Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  But of these things he knew nothing; and he went wearily to his lodgings and climbed the musty stairs, and sat down in his old attitude before the table and the blank wall behind it, waiting for the magic frescoes to appear in all the vague loveliness of their hues and dyes, painting for him upon his chamber-walls the tinted paradise now lost to him for ever.

  CHAPTER XI

  HIS OWN WAY

  The winter promised to be a busy one for Selwyn. If at first he had had any dread of enforced idleness, that worry, at least, vanished before the first snow flew. For there came to him a secret communication from the Government suggesting, among other things, that he report, three times a week, at the proving grounds on Sandy Hook; that experiments with Chaosite as a bursting charge might begin as soon as he was ready with his argon primer; that officers connected with the bureau of ordnance and the marine laboratory had recommended the advisability of certain preliminary tests, and that the general staff seemed inclined to consider the matter seriously.

  This meant work — hard, constant, patient work. But it did not mean money to help him support the heavy burdens he had assumed. If there were to be any returns, all that part of it lay in the future, and the future could not help him now.

  Yet, unless still heavier burdens were laid upon him, he could hold on for the present; his bedroom cost him next to nothing; breakfast he cooked for himself, luncheon he dispensed with, and he dined at random — anywhere that appeared to promise seclusion, cheapness, and immunity from anybody he had ever known.

  A minute and rather finicky care of his wardrobe had been second nature to him — the habits of a soldier systematised the routine — and he was satisfied that his clothes would outlast winter demands, although laundry expenses appalled him.

  As for his clubs, he hung on to them, knowing the importance of appearances in a town which is made up of them. But this expense was all he could carry, for the demands of the establishment at Edgewater were steadily increasing with the early coming of winter; he was sent for oftener, and a physician was now in practically continual attendance.

  Also, three times a week he boarded the Sandy Hook boat, returning always at night because he dared not remain at the reservation lest an imperative telegram from Edgewater find him unable to respond.

  So, when in November the first few hurrying snow-flakes whirled in among the city’s canons of masonry and iron, Selwyn had already systematised his winter schedule; and when Nina opened her house, returning from Lenox with Eileen to do so, she found that Selwyn had made his own arrangements for the winter, and that, according to the programme, neither she nor anybody else was likely to see him oftener than one evening in a week.

  To Boots she complained bitterly, having had visions of Selwyn and Gerald as permanent fixtures of family support during the season now imminent.

  “I cannot understand,” she said, “why Philip is acting this way. He need not work like that; there is no necessity, because he has a comfortable income. If he is determined to maintain a stuffy apartment somewhere, of course I won’t insist on his coming to us as he ought to, but to abandon us in this manner makes me almost indignant. Besides, it’s having anything but a salutary effect on Eileen.”

  “What effect is it having on Eileen?” inquired Boots curiously.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Nina, coming perilously close to a pout; “but I see symptoms — indeed I do, Boots! — symptoms of shirking the winter’s routine. It’s to be a gay season, too, and it’s only her second. The idea of a child of that age informing me that she’s had enough of the purely social phases of this planet! Did you ever hear anything like it? One season, if you please — and she finds it futile, stale, and unprofitable to fulfil the duties expected of her!”

  Boots began to laugh, but it was no laughing matter to Nina, and she said so vigorously.

  “It’s Philip’s fault. If he’d stand by us this winter she’d go anywhere — and enjoy it, too. Besides, he’s the only man able to satisfy the blue-stocking in her between dances. But he’s got this obstinate mania for seclusion, and he seldom comes near us, and it’s driving Eileen into herself, Boots — and every day I catch her hair slumping over her ears — and once I discovered a lead-pencil behind ‘em! — and a monograph on the Ming dynasty in her lap, all marked up with notes! Oh, Boots! Boots! I’ve given up all hopes of that brother of mine for her — but she could marry anybody, if she chose — anybody! — and she could twist the entire social circus into a court of her own and dominate everything. Everybody knows it; everybody says it! . . . And look at her! — indifferent, listless, scarcely civil any longer to her own sort, but galvanised into animation the moment some impossible professor or artist or hairy scientist flutters batlike into a drawing-room where he doesn’t belong unless he’s hired to be amusing! And that sounds horridly snobbish, I know; I am a snob about Eileen, but not about myself because it doesn’t harm me to make round wonder-eyes at a Herr Professor or gaze intensely into the eyes of an artist when he’s ornamental; it doesn’t make my hair come down over my ears to do that sort of thing, and it doesn’t corrupt me into slinking off to museum lectures or spending mornings prowling about the Society Library or the Chinese jades in the Metropolitan—”

