Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “I — hadn’t noticed that Louis Malcourt was so devoted to your sister,” he said.

  Cecile looked up quickly, but detected only amiable indifference in the young fellow’s face.

  “They’re-always together; elle s’affiche à la fin!” she said impatiently. “Shiela was only eighteen before; she’s twenty now, and old enough to know whether she wants to marry a man like that or not.”

  Hamil glanced around at her incredulously. “Marry Malcourt?”

  But Cecile went on headlong in the wake of her own ideas.

  “He’s a sort of a relative; we’ve always known him. He and Gray used to go camping in Maine and he often spent months in our house. But for two years now, he’s been comparatively busy — he’s Mr. Portlaw’s manager, you know, and we’ve seen nothing of him — which was quite agreeable to me.”

  Hamil rose, unquiet. “I thought you were rather impressed by Shiela,” continued the girl. “I really did think so, Mr. Hamil.”

  “Your sister predicted that I’d lose my heart and senses to you” said Hamil, laughing and reseating himself beside her.

  “Have you?”

  “Of course I have. Who could help it?”

  The girl considered him smilingly.

  “You’re the nicest of men,” she said. “If you hadn’t been so busy I’m certain we’d have had a desperate affair. But — as it is — and it makes me perfectly furious — I have only the most ridiculously commonplace and comfortable affection for you — the sort which prompts mother to send you quinine and talcum powder—”

  Balanced there side by side they fell to laughing.

  “Sentiment? Yes,” she said; “but oh! it’s the kind that offers witch-hazel and hot-water bottles to the best beloved! Mr. Hamil, why can’t we flirt comfortably like sensibly frivolous people!”

  “I wish we could, Cecile.”

  “I wish so, too, Garret. No, that’s too formal — Garry! There, that ends our chances!”

  “You’re the jolliest family I ever knew,” he said. “You can scarcely understand how pleasant it has been for me to camp on the edges of your fireside and feel the home-warmth a little — now and then—”

  “Why do you remain so aloof then?”

  “I don’t mean to. But my heart is in this business of your father’s — the more deeply in because of his kindness — and your mother’s — and for all your sakes. You know I can scarcely realise it — I’ve been with you only a month, and yet you’ve done so much for me — received me so simply, so cordially — that the friendship seems to be of years instead of hours.”

  “That is the trouble,” sighed Cecile; “you and I never had a chance to be frivolous; I’m no more self-conscious with you than I am with Gray. Tell me, why was Virginia Suydam so horrid to us at first?”

  Hamil reddened. “You mustn’t ask me to criticise my own kin,” he said.

  “No,” she said, “you couldn’t do that.... And Miss Suydam has been more civil recently. It’s a mean, low, and suspicious thing to say, but I suppose it’s because — but I don’t think I’ll say it after all.”

  “It’s nicer not to,” said Hamil. They both knew perfectly well that Virginia’s advances were anything but disinterested. For, alas! even the men of her own entourage were now gravitating toward the Cardross family; Van Tassel Cuyp was continually wrinkling his nose and fixing his dead-blue eyes in that direction; little Colonel Vetchen circled busily round and round that centre of attraction, even Courtlandt Classon evinced an inclination to toddle that way. Besides Louis Malcourt had arrived; and Virginia had never quite forgotten Malcourt who had made one at a house party in the Adirondacks some years since, although even when he again encountered her, Malcourt had retained no memory of the slim, pallid girl who had for a week been his fellow-guest at Portlaw’s huge camp on Luckless Lake.

  “Virginia Suydam is rather an isolated girl,” said Hamil thoughtfully. “She lives alone; and it is not very gay for a woman alone in the world; not the happiest sort of life.... Virginia has always been very friendly to me — always. I hope you will find her amusing.”

  “I’m going to her luncheon,” said Cecile calmly. “It’s quite too absurd for her to feel any more doubt about us socially than we feel about her. That is why I am going. Shall we swim?”

  He rose; she clasped his offered hand and sprang to her feet, ready for the water again. But at that instant Malcourt’s dark, handsome head appeared on the crest of a surge close by, and the next moment that young gentleman scrambled aboard the raft, breathing heavily.

