Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Please, Louis!”

  “Dear, I am right. Even Constance Palliser, still physically superb, but mentally morbid — in love with what once was Wayward — with the ghost she raised in her dead girlhood, there on the edge of yesterday—”

  “Louis! Louis! And you! What were you yesterday? What are you to-day?”

  “What do I care what I was and am? — Dutch, British, burgher, or cavalier? — What the deuce do I care, my dear? The Malcourts are rotten; everybody knows it. Tressilvain is worse; my sister says so. As I told you, the old families are done for — all except yours—”

  “I am the last of mine, Louis.”

  “The last and best—”

  “Are you laughing?”

  “No; you are the only human one I’ve ever heard of among your race — the sweetest, soundest, best—”

  “I?... What you say is too terrible to laugh at. I — guilty in mind — unsound — contaminated—”

  “Temporarily. I’m going to-night. Time and absence are the great antiseptics. When the corrupt cause disappears the effect follows. Cheer up, dear; I take the night train.”

  But she only pressed her pale face closer to his shoulder. Their interlocked shadows, huge, fantastic, streamed across the eastern dunes as they moved slowly on together.

  “Louis!”

  “Yes?”

  She could not say it. Close to the breaking point, she was ready now to give up to him more than he might care for — the only shred left which she had shrunk from letting him think was within his reach for the asking — her name.

  Pride, prejudice, had died out in the fierce outbreak of a heart amazingly out of place in the body of one who bore her name.

  Generations of her kinsmen, close and remote, had lived in the close confines of narrow circles — narrow, bloodless, dull folk, almost all distantly related — and they had lived and mated among themselves, coldly defiant of that great law which dooms the over-cultivated and inbred to folly and extinction.

  Somewhere, far back along the race-line, some mongrel ancestor had begun life with a heart; and, unsuspected, that obsolete organ had now reappeared in her, irritating, confusing, amazing, and finally stupefying her with its misunderstood pulsations.

  At first, like a wounded creature, consciousness of its presence turned her restless, almost vicious. Then from cynicism to incredulity she had passed the bitter way to passion, and the shamed recoil from it; to recklessness, and the contempt for it, and so through sorrow and humility to love — if it were love to endure the evil in this man and to believe in the good which he had never yet revealed to her save in a half-cynical, half-amused content that matters rest in statu quo.

  “The trouble with us,” mused Malcourt, lazily switching the fragrant beach-grapes with his riding-crop, “is inbreeding. Yes, that’s it. And we know what it brings to kings and kine alike. Tressilvain is half-mad, I think. And we are used up and out of date.... The lusty, jewelled bacchantes who now haunt the inner temple kindle the social flames with newer names than ours. Few of us count; the lumbering British or Dutch cattle our race was bred from, even in these brief generations, have become decadent and barren; we are even passing from a fashion which we have neither intellect to sustain nor courage to dictate to. It’s the raw West that is to be our Nemesis, I think.... ‘Mix corpuscles or you die!’ — that’s what I read as I run — I mean, saunter; the Malcourts never run, except to seed. My, what phosphorescent perversion! One might almost mistake it for philosophy.... But it’s only the brilliancy of decay, Virginia; and it’s about time that the last Malcourt stepped down and out of the scheme of things. My sister is older, but I don’t mind going first — even if it is bad manners.”

  “Is that why you have never asked me to marry you?” she said, white as a ghost.

  Startled to silence he walked on beside her. She had pressed her pallid face against his shoulder again; one thin hand crushed her gloves and riding-crop into her hip, the other, doubled, left in the palm pale imprints of her fingers.

  “Is that the reason?” she repeated.

  “No, dear.”

  “Is it because you do not care for me — enough?”

  “Partly. But that is easily remedied.”

  “Or” — with bent head— “because you think too — lightly — of me—”

  “No! That’s a lie anyway.”

  “A — a lie?”