  Boots’s continuous and unfeigned laughter checked the pretty, excited little matron, and after a moment she laughed, too.

  “Dear Boots,” she said, “can’t you help me a little? I really am serious. I don’t know what to do with the girl. Philip never comes near us — once a week for an hour or two, which is nothing — and the child misses him. There — the murder is out! Eileen misses him. Oh, she doesn’t say so — she doesn’t hint it, or look it; but I know her; I know. She misses him; she’s lonely. And what to do about it I don’t know, Boots, I don’t know.”

  Lansing had ceased laughing. He had been indulging in tea — a shy vice of his which led him to haunt houses where that out-of-fashion beverage might still be had. And now he sat, cup suspended, saucer held meekly against his chest, gazing out at the pelting snow-flakes.

  “Boots, dear,” said Nina, who adored him, “tell me what to do. Tell me what has gone amiss between my brother and Eileen. Something has. And whatever it is, it began last autumn — that day when — you remember the incident?”

  Boots nodded.

  “Well, it seemed to upset everybody, somehow. Philip left the next day; do you remember? And Eileen has never been quite the same. Of course, I don’t ascribe it to that unpleasant episode — even a young girl gets over a shock in a day. But the — the change — or whatever it is — dated from that night. . . . They — Philip and Eileen — had been inseparable. It was good for them — for her, too. And as for Phil — why, he looked about twenty-one! . . . Boots, I — I had hoped — expected — and I was right! They were on the verge of it!”

  “I think so, too,” he said.

  She looked up curiously.

  “Did Philip ever say—”

  “No; he never says, you know.”

  “I thought that men — close friends — sometimes did.”

  “Sometimes — in romantic fiction. Phil wouldn’t; nor,” he added smilingly, “would I.”

  “How do you know, Boots?” she asked, leaning back to watch him out of mischievous eyes. “How do you know what you’d do if you were in love — with Gladys, for example?”

  “I know perfectly well,” he said, “because I am.”

  “In love!” incredulously.

  “Of course.”

  “Oh — you mean Drina.”

  “Who else?” he asked lightly.

  “I thought you were speaking seriously. I” — all her latent instinct for such meddling aroused— “I thought perhaps you meant Gladys.”

  “Gladys who?” he asked blandly.

  “Gladys Orchil, silly! People said—”

  “Oh, Lord!” he exclaimed; “if people ‘said,’ then it’s all over. Nina! do I look like a man on a still hunt for a million?”

  “G
ladys is a beauty!” retorted Nina indignantly.

  “With the intellect of a Persian kitten,” he nodded. “I — that was not a nice thing to say. I’m sorry. I’m ashamed. But, do you know, I have come to regard my agreement with Drina so seriously that I take absolutely no interest in anybody else.”

  “Try to be serious, Boots,” said Nina. “There are dozens of nice girls you ought to be agreeable to. Austin and I were saying only last night what a pity it is that you don’t find either of the Minster twins interesting—”

  “I might find them compoundly interesting,” he admitted, “but unfortunately there’s no chance in this country for multiple domesticity and the simpler pleasures of a compound life. It’s no use, Nina; I’m not going to marry any girl for ever so long — anyway, not until Drina releases me on her eighteenth birthday. Hello! — somebody’s coming — and I’m off!”