  “Hello, Cecile!” he gasped; “Hello, Hamil! Shiela thought it must be you, but I was sceptical. Whew! That isn’t much of a swim; I must be out of condition—”

  “Late hours, cards, and highballs,” observed Cecile scornfully. “You’re horridly smooth and fat, Louis.”

  Malcourt turned to Hamil.

  “Glad to see you’ve emerged from your shell at last. The rumour is that you’re working too hard.”

  “There’s no similar rumour concerning you,” observed Cecile, who had never made any pretence of liking Malcourt. “Please swim out to sea, if you’ve nothing more interesting to tell us. I’ve just managed to decoy Mr. Hamil here and I’d like to converse with him in peace.”

  Malcourt, arms folded, balanced himself easily on the raft’s pitching edge and glanced at her with that amiably bored expression characteristic of him when rebuffed by a woman. On such occasions his eyes resembled the half-closed orbs of a teased but patient cat; and Cecile had once told him so.

  “There’s a pretty rumour afloat concerning your last night’s performance at the Beach Club,” said the girl disdainfully. “A boy like you, making himself conspicuous by his gambling!”

  Malcourt winced, but as the girl had apparently heard nothing to his discredit except about his gambling, he ventured an intelligent sidelong glance at Hamil.

  The latter looked at him inquiringly; Malcourt laughed.

  “You haven’t been to the Beach Club yet, have you, Hamil? I’ll get you a card if you like.”

  Cecile, furious, turned her back and went head first into the sea.

  “Come on,” said Hamil briefly, and followed her. Malcourt took to the water leisurely, going out of his way to jeer at and splash Portlaw, who was labouring like a grampus inshore; then he circled within observation distance of several pretty girls, displayed his qualities as a swimmer for their benefit, and finally struck out shoreward.

  When he emerged from the surf he looked about for Shiela. She was already half-way to the beach, walking with Cecile and Hamil toward the pavilion; and, starting across the shallows to overtake her, he suddenly came face to face with Virginia Suydam.

  She was moving hip-deep out through the seething tide, slim, graceful, a slight flush tinting the usual delicate pallor of her cheeks. Gussie Vetchen bobbed nimbly about in the vicinity, very busy trying to look at everybody and keep his balance at the same time. Miss Palliser was talking to Cuyp.

  As Malcourt waded past, he and Miss Suydam exchanged a pleasantly formal greeting; and, for the second time, something in her casual gaze — the steadiness of her pretty green-tinted eyes, perhaps — perhaps their singular colour — interested him.

  “You did not ask me to your luncheon,” he said gaily, as he passed her through the foam.

  “No, only petticoats, Mr. Malcourt. I am sorry that your — fiancée isn’t coming.”

  He halted, perfectly aware of the deliberate and insolent indiscretion of her reply. Every line of her supple figure accented the listless, disdainful intention. As he remained motionless she turned, bent gracefully and laid her palms flat on the surface of the water, then looked idly over her shoulder at him.

  He waded back close to her, she watching him advance without apparent interest — but watching him nevertheless.

  “Have you heard that anybody and myself are supposed to be engaged?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied coolly; “have you?”


  A dark flush mantled his face and he choked.

  For a moment they stood so; her brows were raised a trifle.

  “Well?” she asked at last. “Have I made you very angry, Mr. Malcourt?” She waded out a step or two toward the surf, facing it. The rollers breaking just beyond made her foothold precarious; twice she nearly lost her balance; the third time he caught her hand to steady her and held it as they faced the surges, swaying together.

  She did not look again at him. They stood for a while unsteadily, her hand in his grasp.

  “Why on earth did you say such a thing to me?” he asked.

  “I don’t — know,” she said simply; “I really don’t, Mr. Malcourt.”

  And it was true; for their slight acquaintance warranted neither badinage nor effrontery; and she did not understand the sudden impulse toward provocation, unless it might be her contempt for Shiela Cardross. And that was the doing of Mrs. Van Dieman.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking up at him, and after a moment, down at their clasped hands. “Are we going to swim out, Mr. Malcourt? — or shall we continue to pose as newly married for the benefit of the East Coast?”