  “Yes. You lie to yourself if you think that! You are not that sort. You are not, and you never were and never could be. Don’t you suppose I know?” — almost with a sneer: “I won’t have it — nor would you! It is you, not I, who have controlled this situation; and if you don’t realise it I do. I never doubted you even when you prattled to me of moderation. I know that you were not named with your name in mockery, or in vain.”

  Dumb, thrilled, understanding in a blind way what this man had said, dismayed to find safety amid the elements of destruction, a sudden belief in herself — in him, too, began to flicker. “Had the still small flame been relighted for her? Had it never entirely died?”

  “If — you will have me, Louis,” she whispered.

  “I don’t love you. I’m rather nearer than I ever have been just now. But I am not in love.”

  “Could you ever—”

  “Yes.”

  “Then — why—”

  “I’ll tell you why, some day. Not now.”

  They had come to where their horses were tied. He put her up, adjusted boot-strap and skirt, then swung gracefully aboard his own pie-faced Tallahassee nag, wheeling into the path beside her.

  “The world,” observed Malcourt, using his favourite quotation, “is so full of a number of things — like you and me and that coral snake yonder.... It’s very hard to make a coral snake bite you; but it’s death if you succeed.... Whack that nag if he plunges! Lord, what a nose for sarpints horses have! Hamil was telling me — by the way, there’s nothing degenerate about our distant cousin, John Garret Hamil; but he’s not pure pedigree. However, I’d advise him to marry into some fresh, new strain—”

  “He seems likely to,” said Virginia.

  After a moment Malcourt looked around at her curiously.

  “Do you mean Shiela Cardross?”

  “Obviously.”

  “You think it safe?” — mockingly.

  “I wouldn’t care if I were a man.”

  “Oh! I didn’t suppose that a Suydam could approve of her.”

  “I do now — with envy.... You are right about the West. Do you know that it seems to me as though in that girl all sections of the land were merged, as though the freshest blood of all nations flowing through the land had centred and mingled to produce that type of physical perfection! It is a curious idea — isn’t it, Louis? — to imagine that the brightest, wholesomest, freshest blood of the nations within this nation has combined to produce such a type! Suppose it were so. After all is it not worth dispensing with a few worn names to look out at the world through those fearless magnificent eyes of hers — to walk the world with such limbs and such a body? Did you ever see such self-possession, such superb capacity for good and evil, such quality and texture!... Oh, yes, I am quite crazy about her — like everybody and John Garret Hamil, third.”

  “Is he?”

  She laughed. “Do you doubt it?”

  Malcourt drew bridle, fished for his case, and lighted a cigarette; then he spurred forward again, alert, intent, head partly turned in that curious attitude of listening, though Virginia was riding now in pensive silence.

  “Louis,” she said at last, “what is it you hear when you seem to listen that way. It’s uncanny.”

  “I’ll tell you,” he said. “My father had a very pleasant, persuasive voice.... I was fond of him.... And sometimes I still argue with him — in the old humourous fashion—”

  “What?” — with a shiver.

  “In the old amusing way,” continued Malcourt quietly. “Sometimes he makes suggestions to me — curious suggestions
— easy ways out of trouble — and I listen — as you noticed.”

  The girl looked at him, reined up closer, and bent forward, looking him intently in the eyes.

  “Well, dear?” inquired Malcourt, with a smile.

  But she only straightened up in her saddle, a chill creeping in her veins.

  A few moments later he suggested that they gallop. He was obliged to, for he had other interviews awaiting him. Also Portlaw, in a vile humour with the little gods of high and low finance.

  One of these interviews occurred after his final evening adieux to the Cardross family and to Hamil. Shiela drove him to the hotel in Gray’s motor, slowly, when they were out of sight, at Malcourt’s request.

  “I wanted to give you another chance,” he said. “I’m a little more selfish, this time — because, if I had a decent opportunity I think I’d try to fall in love with somebody or other—”

  She flushed painfully, looking straight ahead over the steering-wheel along the blinding path of the acetylenes.

  “I am very sorry,” she said, “because I had — had almost concluded to tell them — everything.”

