Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Exhausted, half-senseless, her hands still clung together, her tear-swollen lips still moved to form his name, asking God’s mercy on them both. But the end had come.

  “Then fell prone, head buried in her tumbled hair.”

  Yes, the end; she knew it now — understood what had happened, what must be. And, knowing, she heard the sea-rain whispering their judgment, and the winds repeating it across the wastes.

  She raised her head, dumb, rigid, listening, and stared through the shaking window into obscurity. Lightning flickered along the rim of the world — a pallid threat above the sea — the sea which had given them to one another and left them stranded in each other’s arms there on the crumbling edges of destruction.

  Her strained eyes divined, her straining senses comprehended; she cringed lower, aghast, swaying under the menace, then fell prone, head buried in her tumbled hair.

  In the morning he left for the North and Portlaw’s camp. Gray drove him to the station; Cecile, in distractingly pretty negligee waved him audacious adieu from her window.

  “Shiela seems to be ill,” explained Gray, as the motor car shot out into the haze of early morning. “She asked me to say good-bye for her.... I say, Hamil, you’re looking rather ill yourself. This climate is sure to get a white man sooner or later, if he remains too long. But the North will put you into condition. You’re going straight to Portlaw’s camp on Luckless Lake?”

  “Yes,” said Hamil listlessly.

  “Well, we’ll be in New York in a week or two. You’ll surely look us up when you’re in town, won’t you? And write me a line about Acton and father — won’t you?”

  “Surely,” nodded Hamil absently.

  And they sped on, the vast distorted shadow of the car racing beside them to the station.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE LINE OF BATTLE

  Portlaw’s camp in the southern foot-hills of the Adirondacks was as much a real camp as the pretentious constructions at Newport are real cottages. A modesty, akin to smugness, designates them all with Heep-like humbleness under a nomenclature now tolerated through usage; and, from the photographs sent him, Hamil was very much disgusted to find a big, handsome two-story house, solidly constructed of timber and native stone, dominating a clearing in the woods, and distantly flanked by the superintendent’s pretty cottage, the guides’ quarters, stables, kennels, coach-houses, and hothouses with various auxiliary buildings still farther away within the sombre circle of the surrounding pines.

  To this aggravation of elaborate structures Portlaw, in a spasm of modesty, had given the name of “Camp Chickadee”; and now he wanted to stultify the remainder of his domain with concrete terraces, bridges, lodges, and Gothic towers in various and pleasing stages of ruin.

  So Hamil’s problem presented itself as one of those annoyingly simple ones, entirely dependent upon Portlaw and good taste; and Portlaw had none.

  He had, however, some thirty thousand acres of woods and streams and lakes fenced in with a twelve-foot barrier of cattle-proof wire — partly a noble virgin wilderness unmarred by man-trails; partly composed of lovely second growth scarcely scarred by that, vile spoor which is the price Nature pays for the white-hided invaders who walk erect, when not too drunk, and who foul and smear and stain and desolate water and earth and air around them.

  Why Portlaw desired to cut his wilderness into a mincing replica of some emasculated British royal forest nobody seemed able to explain. While at Palm Beach he had made two sage observations to Hamil concerning the sacredness of trees; one was that there are no trees in a Scotch deer forest, which proved to his satisfaction that trees are unnecessary; the other embodied his memories of seeing a herd of calf-like fallow deer decorating the grass under the handsome oaks and beeches of some British nobleman’s park.

  Why Portlaw concerned himself at all with his wild, out-world domain was a mystery, too; for he admitted that he spent almost all day playing cards indoors or contriving with his cook some new and succulent experiment in the gastronomical field.

  Sometimes he cast a leaden eye outdoors when his dogs were exercised from the kennel; rarely, and always unwillingly, he followed Malcourt to the hatchery to watch the stripping, or to the exotic pheasantry to inspect the breeding of birds entirely out of place in such a climate.

  He did like to see a fat deer; the fatter the better; he was accustomed, too, to poke his thumb into the dead plumage of a plump grouse when Malcourt’s men laid out the braces, on which he himself never drew trigger; and which interested him only when on the table.

  He wanted plenty of game and fish on the place for that reason; he wanted his guests to shoot and fish for that reason, too. Otherwise he cared nothing for his deer, his grouse, and his trout. And why he suddenly had been bitten with a mania for “improving” the flawless wilderness about him, even Malcourt did not know.

  Hamil, therefore, was prepared for a simple yet difficult problem — to do as little harm to the place as possible, and to appease Portlaw at the same time, and curb his meddlesome and iconoclastic proclivities.