  “I’m not at home; don’t go!” said Nina, laying one hand on his arm to detain him as a card was brought up. “Oh, it’s only Rosamund Fane! I did promise to go to the Craigs’ with her. . . . Do you mind if she comes up?”

  “Not if you don’t,” said Boots blandly. He could not endure Rosamund and she detested him; and Nina, who was perfectly aware of this, had just enough of perversity in her to enjoy their meeting.

  Rosamund came in breezily, sables powdered with tiny flecks of snow, cheeks like damask roses, eyes of turquoise.

  “How d’ye do!” she nodded, greeting Boots askance as she closed with Nina. “I came, you see, but do you want to be jammed and mauled and trodden on at the Craigs’? No? That’s perfect! — neither do I. Where is the adorable Eileen? Nobody sees her any more.”

  “She was at the Delmour-Carnes’s yesterday.”

  “Was she? Curious I didn’t see her. Tea? With gratitude, dear, if it’s Scotch.”

  She sat erect, the furs sliding to the back of the chair, revealing the rather accented details of her perfectly turned figure; and rolling up her gloves she laid her pretty head on one side and considered Boots with very bright and malicious eyes.

  “They say,” she said, smiling, “that some very heavy play goes on in that cunning little new house of yours, Mr. Lansing.”

  “Really?” he asked blandly.

  “Yes; and I’m wondering if it is true.”

  “I shouldn’t think you’d care, Mrs. Fane, as long as it makes a good story.”

  Rosamund flushed. Then, always alive to humour, laughed frankly.

  “What a nasty thing to say to a woman!” she observed; “it fairly reeks impertinence. Mr. Lansing, you don’t like me very well, do you?”

  “I dare not,” he said, “because you are married. If you were only free a vinculo matrimonii—”

  Rosamund laughed again, and sat stroking her muff and smiling. “Curious, isn’t it?” she said to Nina— “the inborn antipathy of two agreeable human bipeds for one another. Similis simili gaudet — as my learned friend will admit. But with us it’s the old, old case of that eminent practitioner, the late Dr. Fell. Esto perpetua! Oh, well! We can’t help it, can we, Mr. Lansing?” And again to Nina: “Dear, have you heard anything about Alixe Ruthven? I think it is the strangest thing that nobody seems to know where she is. And all anybody can get out of Jack is that she’s in a nerve factory — or some such retreat — and a perfect wreck. She might as well be dead, you know.”

  “In that case,” observed Lansing, “it might be best to shift the centre of gossip. De mortuis nil nisi bonum — which is simple enough for anybody to comprehend.”

  “That is rude, Mr. Lansing,” flashed out Rosamund; and to his astonishment he saw the tears start to her eyes.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said sulkily.

  “You do well to. I care more for Alixe Ruthven than — than you give me credit for caring about anybody. People are never wholly worthless, Mr. Lansing — only the very young think that. Give me credit for one wholly genuine affection, and you will not be too credulous; and perhaps in future you and I may better be able to endure one another when Fate lands us at the same tea-table.”

  Boots said respectfully: “I am sorry for what I said, Mrs. Pane. I hope that your friend Mrs. Ruthven will soon recover.”

  Rosamund looked at Nina, the tears still rimming her lids. “I miss her frightfully,” she said. “If somebody would only tell me where she is — I — I know it could do no harm for me to see her. I can be as gentle and loyal as anybody — when I really care for a person. . . . Do you know where she might be, Nina?”

  “I? No, I do not. I’d tell you if I did, Rosamund.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Why, no,” said Nina, surprised at her persistence.

  “Because,” continued Rosamund, “your brother does.”

  Nina straightened up, flushed and astonished.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “Because he does know. He sent her to Clifton. The maid who accompanied her is in my service now. It’s a low way of finding out things, but we all do it.”

  “He — sent Alixe to — to Clifton!” repeated Nina incredulously. “Your maid told you that?”

