Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “I suppose you’ll go to Luckless Lake,” observed Hamil, pausing beside Malcourt in his walk.

  “Yes. There’s plenty to do. We stripped ten thousand trout in October, and we’re putting in German boar this spring.”

  “I should think your occupation would be fascinating.”

  “Yes? It’s lonely, too, until Portlaw’s camp parties begin. I get an overdose of nature at times. There’s nobody of my own ilk there except our Yale and Cornell foresters. In winter it’s deadly, Hamil, deadly! I don’t shoot, you know; it’s deathly enough as it is.”

  “I don’t believe I’d find it so.”

  “You think not, but you would. That white solitude may be good medicine for some, but it makes me furious after a while, and I often wish that the woods and the deer and the fish and I myself and the whole devilish outfit were under the North Pole and frozen solid! But I can’t afford to pick and choose. If I looked about for something else to do I don’t believe anybody would want me. Portlaw pays me more than I’m worth as a Harvard post-graduate. And if that is an asset it’s my only one.”

  Hamil, surprised at his bitterness, looked at him with troubled eyes. Then his eyes wandered to Shiela, who had now taken up her embroidery.

  “I can’t help it,” said Malcourt impatiently; “I like cities and people. I always liked people. I never had enough of people. I never had any society as a boy; and, Hamil, you can’t imagine how I longed for it. It would have been well for me to have had it. There was never any in my own home; there was never anything in my home life but painful memories of domestic trouble and financial stress. I was for a while asked to the homes of schoolmates, but could offer no hospitality in return. Sensitiveness and humiliation have strained the better qualities out of me. I’ve been bruised dry.”

  He leaned on his elbows, hands clasped, looking out into the sunlight where myriads of brilliant butterflies were fluttering over the carpet of white phlox.

  “Hamil,” he said, “whatever is harsh, aggressive, cynical, mean, sneering, selfish in me has been externally acquired. You scrape even a spineless mollusc too long with a pin, and the irritation produces a defensive crust. I began boy-like by being so damned credulous and impulsive and affectionate and tender-hearted that even my kid sister laughed at me; and she was only three years older than I. Then followed that period of social loneliness, the longing for the companionship of boys and girls — girls particularly, in spite of agonies of shyness and the awakening terrors of shame when the domestic troubles ended in an earthquake which gave me to my father and Helen to my mother, and a scandal to the newspapers.... O hell! I’m talking like an autobiography! Don’t go, if you can stand it for a moment longer; I’m never likely to do it again.”

  Hamil, silent and uncomfortable, stood stiffly upright, gloved hands resting on the balustrade behind him. Malcourt continued to stare at the orange-and-yellow butterflies dancing over the snowy beds of blossoms.

  “In college it was the same,” he said. “I had few friends — and no home to return to after — my father-died.” He hesitated as though listening. Whenever he spoke of his father, which was seldom, he seemed to assume that curious listening attitude; as though the man, dead by his own hand, could hear him....

  “Wayward saw me through. I’ve paid him back what he spent on me. You know his story; everybody does. I like him and sponge on him. We irritate each other; I’m a beast to resent his sharpness. But he’s not right when he says I never had any illusions.... I had — and have.... I do beastly things, too.... Some men will do anything to crush out the last quiver of pride in them.... And the worst is that, mangled, torn, mine still palpitates — like one of your wretched, bloody quail gaping on its back! By God! At least, I couldn’t do that! — Kill for pleasure! — as better men than I do. And better women, too!... What am I talking about? I’ve done worse than that on impulse — meaning well, like other fools.”

  Malcourt’s face had become drawn, sallow, almost sneering; but in the slow gaze he turned on Hamil was that blank hopelessness which no man can encounter and remember unmoved.

