Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “I saw a rabbit at Silverside!” said Billy, “but do you know, Uncle Philip, that hunting pack of ours is no good! Not one dog paid any attention to the rabbit though Drina and I did our best — didn’t we, Drina?”

  “You should have seen them,” murmured Eileen, leaning close to whisper to Selwyn; “the children had fits when the rabbit came hopping across the road out of the Hither Woods. But the dogs all ran madly the other way, and I thought Billy would die of mortification.”

  Nina stood up, waving a crumpet which she had just rescued from Winthrop. “Hark!” she said, “there’s the nursery curfew! — and not one wretched infant bathed! Billy! March bathward, my son! Drina, sweetheart, take command. Prune soufflé for the obedient, dry bread for rebels! Come, children! — don’t let mother speak to you twice.”

  “Let’s go down to the library,” said Eileen to Selwyn— “you are dining with us, of course. . . . What? Yes, indeed, you are. The idea of your attempting to escape to some dreadful club and talk man-talk all the evening when I have not begun to tell you what I did at Silverside!”

  They left the nursery together and descended the stairs to the library. Austin had just come in, and he looked up from his solitary cup of tea as they entered:

  “Hello, youngsters! What conspiracy are you up to now? I suppose you sniffed the tea and have come to deprive me. By the way, Phil, I hear that you’ve sprung the trap on those Siowitha people.”

  “Neergard has, I believe.”

  “Well, isn’t it all one?”

  “No, it is not!” retorted Selwyn so bluntly that Eileen turned from the window at a sound in his voice which she had never before heard.

  “Oh!” Austin stared over his suspended teacup, then drained it. “Trouble with our friend Julius?” he inquired.

  “No trouble. I merely severed my connection with him.”

  “Ah! When?”

  “This morning.”

  “In that case,” said Austin, laughing, “I’ve a job for you—”

  “No, old fellow; and thank you with all my heart. I’ve half made up my mind to live on my income for a while and take up that Chaosite matter again—”

  “And blow yourself to smithereens! Why spatter Nature thus?”

  “No fear,” said Selwyn, laughing. “And, if it promises anything, I may come to you for advice on how to start it commercially.”

  “If it doesn’t start you heavenward you shall have my advice from a safe distance. I’ll telegraph it,” said Austin. “But, if it’s not personal, why on earth have you shaken Neergard?”

  And Selwyn answered simply: “I don’t like him. That is the reason, Austin.”

  The children from the head of the stairs were now shouting demands for their father; and Austin rose, pretending to grumble:

  “Those confounded kids! A man is never permitted a moment to himself. Is Nina up there, Eileen! Oh, all right. Excuses et cetera; I’ll be back pretty soon. You’ll stay to dine, Phil?”

  “I don’t think so—”

  “Yes, he will stay,” said Eileen calmly.

  And, when Austin had gone, she walked swiftly over to where Selwyn was standing, and looked him directly in the eyes.

  “Is all well with Gerald?”

  “Y-yes, I suppose so.”

  “Is he still with Neergard & Co.?”

  “Yes, Eileen.”

  “And you don’t like Mr. Neergard?”

  “N-no.”

  “Then Gerald must not remain.”

  He said very quietly: “Eileen, Gerald no longer takes me into his confidence. I am afraid — I know, in fact — that I have little influence with him now. I am sorry; it hurts; but your brother is his own master, and he is at liberty to choose his own friends and his own business policy. I cannot influence him; I have learned that thoroughly. Better that I retain what real friendship he has left for me than destroy it by any attempt, however gentle, to interfere in his affairs.”

  She stood before him, straight, slender, her face grave and troubled.

  “I cannot understand,” she said, “how he could refuse to listen to a man like you.”

  “A man like me, Eileen? Well, if I were worth listening to, no doubt he’d listen. But the fact remains that I have not been able to hold his interest—”

  “Don’t give him up,” she said, still looking straight into his eyes. “If you care for me, don’t give him up.”

  “Care for you, Eileen! You know I do.”

