Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Which he did — after Selwyn had been seated for twenty minutes — strolling in clad only in silken lounging clothes, and belting about his waist, as he entered, the sash of a kimona, stiff with gold.

  His greeting was a pallid stare; but, as Selwyn made no motion to rise, he lounged over to a couch and, half reclining among the cushions, shot an insolent glance at Selwyn, then yawned and examined the bangles on his wrist.

  After a moment Selwyn said: “Mr. Ruthven, you are no doubt surprised that I am here—”

  “I’m not surprised if it’s my wife you’ve come to see,” drawled Ruthven. “If I’m the object of your visit, I confess to some surprise — as much as the visit is worth, and no more.”

  The vulgarity of the insult under the man’s own roof scarcely moved Selwyn to any deeper contempt, and certainly not to anger.

  “I did not come here to ask a favour of you,” he said coolly— “for that is out of the question, Mr. Ruthven. But I came to tell you that Mr. Erroll’s family has forbidden him to continue his gambling in this house and in your company anywhere or at any time.”

  “Most extraordinary,” murmured Ruthven, passing his ringed fingers over his minutely shaven face — that strange face of a boy hardened by the depravity of ages.

  “So I must request you,” continued Selwyn, “to refuse him the opportunity of gambling here. Will you do it — voluntarily?”

  “No.”

  “Then I shall use my judgment in the matter.”

  “And what may your judgment in the matter be?”

  “I have not yet decided; for one thing I might enter a complaint with the police that a boy is being morally and materially ruined in your private gambling establishment.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No. I will act, not threaten.”

  “Ah,” drawled Ruthven, “I may do the same the next time my wife spends the evening in your apartment.”

  “You lie,” said Selwyn in a voice made low by surprise.

  “Oh, no, I don’t. Very chivalrous of you — quite proper for you to deny it like a gentleman — but useless, quite useless. So the less said about invoking the law, the better for — some people. You’ll agree with me, I dare say. . . . And now, concerning your friend, Gerald Erroll — I have not the slightest desire to see him play cards. Whether or not he plays is a matter perfectly indifferent to me, and you had better understand it. But if you come here demanding that I arrange my guest-lists to suit you, you are losing time.”

  Selwyn, almost stunned at Ruthven’s knowledge of the episode in his rooms, had risen as he gave the man the lie direct.

  For an instant, now, as he stared at him, there was murder in his eye. Then the utter hopeless helplessness of his position overwhelmed him, as Ruthven, with danger written all over him, stood up, his soft smooth thumbs hooked in the glittering sash of his kimona.

  “Scowl if you like,” he said, backing away instinctively, but still nervously impertinent; “and keep your distance! If you’ve anything further to say to me, write it.” Then, growing bolder as Selwyn made no offensive move, “Write to me,” he repeated with a venomous smirk; “it’s safer for you to figure as my correspondent than as my wife’s co-respondent — L-let go of me! W-what the devil are you d-d-doing—”

  For Selwyn had him fast — one sinewy hand twisted in his silken collar, holding him squirming at arm’s length.

  “M-murder!” stammered Mr. Ruthven.

  “No,” said Selwyn, “not this time. But be very, very careful after this.”

  And he let him go with an involuntary shudder, and wiped his hands on his handkerchief.

  Ruthven stood quite still; and after a moment the livid terror died out in his face and a rushing flush spread over it — a strange, dreadful shade, curiously opaque; and he half turned, dizzily, hands outstretched for self-support.

  Selwyn coolly watched him as he sank on to the couch and sat huddled together and leaning forward, his soft, ringed fingers covering his impurpled face.

  Then Selwyn went away with a shrug of utter loathing; but after he had gone, and Ruthven’s servants had discovered him and summoned a physician, their master lay heavily amid his painted draperies and cushions, his congested features set, his eyes partly open and possessing sight, but the whites of them had disappeared and the eyes themselves, save for the pupils, were like two dark slits filled with blood.