  “What!” he asked, aghast.

  Her eyes were steadily fixed on the fan-shaped radiance ahead which played fantastically along the silvery avenue of palms and swept the white road with a glitter like moonlight streaming over snow.

  “You mean you are ready for your freedom, Shiela?”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That — it may be best — best — to tell them ... and face what is left of life, together.”

  “You and I?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat beside her, dumb, incredulous, nimble wits searching for reasons. What was he to reckon with in this sudden, calm suggestion of a martyrdom with him? A whim? Some occult caprice? — or a quarrel with Hamil? Was she wearied of the deception? Or distrustful of herself, in her new love for Hamil, lest she be tempted to free herself after all? Was she already at that point where, desperate, benefits forgot, wavering between infatuation and loyalty, she turned, dismayed, to the only course which must crush temptation for ever?

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  “What?” Her lips moved, forming the word without sound.

  “Is it because you are so sorely tempted to free yourself at their expense?”

  “Partly.”

  “You poor child!”

  “No child now, Louis.... I have thought too deeply, too clearly. There is no childhood left in me. I know things.... You will help me, won’t you — if I find I need you?”

  “Need me, Shiela?”

  “I may,” she said excitedly; “you can’t tell; and I don’t know. It is all so confused. I thought I knew myself but I seem to have just discovered a devil looking back at me out of my own reflected eyes from my own mirror!”

  “What an exaggerated little thing you are!” he said, forcing a laugh.

  “Am I? It must be part of me then. I tell you, since that day they told me what I am, I have wondered what else I might be. I don’t know, but I’m watching. There are changes — omens, sinister enough to frighten me—”

  “Are you turning morbid?”

  “I don’t know, Louis. Am I? How can I tell? Whom am I to ask? I could ask my own mother if I had one — even if it hurt her. Mothers are made for pain — as we young girls are. Miserable, wretched, deceitful, frightened as I am I could tell her — tell her all.... The longing to have her, to tell her has become almost — almost unendurable — lately.... I have so much need of her.... You don’t know the desolation of it — and the fear! I beg your pardon for talking this way. It’s over now. You see I am quite calm.”

  “Can’t you confide in your — other mother—”

  “I have no right. She did not bear me.”

  “It is the same as though you were her own; she feels so—”

  “She cannot feel so! Nor can I. If I could I would take my fears and sorrows and my sins to her. I could take them to my own mother, for both our sakes; I cannot, to her, for my own sake alone. And never can.”

  “Then — I don’t understand! You have just suggested telling her about ourselves, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. But not that it has been a horror — a mistake. If I tell her — if I think it necessary — best — to tell them, I — it will be done with mask still on — cheerfully — asking pardon with a smile — I do not lack that kind of courage. I can do that — if I must.”

  “There will be a new ceremony?”

  “If they wish.... I can’t — can’t talk of it yet, unless I’m driven to it—”

  He looked quietly around at her. “What drives you, Shiela?”

  Her eyes remained resolutely fixed on the road ahead, but her cheeks were flaming; and he turned his gaze elsewhere, thoughtful, chary of speech, until at last the lights of the station twinkled in the north.

  Then he said, carelessly friendly: “I’ll just say this: that, being of no legitimate use to anybody, if you find any use for me, you merely need to say so.”

  “Thank you, Louis.”

  “No; I thank you! It’s a new sensation — to be of legitimate use to anybody. Really, I’m much obliged.”

  “Don’t speak so bitterly—”

  “Not at all. Short of being celestially translated and sinlessly melodious on my pianola up aloft, I had no hope of ever being useful to you and Hamil—”

  She turned a miserable and colourless face to his and he ceased, startled at the tragedy in such young eyes.

  Then he burst out impulsively: “Oh, why don’t you cut and run with him! Why, you little ninny, if I loved anybody like that I’d not worry over the morals of it!”

  “What!” she gasped.