  “Yes, I know it. So you will not give up Gerald, will you? He is — is only a boy — you know that; you know he has been — perhaps — indiscreet. But Gerald is only a boy. Stand by him, Captain Selwyn; because Austin does not know how to manage him — really he doesn’t. . . . There has been another unpleasant scene between them; Gerald told me.”

  “Did he tell you why, Eileen?”

  “Yes. He told me that he had played cards for money, and he was in debt. I know that sounds — almost disgraceful; but is not his need of help all the greater?”

  Selwyn’s eyes suddenly narrowed: “Did you help him out, this time?”

  “I — I — how do you mean, Captain Selwyn?” But the splendid colour in her face confirmed his certainty that she had used her own resources to help her brother pay the gambling debt; and he turned away his eyes, angry and silent.

  “Yes,” she said under her breath, “I did aid him. What of it? Could I refuse?”

  “I know. Don’t aid him again — that way.”

  She stared: “You mean—”

  “Send him to me, child. I understand such matters; I — that is—” and in sudden exasperation inexplicable, for the moment, to them both: “Don’t touch such matters again! They soil, I tell you. I will not have Gerald go to you about such things!”

  “My own brother! What do you mean?”

  “I mean that, brother or not, he shall not bring such matters near you!”

  “Am I to count for nothing, then, when Gerald is in trouble?” she demanded, flushing up.

  “Count! Count!” he repeated impatiently; “of course you count! Good heavens! it’s women like you who count — and no others — not one single other sort is of the slightest consequence in the world or to it. Count? Child, you control us all; everything of human goodness, of human hope hinges and hangs on you — is made possible, inevitable, because of you! And you ask me whether you count! You, who control us all, and always will — as long as you are you!”

  She had turned a little pale under his vehemence, watching him out of wide and beautiful eyes.

  What she understood — how much of his incoherence she was able to translate, is a question; but in his eyes and voice there was something simpler to divine; and she stood very still while his roused emotions swept her till her heart leaped up and every vein in her ran fiery pride.

  “I am — overwhelmed . . . I did not consider that I counted — so vitally — in the scheme of things. But I must try to — if you believe all this of me — only you must teach me how to count for something in the world. Will you?”

  “Teach you, Eileen. What winning mockery! I teach you? Well, then — I teach you this — that a man’s blunder is best healed by a man’s sympathy; . . . I will stand by Gerald as long as he will let me do so — not alone for your sake, nor only for his, but for my own. I promise you that. Are you contented?”

  “Yes.”

  She slowly raised one hand, laying it fearlessly in both of his.

  “He is all I have left,” she said. “You know that.”

  “I know, child.”

  “Then — thank you, Captain Selwyn.”

  “No; I thank you for giving me this charge. It means that a man must raise his own standard of living before he can accept such responsibility. . . . You endow me with all that a man ought to be; and my task is doubled; for it is not only Gerald but I myself who require surveillance.”

  He looked up, smilingly serious: “Such women as you alone can fit your brother and me for an endless guard
duty over the white standard you have planted on the outer walls of the world.”

  “You say things to me — sometimes—” she faltered, “that almost hurt with the pleasure they give.”

  “Did that give you pleasure?”

  “Y-yes; the surprise of it was almost too — too keen. I wish you would not — but I am glad you did. . . . You see” — dropping into a great velvet chair— “having been of no serious consequence to anybody for so many years — to be told, suddenly, that I — that I count so vitally with men — a man like you—”

  She sank back, drew one small hand across her eyes, and rested a moment; then leaning forward, she set her elbow on one knee and bracketed her chin between forefinger and thumb.

