — that — I’m rather overdoing this blighted business—”

  “Phil!” — in quick delight.

  “Yes,” he said, reddening nicely; “between you and Boots and myself I’ve decided that I’m going in for — for whatever any man is going in for — life! Ninette, life to the full and up to the hilt for mine! — not side-stepping anything. . . . Because I — because, Nina, it’s shameful for a man to admit to himself that he cannot make good, no matter how thoroughly he’s been hammered to the ropes. And so I’m starting out again — not hunting trouble like him of La Mancha — but, like him in this, that I shall not avoid it. . . . Is that plain to you, little sister?”