  There was no doubt about it; the doctors, one and all, knew their business when they had so often cautioned Mr. Ruthven to avoid sudden and excessive emotions.

  That night Selwyn wrote briefly to Mrs. Ruthven:

  “I saw your husband this afternoon. He is at liberty to inform you of what passed. But in case he does not, there is one detail which you ought to know: your husband believes that you once paid a visit to my apartments. It is unlikely that he will repeat the accusation and I think there is no occasion for you to worry. However, it is only proper that you should know this — which is my only excuse for writing you a letter that requires no acknowledgment. Very truly yours,

  “PHILIP SELWYN.”

  To this letter she wrote an excited and somewhat incoherent reply; and rereading it in troubled surprise, he began to recognise in it something of the strange, illogical, impulsive attitude which had confronted him in the first weeks of his wedded life.

  Here was the same minor undertone of unrest sounding ominously through every line; the same illogical, unhappy attitude which implied so much and said so little, leaving him uneasy and disconcerted, conscious of the vague recklessness and veiled reproach — dragging him back from the present through the dead years to confront once more the old pain, the old bewilderment at the hopeless misunderstanding between them.

  He wrote in answer:

  “For the first time in my life I am going to write you some unpleasant truths. I cannot comprehend what you have written; I cannot interpret what you evidently imagine I must divine in these pages — yet, as I read, striving to understand, all the old familiar pain returns — the hopeless attempt to realise wherein I failed in what you expected of me.

  “But how can I, now, be held responsible for your unhappiness and unrest — for the malicious attitude, as you call it, of the world toward you? Years ago you felt that there existed some occult coalition against you, and that I was either privy to it or indifferent. I was not indifferent, but I did not believe there existed any reason for your suspicions. This was the beginning of my failure to understand you; I was sensible enough that we were unhappy, yet could not see any reason for it — could see no reason for the increasing restlessness and discontent which came over you like successive waves following some brief happy interval when your gaiety and beauty and wit fairly dazzled me and everybody who came near you. And then, always hateful and irresistible, followed the days of depression, of incomprehensible impulses, of that strange unreasoning resentment toward me.

  “What could I do? I don’t for a moment say that there was nothing I might have done. Certainly there must have been something; but I did not know what. And often in my confusion and bewilderment I was quick-tempered, impatient to the point of exasperation — so utterly unable was I to understand wherein I was failing to make you contented.

  “Of course I could not shirk or avoid field duty or any of the details which so constantly took me away from you. Also I began to understand your impatience of garrison life, of the monotony of the place, of the climate, of the people. But all this, which I could not help, did not account for those dreadful days together when I could see that every minute was widening the breach between us.

  “Alixe — your letter has brought it all back, vivid, distressing, exasperating; and this time I know that I could have done nothing to render you unhappy, because the time when I was responsible for such matters is past.

  “And this — forgive me if I say it — arouses a doubt in me — the first honest doubt I have had of my own unshared culpability. Perhaps after all a little more was due from you t
han what you brought to our partnership — a little more patience, a little more appreciation of my own inexperience and of my efforts to make you happy. You were, perhaps, unwittingly exacting — even a little bit selfish. And those sudden, impulsive caprices for a change of environment — an escape from the familiar — were they not rather hard on me who could do nothing — who had no choice in the matter of obedience to my superiors?

  “Again and again I asked you to go to some decent climate and wait for me until I could get leave. I stood ready and willing to make any arrangement for you, and you made no decision.

  “Then when Barnard’s command moved out we had our last distressing interview. And, if that night I spoke of your present husband and asked you to be a little wiser and use a little more discretion to avoid malicious comment — it was not because I dreamed of distrusting you — it was merely for your own guidance and because you had so often complained of other people’s gossip about you.

  “To say I was stunned, crushed, when I learned of what had happened in my absence, is to repeat a trite phrase. What it cost me is of no consequence now; what it is now costing you I cannot help.