  “You don’t know,” she said, smiling faintly, “but, oh, the exalted dreams young girls indulge in! And one and all centre around some power-inspired attitude of our own when a great crisis comes. And most of all we dream of counting heavily; and more than all we clothe ourselves in the celestial authority which dares to forgive. . . . Is it not pathetically amusing — the mental process of a young girl? — and the paramount theme of her dream is power! — such power as will permit the renunciation of vengeance; such power as will justify the happiness of forgiving? . . . And every dream of hers is a dream of power; and, often, the happiness of forbearing to wield it. All dreams lead to it, all mean it; for instance, half-awake, then faintly conscious in slumber, I lie dreaming of power — always power; the triumph of attainment, of desire for wisdom and knowledge satisfied. I dream of friendships — wonderful intimacies exquisitely satisfying; I dream of troubles, and my moral power to sweep them out of existence; I dream of self-sacrifice, and of the spiritual power to endure it; I dream — I dream — sometimes — of more material power — of splendours and imposing estates, of a paradise all my own. And when I have been selfishly happy long enough, I dream of a vast material power fitting me to wipe poverty from the world; I plan it out in splendid generalities, sometimes in minute detail. . . . Of men, we naturally dream; but vaguely, in a curious and confused way. . . . Once, when I was fourteen, I saw a volunteer regiment passing; and it halted for a while in front of our house; and a brilliant being on a black horse turned lazily in his saddle and glanced up at our window. . . . Captain Selwyn, it is quite useless for you to imagine what fairy scenes, what wondrous perils, what happy adventures that gilt-corded adjutant and I went through in my dreams. Marry him? Indeed I did, scores of times. Rescue him? Regularly. He was wounded, he was attacked by fevers unnumbered, he fled in peril of his life, he vegetated in countless prisons, he was misunderstood, he was a martyr to suspicion, he was falsely accused, falsely condemned. And then, just before the worst occurred, I appear! — the inevitable I.”

  She dropped back into the chair, laughing. Her colour was high, her eyes brilliant; she laid her arms along the velvet arms of the chair and looked at him.

  “I’ve not had you to talk to for a whole week,” she said; “and you’ll let me; won’t you? I can’t help it, anyway, because as soon as I see you — crack! a million thoughts wake up in me and clipper-clapper goes my tongue. . . . You are very good for me. You are so thoroughly satisfactory — except when your eyes narrow in that dreadful far-away gaze — which I’ve forbidden, you understand. . . . What have you done to your moustache?”

  “Clipped it.”

  “Oh, I don’t like it too short. Can you get hold of it to pull it? It’s the only thing that helps you in perplexity to solve problems. You’d be utterly helpless, mentally, without your moustache. . . . When are we to take up our Etruscan symbols again? — or was it Evans’s monograph we were laboriously dissecting? Certainly it was; don’t you remember the Hittite hieroglyph of Jerabis? — and how you and I fought over those wretched floral symbols? You don’t? And it was only a week ago? . . . And listen! Down at Silverside I’ve been reading the most delicious thing — the Mimes of Herodas! — oh, so charmingly quaint, so perfectly human, that it seems impossible that they were written two thousand years ago. There’s a maid, in one scene, Threissa, who is precisely like anybody’s maid — and an old lady, Gyllis — perfectly human, and not Greek, but Yankee of to-day! Shall we reread it together? — when you come down to stay with us at Silverside?”

  “Indeed we shall,” he said, smiling; “which also reminds me—”

  He drew from his breast-pocket a thin, flat box, turned it round and round, glanced at her, balancing it teasingly in the palm of his hand.

  “Is it for me? Really? Oh, please don’t be provoking! Is it really for me? Then give it to me this instant!”

  “Turning, looked straight at Selwyn.”

  He dropped the box into the pink hollow of her supplicating palms. For a moment she was very busy with the tissue-paper; then:

  “Oh! it is perfectly sweet of you!” turning the small book bound in heavy Etruscan gold; “whatever can it be?” and, rising, she opened it, stepping to the window so that she could see.

  Within, the pages were closely covered with the minute, careful handwriting of her father; it was the first note-book he ever kept; and Selwyn had had it bound for her in gold.

  For an instant she gazed, breathless, lips parted; then slowly she placed the yellowed pages against her lips and, turning, looked straight at Selwyn, the splendour of her young eyes starred with tears.