  “We’ll sit in the sands,” he said. “We’ll probably find a lot of things to say to each other.” But he dropped her fingers — gently.

  “Unless you care to join your — care to join Miss Cardross.”

  Even while she spoke she remained calmly amazed at the commonness of her own speech, the astonishing surface streak of unsuspected vulgarity which she was naïvely exhibiting to this man.

  Vetchen came noisily splashing up to join them, but he found neither of them very attentive to him as they walked slowly to the beach and up to the dry, hot sand.

  Virginia curled up in the sand; Malcourt extended himself full length at her feet, clasped fingers supporting his head, smooth, sun-browned legs crossed behind him; and he looked like a handsome and rather sulky boy lying there, kicking up his heels insouciantly or stretching luxuriously in the sun.

  Vetchen, who had followed, began an interminable story on the usual theme of his daughter, Mrs. Tom O’Hara, illustrating her beauty, her importance, and the incidental importance of himself; and it was with profound surprise and deep offence that he discovered that neither Malcourt nor Miss Suydam were listening. Indeed, in brief undertones, they had been carrying on a guarded conversation of their own all the while; and presently little Vetchen took his leave with a hauteur quite lost on those who had so unconsciously affronted him.

  “Of course it is very civil of you to say you remember me,” Virginia was saying, “but I am perfectly aware you do not.”

  Malcourt insisted that he recalled their meeting at Portlaw’s Adirondack camp on Luckless Lake two years before, cudgelling his brains at the same time to recollect seeing Virginia there and striving to remember some corroborative incident. But all he could really recall was a young and unhappily married woman to whom he had made violent love — and it was even an effort for him to remember her name.

  “How desperately you try!” observed Virginia, leisurely constructing a little rampart of sand between them. “Listen to me, Mr. Malcourt” — she raised her eyes, and again the hint of provocation in them preoccupied him— “I remembered you, and I have sometimes hoped we might meet again. Is that amends for the very bad taste I displayed in speaking of your engagement before it has been announced?”

  “I am not engaged — to be married,” he said deliberately.

  She looked at him steadily, and he sustained the strain of the gaze in his own untroubled fashion.

  “You are not engaged?”

  “No.”

  She straightened up, resting her weight on one bare arm, then leisurely laid her length on the burning sands and, face framed between her fingers, considered him in silence.

  In her attitude, in her very conversation with this man there was, for her, a certain sense of abandonment; a mental renouncing of all that had hitherto characterised her in her relations with an always formal world; as though that were necessary to meet him on his own level.

  Never before had she encountered the temptation, the opportunity, or the person where the impulse to discard convention, conviction, training, had so irresistibly presented itself. Nor could she understand it now; yet she was aware, instinctively, that she was on the verge of the temptation and the opportunity; that there existed a subtle something in this man, in herself, that tempted to conventional relaxation. In all her repressed, regulated, and self-suppressed career, all that had ever been in her of latent daring, of feminine audacity, of caprice, of perverse provocation, stirred in her now, quickening with the slightest acceleration of her pulses.

  Apparently a man of her own caste, yet she had never been so obscurely stirred by a man of her own caste — had never instinctively divined in other men the streak which this man, from the first interchange of words, had brought out in her.

  Aware of his attraction, hazily convinced that she had no confidence in him, the curious temptation persisted and grew; and she felt very young and very guilty like a small child consenting to parley with another child whose society has been forbidden. And it seemed to her that somehow she had already demeaned herself by the tentative toward a common understanding with an intellect and principles of a grade inferior to her own.

  “That was a very pretty woman you were so devoted to in the Adirondacks,” she said.

  He recalled the incident with a pleasant frankness which left her unconvinced.

  Suddenly it came over her that she had had enough of him — more than was good for her, and she sat up straight, primly retying her neckerchief.

  “To-morrow?” he was saying, too civilly; but on her way to the pavilion she could not remember what she had replied, or how she had rid herself of him.