  “Yet, your letter, in every line, seems to imply some strange responsibility on my part for what you speak of as the degrading position you now occupy.

  “Degradation or not — let us leave that aside; you cannot now avoid being his wife. But as for any hostile attitude of society in your regard — any league or coalition to discredit you — that is not apparent to me. Nor can it occur if your personal attitude toward the world is correct. Discretion and circumspection, a happy, confident confronting of life — these, and a wise recognition of conditions, constitute sufficient safeguard for a woman in your delicately balanced position.

  “And now, one thing more. You ask me to meet you at Sherry’s for a conference. I don’t care to, Alixe. There is nothing to be said except what can be written on letter-paper. And I can see neither the necessity nor the wisdom of our writing any more letters.”

  For a few days no reply came; then he received such a strange, unhappy, and desperate letter, that, astonished, alarmed, and apprehensive, he went straight to his sister, who had run up to town for the day from Silverside, and who had telephoned him to take her somewhere for luncheon.

  Nina appeared very gay and happy and youthful in her spring plumage, but she exclaimed impatiently at his tired and careworn pallor; and when a little later they were seated tête-à-tête in the rococo dining-room of a popular French restaurant, she began to urge him to return with her, insisting that a week-end at Silverside was what he needed to avert physical disintegration.

  “What is there to keep you in town?” she demanded, breaking bits from the stick of crisp bread. “The children have been clamouring for you day and night, and Eileen has been expecting a letter — You promised to write her, Phil — !”

  “I’m going to write to her,” he said impatiently; “wait a moment, Nina — don’t speak of anything pleasant or — or intimate just now — because — because I’ve got to bring up another matter — something not very pleasant to me or to you. May I begin?”

  “What is it, Phil?” she asked, her quick, curious eyes intent on his troubled face.

  “It is about — Alixe.”

  “What about her?” returned his sister calmly.

  “You knew her in school — years ago. You have always known her—”

  “Yes.”

  “You — did you ever visit her? — stay at the Varians’ house?”

  “Yes.”

  “In — in her own home in Westchester?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a silence; his eyes shifted to his plate; remained fixed as he said:

  “Then you knew her — father?”

  “Yes, Phil,” she said quietly, “I knew Mr. Varian.”

  “Was there anything — anything unusual — about him — in those days?”

  “Have you heard that for the first time?” asked his sister.

  He looked up: “Yes. What was it, Nina?”

  She became busy with her plate for a while; he sat rigid, patient, one hand resting on his claret-glass. And presently she said without meeting his eyes:

  “It was even farther back — her grandparents — one of them—” She lifted her head slowly— “That is why it so deeply concerned us, Phil, when we heard of your marriage.”

  “What concerned you?”

  “The chance of inheritance — the risk of the taint — of transmitting it. Her father’s erratic brilliancy became more than eccentricity before I knew him. I would have told you that had I dreamed that you ever could have thought of marrying Alixe Varian. But how could I know you would meet her out there in the Orient! It was — your cable to us was like a thunderbolt. . . . And when she — she left you so suddenly — Phil, dear — I feared the true reason — the only possible reason that could be responsible for such an insane act.”

  “What was the truth about her father?” he said doggedly. “He was eccentric; was he ever worse than that?”

  “The truth was that he became mentally irresponsible before his death.”

  “You know this?”

  “Alixe told me when we were schoolgirls. And for days she was haunted with the fear of what might one day be her inheritance. That is all I know, Phil.”

  He nodded and for a while made some pretence of eating, but presently leaned back and looked at his sister out of dazed eyes.

  “Do you suppose,” he said heavily, “that she was not entirely responsible when — when she went away?”

  “I have wondered,” said Nina simply. “Austin believes it.”