  CHAPTER VII

  ERRANDS AND LETTERS

  Alixe Ruthven had not yet dared tell Selwyn that her visit to his rooms was known to her husband. Sooner or later she meant to tell him; it was only fair to him that he should be prepared for anything that might happen; but as yet, though her first instinct, born of sheer fright, urged her to seek instant council with Selwyn, fear of him was greater than the alarm caused her by her husband’s knowledge.

  She was now afraid of her husband’s malice, afraid of Selwyn’s opinion, afraid of herself most of all, for she understood herself well enough to realise that, if conditions became intolerable, the first and easiest course out of it would be the course she’d take — wherever it led, whatever it cost, or whoever was involved.

  In addition to her dread and excitement, she was deeply chagrined and unhappy; and, although Jack Ruthven did not again refer to the matter — indeed appeared to have forgotten it — her alarm and humiliation remained complete, for Gerald now came and played and went as he chose; and in her disconcerted cowardice she dared not do more than plead with Gerald in secret, until she began to find the emotion consequent upon such intimacy unwise for them both.

  Neergard, too, was becoming a familiar figure in her drawing-room; and, though at first she detested him, his patience and unfailing good spirits, and his unconcealed admiration for her softened her manner toward him to the point of toleration.

  And Neergard, from his equivocal footing in the house of Ruthven, obtained another no less precarious in the house of Fane — all in the beginning on a purely gaming basis. However, Gerald had already proposed him for the Stuyvesant and Proscenium clubs; and, furthermore, a stormy discussion was now in progress among the members of the famous Siowitha over an amazing proposition from their treasurer, Jack Ruthven.

  This proposal was nothing less than to admit Neergard to membership in that wealthy and exclusive country club, as a choice of the lesser evil; for it appeared, according to Ruthven, that Neergard, if admitted, was willing to restore to the club, free of rent, the thousands of acres vitally necessary to the club’s existence as a game preserve, merely retaining the title to these lands for himself.

  Draymore was incensed at the proposal, Harmon, Orchil, and Fane were disgustedly non-committal, but Phoenix Mottly was perhaps the angriest man on Long Island.

  “In the name of decency, Jack,” he said, “what are you dreaming of? Is it not enough that this man, Neergard, holds us up once? Do I understand that he has the impudence to do it again with your connivance? Are you going to let him sandbag us into electing him? Is that the sort of hold-up you stand for? Well, then, I tell you I�
��ll never vote for him. I’d rather see these lakes and streams of ours dry up; I’d rather see the last pheasant snared and the last covey leave for the other end of the island, than buy off that Dutchman with a certificate of membership in the Siowitha!”

  “In that case,” retorted Ruthven, “we’d better wind up our affairs and make arrangements for an auctioneer.”

  “All right; wind up and be damned!” said Mottly; “there’ll be at least sufficient self-respect left in the treasury to go round.”

  Which was all very fine, and Mottly meant it at the time; but, outside of the asset of self-respect, there was too much money invested in the lands, plant, and buildings, in the streams, lakes, hatcheries, and forests of the Siowitha. The enormously wealthy seldom stand long upon dignity if that dignity is going to be very expensive. Only the poor can afford disastrous self-respect.

  So the chances were that Neergard would become a member — which was why he had acquired the tract — and the price he would have to pay was not only in taxes upon the acreage, but, secretly, a solid sum in addition to little Mr. Ruthven whom he was binding to him by every tie he could pay for.

  Neergard did not regret the expense. He had long since discounted the cost; and he also continued to lose money at the card-table to those who could do him the most good.

  Away somewhere in the back of his round, squat, busy head he had an inkling that some day he would even matters with some people. Meanwhile he was patient, good-humoured, amusing when given a chance, and, as the few people he knew found out, inventive and resourceful in suggesting new methods of time-killing to any wealthy and fashionable victim of a vacant mind.

  And as this faculty has always been the real key to the inner Temple of the Ten Thousand Disenchantments, the entrance of Mr. Neergard appeared to be only a matter of time and opportunity, and his ultimate welcome at the naked altar a conclusion foregone.