  “Malcourt,” he said, “you’re morbid. Men like you; women like you — So do I — now—”

  “It’s too late. I needed that sort of thing when I was younger. Kindness arouses my suspicion now. Toleration is what it really is. I have no money, no social position here — or abroad; only a thoroughly discredited name in two hemispheres. It took several generations for the Malcourts to go to the devil; but I fancy we’ll all arrive on time. What a reunion! I hate the idea of family parties, even in hell.”

  He straightened up gracefully and lighted his cigarette; then the easy smile twitched his dry lips again and he nodded mockingly at Hamil:

  “Count on my friendship, Hamil; it’s so valuable. It has already quite ruined one person’s life, and will no doubt damage others before I flicker out.”

  “What do you mean, Malcourt?”

  “What I say, old fellow. With the best intentions toward self-sacrifice I usually do irreparable damage to the objects of my regard. Beware my friendship, Hamil. There’s no luck in it or me.... But I do like you.”

  He laughed and sauntered off into the house as Hamil’s horse was brought around; and Hamil, traversing the terrace, mounted under a running fire of badinage from Shiela and Cecile who had just come from the tennis-courts to attempt some hated embroidery for the charity fair then impending.

  So he rode away to his duties in the forest, leaving a placid sewing-circle on the terrace. From which circle, presently, Shiela silently detached herself, arms encumbered with her writing materials and silks. Strolling aimlessly along the balustrade for a while, watching the bees scrambling in the scarlet trumpet-flowers, she wandered into the house and through to the cool patio.

  For some days, now, after Hamil’s daily departure, it had happened that an almost unendurable restlessness akin to suspense took possession of her; a distaste and impatience of people and their voices, and the routine of the commonplace.

  To occupy herself in idleness was an effort; she had no desire to. She had recently acquired the hammock habit, lying for hours in the coolness of the patio, making no effort to think, listening to the splash of the fountain, her book or magazine open across her breast. When people came she picked up the book and scanned its pages; sometimes she made pretence of sleeping.

  But that morning, Malcourt, errant, found her reading in her hammock. Expecting him to pass his way as usual, she nodded with civil indifference, and continued her reading.

  “I want to ask you something,” he said, “if I may interrupt you.”

  “What is it, Louis?”

  “May I draw up a chair?”

  “Why — if you wish. Is there anything I can do for you? “ — closing her book.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Shiela?”

  A tinge of colour came into her cheeks.

  “Thank you,” she said in curt negation.

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Quite. What do you mean?”

  “There is one thing I might do for your sake,” he smiled— “blow my bally brains out.”

  She said in a low contemptuous voice: “Better resort to that for your own sake than do what you are doing to Miss Suydam.”

  “What am I doing to Miss Suydam?”

  “Making love to her.”

  He sat, eyes idly following the slight swaying motion of her hammock, the smile still edging his lips.

  “Don’t worry about Miss Suydam,” he said; “she can take care of herself. What I want to say is this: Once out of mistaken motives — which nobody, including yourself, would ever credit — I gave you all I had to give — my name.... It’s not much of a name; but I thought you could use it. I was even fool enough to think — other things. And as usual I succeeded in injuring where I meant only kindness. Can you believe that?”

  “I — think you meant it kindly,” she said under her breath. “It was my fault, Louis. I do not blame
you, if you really cared for me. I’ve told you so before.”

  “Yes, but I was ass enough to think you cared for me.”

  She lay in her hammock, looking at him across the crimson-fringed border.

  “There are two ways out of it,” he said; “one is divorce. Have you changed your mind?”

  “What is the other?” she asked coldly.

  “That — if you could ever learn to care for me — we might try—” He stopped short.

  For two years he had not ventured such a thing to her. The quick, bright anger warned him from her eyes. But she said quietly: “You know that is utterly impossible.”

  “Is it impossible. Shiela?”

  “Absolutely. And a trifle offensive.”

  He said pleasantly: “I was afraid so, but I wanted to be sure. I did not mean to offend you. People change and mature in two years.... I suppose you are as angrily impatient of sentiment in a man as you were then.”

  “I cannot endure it—”

  Her voice died out and she blushed furiously as the memory of Hamil flashed in her mind.