  Inside the pavilion she saw Hamil and Shiela Cardross, already dressed, watching the lively occupants of the swimming-pool; and she exchanged a handshake with the former and a formal nod with the latter.

  “Garret, your aunt is worrying because somebody told her that there are snakes in the district where you are at work. Come in some evening and reassure her.” And to Shiela: “So sorry you cannot come to my luncheon, Miss Cardross. — You are Miss Cardross, aren’t you? I’ve been told otherwise.”

  Hamil looked up, pale and astounded; but Shiela answered, undisturbed:

  “My sister Cecile is the younger; yes, I am Miss Cardross.”

  And Hamil realised there had been two ways of interpreting Virginia’s question, and he reddened, suddenly appalled at his own knowledge and at his hasty and gross conclusions.

  If Shiela noticed the quick changes in his face she did not appear to, nor the curious glance that Virginia cast at him.

  “So sorry,” said Miss Suydam again, “for if you are going to be so much engaged to-day you will no doubt also miss the tea for that pretty Mrs. Ascott.”

  “No,” said Shiela, “I wouldn’t think of missing that.” And carelessly to Hamil: “As you and I have nothing on hand to-day, I’ll take you over to meet Mrs. Ascott if you like.”

  Which was a notice to Virginia that Miss Cardross had declined her luncheon from deliberate disinclination.

  Hamil, vaguely conscious that all was not as agreeable as the surface of things indicated, said cordially that he’d be very glad to go anywhere with Shiela to meet anybody, adding to Virginia that he’d heard of Mrs. Ascott but could not remember when or where.

  “Probably you’ve heard of her often enough from Louis Malcourt,” said Virginia. “He and I were just recalling his frenzied devotion to her in the Adirondacks; that,” she added smilingly to Shiela, “was before Mrs. Ascott got her divorce from her miserable little French count and resumed her own name. She was the most engaging creature when Mr. Malcourt and I met her two years ago.”

  Shiela, who had been listening with head partly averted and grave eyes following the antics of the divers in the pool, turned slowly and encountered Virginia’s smile with a s
traight, cold gaze of utter distrust.

  Nothing was said for a moment; then Virginia spoke smilingly again to Hamil concerning his aunt’s uneasiness, turned toward Shiela, exchanged formal adieux with her, and walked on toward her dressing-room and shower. Hamil and Miss Cardross turned the other way.

  When Shiela was seated in her double wheel-chair with Hamil beside her, she looked up through her veil unsmiling into his serious face.

  “Did you notice anything particularly impertinent in Miss Suydam’s question?” she asked quietly.

  “What question?”

  “When she asked me whether I was Miss Cardross.”

  The slow colour again burned his bronzed skin. He made no reply, nor did she await any after a silent consideration of his troubled face.

  “Where did you hear about me?” she asked.

  She had partly turned in her seat, resting both gloved hands on the crook of her folded sunshade, and leaning a little toward him.

  “Don’t ask me,” he said; “whatever I heard I heard unwillingly—”

  “You have heard?”

  He did not answer.

  The remainder of the journey was passed in silence. On the road they met Mrs. Cardross and Jessie Carrick driving to a luncheon; later, Gray passed in his motor with his father.

  “I have an idea that you and I are to lunch alone,” said Hamil as they reached the house; and so it turned out, for Malcourt was going off with Portlaw somewhere and Cecile was dressing for Virginia’s luncheon.

  “Did you care to go with me to the Ascott-O’Hara function?” asked Shiela, pausing on the terrace. Her voice was listless, her face devoid of animation.

  “I don’t care where I go if I may go with you,” he said, with a new accent of intention in his voice which did not escape her.

  She went slowly up the stairs untying her long veil as she mounted. Cecile in a bewildering hat and gown emerged upon the terrace before Shiela reappeared, and found Hamil perched upon the coquina balustrade, poring over a pocketful of blue-prints; and she said very sweetly: “Good-bye, my elder brother. Will you promise to take the best of care of our little sister Shiela while I’m away?”