  “But — but — how in God’s name could that be possible? She was so brilliant — so witty, so charmingly and capriciously normal—”

  “Her father was brilliant and popular — when he was young. Austin knew him, Phil. I have often, often wondered whether Alixe realises what she is about. Her restless impulses, her intervals of curious resentment — so many things which I remember and which, now, I cannot believe were entirely normal. . . . It is a dreadful surmise to make about anybody so youthful, so pretty, so lovable — and yet, it is the kindest way to account for her strange treatment of you—”

  “I can’t believe it,” he said, staring at vacancy. “I refuse to.” And, thinking of her last frightened and excited letter imploring an interview with him and giving the startling reason: “What a scoundrel that fellow Ruthven is,” he said with a shudder.

  “Why, what has he—”

  “Nothing. I can’t discuss it, Nina—”

  “Please tell me, Phil!”

  “There is nothing to tell.”

  She said deliberately: “I hope there is not, Phil. Nor do I credit any mischievous gossip which ventures to link my brother’s name with the name of Mrs. Ruthven.”

  He paid no heed to what she hinted, and he was still thinking of Ruthven when he said: “The most contemptible and cowardly thing a man can do is to fail a person dependent on him — when that person is in prospective danger. The dependence, the threatened helplessness must appeal to any man! How can he, then, fail to stand by a person in trouble — a person linked to him by every tie, every obligation. Why — why to fail at such a time is dastardly — and to — to make a possible threatened infirmity a reason for abandoning a woman is monstrous — !”

  “Phil! I never for a moment supposed that even if you suspected Alixe to be not perfectly responsible you would have abandoned her—”

  “I? Abandon her!” He laughed bitterly. “I was not speaking of myself,” he said. . . . And to himself he wondered: “Was it that — after all? Is that the key to my dreadful inability to understand? I cannot — I cannot accept it. I know her; it was not that; it — it must not be!”

  And that night he wrote to her:

  “If he threatens you with divorce on such a ground he himself is likely to be adjudged mentally unsound. It was a brutal, stupid threat, nothing more; and his insult to y
our father’s memory was more brutal still. Don’t be stampeded by such threats. Disprove them by your calm self-control under provocation; disprove them by your discretion and self-confidence. Give nobody a single possible reason for gossip. And above all, Alixe, don’t become worried and morbid over anything you might dread as inheritance, for you are as sound to-day as you were when I first met you; and you shall not doubt that you could ever be anything else. Be the woman you can be! Show the pluck and courage to make the very best out of life. I have slowly learned to attempt it; and it is not difficult if you convince yourself that it can be done.”

  To this she answered the next day:

  “I will do my best. There is danger and treachery everywhere; and if it becomes unendurable I shall put an end to it in one way or another. As for his threat — incident on my admitting that I did go to your room, and defying him to dare believe evil of me for doing it — I can laugh at it now — though, when I wrote you, I was terrified — remembering how mentally broken my father was when he died.

  “But, as you say, I am sound, body and mind. I know it; I don’t doubt it for one moment — except — at long intervals when, apropos of nothing, a faint sensation of dread comes creeping.

  “But I am sound! I know it so absolutely that I sometimes wonder at my own perfect sanity and understanding; and so clearly, so faultlessly, so precisely does my mind work that — and this I never told you — I am often and often able to detect mental inadequacy in many people around me — the slightest deviation from the normal, the least degree of mental instability. Phil, so sensitive to extraneous impression is my mind that you would be astonished to know how instantly perceptible to me is mental degeneration in other people. And it would amaze you, too, if I should tell you how many, many people you know are, in some degree, more or less insane.

  “But there is no use in going into such matters; all I meant to convey to you was that I am not frightened now at any threat of that sort from him.

  “I don’t know what passed between you and him; he won’t tell me; but I do know from the servants that he has been quite ill — I was in Westchester that night — and that something happened to his eyes — they were dreadful for a while. I imagine it has something to do with veins and arteries; and it’s understood that he’s to avoid sudden excitement.