  “Shiela,” he said quietly, “now and then there’s a streak of misguided decency in me. It cropped out that winter day when I did what I did. And I suppose it’s cropping up now when I ask you, for your own sake, to get rid of me and give yourself a chance.”

  “How?”

  “Legally.”

  “I cannot, and you know it.”

  “You are wrong. Do you think for one moment that your father and mother would accept the wretched sacrifice you are making of your life if they knew—”

  “The old arguments again,” she said impatiently.

  “There is a new argument,” said Malcourt, staring at her.

  “What new argument?”

  “Hamil.”

  Then the vivid colour surged anew from neck to hair, and she rose in the hammock, bewildered, burning, incensed.

  “If it were true,” she stammered, leaning on one arm, “do you think me capable of disgracing my own people?”

  “The disgrace will be mine and yours. Is not Hamil worth it?”

  “No man is worth any wrong I do to my own family!”

  “You are wronging more people than your own, Shiela—”

  “It is not true!” she said breathlessly. “There is a nobler happiness than one secured at the expense of selfishness and ingratitude. I tell you, as long as I live, I will not have them know or suffer because of my disgraceful escapade with you! You probably meant well; I must have been crazy, I think. But we’ve got to endure the consequences. If there’s unhappiness and pain to be borne, we’ve got to bear it — we alone—”

  “And Hamil. All three of us.”

  She looked at him desperately; read in his cool gaze that she could not deceive him, and remained silent.

  “What about Hamil’s unhappiness?” repeated Malcourt slowly.

  “If — if he has any, he requires no instruction how to bear it.”

  Malcourt nodded, then, with a weary smile: “I do not plead with you for my own chance of happiness. Yet, you owe me something, Shiela.”

  “What?”

  “The right to face the world under true colours. You owe me that.”

  She whitened to the lips. “I know it.”

  “Suppose I ask for that right?”

  “I have always told you that, if you demanded it, I would take your name openly.”

  “Yes; but now you admit that you love Hamil.”

  “Love! Love!” she repeated, exasperated. “What has that got to do with it? I know what the law of obligation is. You meant to be generous to me and you ruined your own life. If your future career requires me to publicly assume your name and a place in your household, I’ve told you that I’ll pay that debt.”

  “Very well. When will you pay it?”

  She blanched pitifully.

  “When you insist, Louis.”

  “Do you mean you would go out there to the terrace, now! — and tell your mother what you’ve done?”

  “Yes, if I must,” she answered faintly.

  “In other words, because you think you’re in my debt, you stand ready to acknowledge, on demand, what I gave you — my name?”

  Her lips moved in affirmation, but deep in her sickened eyes he saw terror unspeakable.

  “Well,” he said, looking away from her, “don’t worry, Shiela. I’m not asking that of you; in fact I don’t want it. That’s not very complimentary, but it ought to relieve you.... I’m horribly sorry about Hamil; I like him; I’d like to do something for him. But if I attempted anything it would turn out all wrong.... As for you — well, you are plucky. Poor little girl! I wish I could help you out — short of a journey to eternity. And perhaps I’ll take that before very long,” he added gaily; “I smoke too many cigarettes. Cheer up, Shiela, and send me a few thousand for Easter.”

  He rose, gracefully as always, picked up the book from where it lay tumbled in the netting of the hammock, glanced casually through a page or two.

  Still scanning the print, he said:

  “I wanted to give you a chance; I’m going North in a day or two. It isn’t likely we’ll meet again very soon.... So I thought I’d speak.... And, if at any time you change your ideas — I won’t oppose it.”

  “Thank you, Louis.”

  He was running over the pages rapidly now, the same unchanging smile edging his lips.

  “The unexpected sometimes happens, Shiela — particularly when it’s expected. There are ways and ways — particularly when one is tired — too tired to lie awake and listen any longer, or resist.... My father used to say that anybody who could use an anæsthetic was the equal of any graduate physician—”

  “Louis! What do you mean?”