  Rosamund finished the contents of her slim glass and rose. “Yes; and it was a brave and generous and loyal thing for him to do. I supposed you knew it. Jack has been too beastly to her; she was on the verge of breaking down when I saw her on the Niobrara, and she told me then that her husband had practically repudiated her. . . . Then she suddenly disappeared; and her maid, later, came to me seeking a place. That’s how I knew, and that’s all I know. And I care for Alixe; and I honour your brother for what he did.”

  She stood with pretty golden head bent, absently arranging the sables around her neck and shoulders.

  “I have been very horrid to Captain Selwyn,” she said quietly. “Tell him I am sorry; that he has my respect. . . . And — if he cares to tell me where Alixe is I shall be grateful and do no harm.”

  She turned toward the door, stopped short, came back, and made her adieux, then started again toward the door, not noticing Lansing.

  “With your permission,” said Boots at her shoulder in a very low voice.

  She looked up, surprised, her eyes still wet. Then comprehending the compliment of his attendance, acknowledged it with a faint smile.

  “Good-night,” he said to Nina. Then he took Rosamund down to her brougham with a silent formality that touched her present sentimental mood.

  She leaned from her carriage-window, looking at him where he stood, hat in hand, in the thickly falling snow.

  “Please — without ceremony, Mr. Lansing.” And, as he covered himself, “May I not drop you at your destination?”

  “Thank you” — in refusal.

  “I thank you for being nice to me. . . . Please believe there is often less malice than perversity in me. I — I have a heart, Mr. Lansing — such as it is. And often those I torment most I care for most. It was so with Alixe. Good-bye.”

  Boots’s salute was admirably formal; then he went on through the thickening snow, swung vigorously across the Avenue to the Park-wall, and, turning south, continued on parallel to it under the naked trees.

  It must have been thick weather on the river and along the docks, for the deep fog-horns sounded persistently over the city, and the haunted warning of the sirens filled the leaden sky lowering through the white veil descending in flakes that melted where they fell.

  And, as Lansing strode on, hands deep in his overcoat, more than one mystery was unravelling before his keen eyes that blinked and winked as the clinging snow blotted his vision.

  Now he began to understand something of the strange effacement of his friend Selwyn; he began to comprehend the curious economies practised, the continued absence from club and coterie, the choice of the sordid lodging whither Boots, one night, seeing him on the street by chance, had shamelessly tracked him — with no excuse for the intrusion save his affection for this man and his secret doubts of the man’s ability to take care of himself and his
occult affairs.

  Now he was going there, exactly what to do he did not yet know, but with the vague determination to do something.

  On the wet pavements and reeking iron overhead structure along Sixth Avenue the street lights glimmered, lending to the filthy avenue under its rusty tunnel a mystery almost picturesque.

  Into it he turned, swung aboard a car as it shot groaning and clanking around the curve from Fifty-ninth Street, and settled down to brood and ponder and consider until it was time for him to swing off the car into the slimy street once more.

  Silvery pools of light inlaid the dim expanse of Washington Square. He turned east, then south, then east again, and doubled into a dim street, where old-time houses with toppling dormers crowded huddling together as though in the cowering contact there was safety from the destroyer who must one day come, bringing steel girders and cement to mark their graves with sky-scraping monuments of stone.

  Into the doorway of one of these houses Lansing turned. When the town was young a Lansing had lived there in pomp and circumstance — his own great-grandfather — and he smiled grimly, amused at the irony of things terrestrial.

  A slattern at the door halted him:

  “Nobody ain’t let up them stairs without my knowin’ why,” she mumbled.

  “I want to see Captain Selwyn,” he explained.

  “Hey?”

  “Captain Selwyn!”

  “Hey? I’m a little deef!” screeched the old crone. “Is it Cap’n Selwyn you want?”

  Above, Selwyn, hearing his name screamed through the shadows of the ancient house, came to the stairwell and looked down into the blackness.

  “What is it, Mrs. Glodden?” he said sharply; then, catching sight of a dim figure springing up the stairs:

  “Here! this way. Is it for me?” and as Boots came into the light from his open door: “Oh!” he whispered, deadly pale under the reaction; “I thought it was a telegram. Come in.”