  “Not I! Make a nunnery out of me if you must; clutch at me for sanctuary, if you want to; I’ll stand for it! But if you’ll listen to me you’ll give up romantic martyrdom and sackcloth, put on your best frock, smile on Hamil, and go and ask your mother for a bright, shiny, brand-new divorce.”

  Revolted, incensed, eyes brilliant with anger, she sat speechless and rigid, clutching the steering-wheel as he nimbly descended to the platform.

  “Good-bye, Shiela,” he said with a haggard smile. “I meant well — as usual.”

  Something about him as he stood there alone in the lamp’s white radiance stilled her anger by degrees.

  “Good-bye,” she said with an effort.

  He nodded, replaced his hat, and turned away.

  “Good-bye, Louis,” she said more gently.

  He retraced his steps, and stood beside the motor, hat off. She bent forward, generous, as always, and extended her hand.

  “What you said to me hurt,” she said. “Do you think it would not be easy for me to persuade myself? I believe in divorce with all my heart and soul and intelligence. I know it is right and just. But not for me.... Louis — how can I do this thing to them? How can I go to them and disclose myself as a common creature of common origin and primitive impulse, showing the crack in the gay gilding and veneer they have laboured to cover me with?... I cannot.... I could endure the disgrace myself; I cannot disgrace them. Think of the ridicule they would suffer if it became known that for two years I had been married, and now wanted a public divorce? No! No! There is nothing to do, nothing to hope for.... If it is — advisable — I will tell them, and take your name openly.... I am so uncertain, so frightened at moments — so perplexed. There is no one to tell me what to do.... And, believe me, I am sorry for you — I am deeply, deeply sorry! Good-bye.”

  “And I for you,” he said. “Good-bye.”

  She sat in her car, waiting, until the train started.

  CHAPTER XVII

  ECHOES

  Some minutes later, on the northward speeding train, he left Portlaw playing solitaire in their own compartment, and, crossing the swaying corridor, entered the state-room opposite. Miss Wilming was there, reading a novel, an enormous bunch of roses, a box of bonbons, and a tiny kitten
on the table before her. The kitten was so young that it was shaky on its legs, and it wore very wide eyes and a blue bow.

  “Hello, Dolly,” he said pleasantly. She answered rather faintly.

  “What a voice — like the peep of an infant sparrow! Are you worrying?”

  “A little.”

  “You needn’t be. Alphonse will make a noise, of course, but you needn’t mind that. The main thing in life is to know what you want to do and do it. Which I’ve never yet done in my life. Zut! Zut!! — as our late Count Alphonse might say. And he’ll say other remarks when he finds you’ve gone, Dolly.” And Malcourt, who was a mimic, shrugged and raised his arms in Gallic appeal to the gods of wrath, until he mouthed his face into a startling resemblance to that of the bereft nobleman.

  Then he laughed a little — not very heartily; then, in a more familiar rôle, he sat down opposite the girl and held up one finger of admonition and consolation.

  “The main thing, Dolly, was to get clear of him — and all that silly business. Yes? No? Bon!... And now everything is cleared up between us, and I’ve told you what I’d do — if you really wanted a chance. I believe in chances for people.”

  The girl, who was young, buried her delicate face in the roses and looked at him. The kitten, balanced on tiny, wavering legs, stared hard at him, too. He looked from girl to kitten, conscious of the resemblance, and managed to smother a smile.

  “You said,” he repeated severely, “that you wanted a chance. I told you what I could and would do; see that you live and dress decently, stand for your musical, dramatic, athletic, and terpsichorean education and drilling — but not for one atom of nonsense. Is that clear?”

  She nodded.

  “Not one break; not one escapade, Dolly. It’s up to you.”

  “I know it.”

  “All right, then. What’s passed doesn’t count. You start in and see what you can do. They say they drag one about by the hair at those dramatic schools. If they do, you’ve got to let ‘em. Anyway, things ought to come easier to you than to some, for you’ve got a corking education, and you don’t drink sloe-gin, and you don’t smoke.”