  But his head was bent again in that curious attitude of listening; and after a moment he made an almost imperceptible gesture of acquiescence, and turned to her with the old, easy, half-impudent, half-challenging air.

  “Gray has a butterfly in his collection which shows four distinct forms. Once people thought these forms were distinct species; now they know they all are the same species of butterfly in various suits of disguise — just as you might persuade yourself that unhappiness and happiness are radically different. But some people find satisfaction in being unhappy, and some find it in being happy; and as it’s all only the gratification of that imperious egotism we call conscience, the specific form of all is simply ethical selfishness.”

  He laughed unrestrainedly at his own will-o’-the-wisp philosophy, looking very handsome and care-free there where the noon sun slanted across the white arcade all thick with golden jasmine bloom.

  And Shiela, too intelligent to mistake him, smiled a little at his gay perversity.

  He met Portlaw, later, at the Beach Club for luncheon; and, as the latter looked particularly fat, warm, and worried, Malcourt’s perverse humour remained in the ascendant, and he tormented Portlaw until that badgered gentleman emitted a bellow of exasperation.

  “What on earth’s the matter?” asked Malcourt in pretended astonishment. “I thought I was being funny.”

  “Funny! Does a man want to be prodded with wit at his own expense when the market is getting funnier every hour — at his expense? Go and look at the tape if you want to know why I don’t enjoy either your wit or this accursed luncheon.”

  “What’s happening, Portlaw?”

  “I wish you’d tell me.”

  “Muck-raking?”

  “Partly, I suppose.”

  “Administration?”

  “People say so. I don’t believe it. There’s a rotten lot of gambling going on. How do I know what’s the matter?”

  “Perhaps there isn’t anything the matter, old fellow.”

  “Well, there is. I can sniff it ‘way down here. And I’m going home to walk about and listen and sniff some more. Sag, sag, sag! — that’s what the market has been doing for months. Yet, if I sell it short, it rallies on me and I’m chased to cover. I go l
ong and the thing sags like the panties on that French count, yonder.... Who’s the blond girl with him?”

  “Hope springs eternal in the human beast,” observed Malcourt. “Hope is a bird, Porty, old chap—”

  “Hope is a squab,” growled Portlaw, swallowing vast quantities of claret, “all squashy and full of pin-feathers. That’s what hope is. It needs a thorough roasting, and it’s getting it.”

  “Exquisite metaphor,” mused Malcourt, gazing affably at the rather blond girl who crumbled her bread and looked occasionally and blankly at him, occasionally and affectionately at the French count, her escort, who was consuming lobster with characteristic Gallic thoroughness and abandon.

  “The world,” quoted Malcourt, “is so full of a number of things. You’re one of ‘em, Portlaw; I’m several.... Well, if you’re going North I’d better begin to get ready.”

  “What have you got to do?”

  “One or two friends of mine who preside in the Temple of Chance yonder. Oh, don’t assume that babyish pout! I’ve won enough back to keep going for the balance of the time we remain.”

  Portlaw, pleased and relieved, finished his claret.

  “You’ve a few ladies to take leave of, also,” he said briskly.

  “Really, Portlaw!” — in gentle admonition.

  “Haw! Haw!” roared Portlaw, startling the entire café; “you’d better get busy. There’ll be a run on the bank. There’ll be a waiting line before Malcourt & Co. opens for business, each fair penitent with her little I.O.U. to be cashed! Haw! Haw! Sad dog! Bad dog! The many-sided Malcourt! Come on; I’ve got a motor across the—”

  “And I’ve an appointment with several superfluous people and a girl,” said Malcourt drily. Then he glanced at the blond companion of the count who continued crumbling bread between her brilliantly ringed fingers as though she had never before seen Louis Malcourt. The price of diamonds varies. Sometimes it is merely fastidious observance of convention and a sensitive escort. It all depends on the world one inhabits; it does indeed.