  Spring had begun early in the North; shallow snows were fading from the black forest soil along the streams’ edges, and from the pebbled shores of every little lake; already the soft ice was afloat on pool and pond; muskrats swam; the eggs of the woodcock were beginning their chilly incubation; and in one sheltered spring-hole behind the greenhouse Malcourt discovered a solemn frog afloat. It takes only a single frog to make the spring-time.

  That week the trailing fragrance of arbutus hung over wet hollows along the hills; and at night, high in the starlight, the thrilling clangour of wild geese rang out — the truest sky-music of the North among all the magic folk-songs of the wild.

  The anchor-ice let go and went out early, and a few pioneer trout jumped that week; the cock-grouse, magnificent in his exquisite puffed ruff, paced the black-wet drumming log, and the hollow woodlands throbbed all day with his fairy drumming.

  On hard-wood ridges every sugar-bush ran sap; the aroma from fire and kettle sweetened the air; a few battered, hibernating butterflies crawled out of cracks and crannies and sat on the sap-pans sunning their scarlet-banded wings.

  And out of the hot South into the fading silver of this chill Northern forest-world came Hamil, sunburned, sombre-eyed, silent.

  Malcourt met him at Pride’s Fall with a buckboard and a pair of half-broken little Morgans; and away they tore into the woods, scrambling uphill, plunging downhill, running away most of the time to the secret satisfaction of Malcourt, who cared particularly for what was unsafe in life.

  He looked sideways at Hamil once or twice, and, a trifle disappointed that the pace seemed to suit him, let the little horses out.

  “Bad thing to meet a logging team,” he observed.

  “Yes,” said Hamil absently. So Malcourt let the horses run away when they cared to; they needed it and he enjoyed it. Besides there were never any logging teams on that road.

  Malcourt inquired politely concerning the Villa Cardross and its occupants; Hamil answered in generalities.

  “You’ve finished there, then!”

  “Practically. I may go down in the autumn to look it over once more.”

  “Is Cardross going to put in the Schwarzwald pigs?”

  “Yes; they’re ordered.”

  “Portlaw wants some here. I’d give ten dollars, poor as I am, if I could get Portlaw out in the snow and fully occupied with an irritated boar.”

  “Under such circumstances one goes up a tree?” inquired Hamil, smiling.

  “One does if one is not too fat and can shed snowshoes fast enough. Otherwise one keeps on shooting one’s 45-70. By the way, you were in New York for a day or two. How’s the market?”

  “Sagging.”

  “Money?”

  “Scarce. I saw Mr. Cardross and Acton Carrick. Nobody seems enthusiastic over the prospect. While there are no loans being called there are few being made. I heard rumours of course; a number of banks and trust companies
are getting themselves whispered about. Outside of that I don’t know, Malcourt, because I haven’t much money and what I have is on deposit with the Shoshone Securities Company pending a chance for some safe and attractive investment.”

  “That’s Cardross, Carrick & Co.”

  “Yes.” And as they whirled into the clearing and the big, handsome house came into view he smiled: “Is this Camp Chickadee?”

  “Yes, and yonder’s my cottage on Luckless Lake — a nice name,” added Malcourt, “but Portlaw says it’s safer to leave the name as it stands than to provoke the gods with boastful optimism by changing it to Lucky Lake. Oh, it’s a gay region; Lake Desolation lies just beyond that spur; Lake Eternity east of us; Little Scalp Lake west — a fine bunch of names for a landscape in hell; but Portlaw won’t change them. West and south the wet bones of the Sacandaga lie; and south-east you’re up against the Great Vlaie and Frenchman’s Creek and Sir William’s remains from Guy Park on the Mohawk to the Fish House and all that bally Revolutionary tommy-rot.” And as he blandly drew in his horses beside the porch: “Look who’s here! Who but our rotund friend and lover of all things fat, lord of the manor of Chickadee-dee-dee which he has taught the neighbouring dicky-birds, who sit around the house, to repeat aloud in honour of—”

  “For Heaven’s sake, Louis! How are you, Hamil?” grunted Portlaw, extending a heavily cushioned, highly coloured hand of welcome.

  Hamil and Malcourt descended; a groom blanketed the horses and took them to the stables; and Portlaw, with a large gesture of impatient hospitality, led the way into a great, warm living-room, snug, deeply and softly padded, and in which the fragrance of burning birch-logs and simmering toddy blended agreeably in the sunshine.

  “For luncheon,” began Portlaw with animation, “we’re going to try a new sauce on that pair of black ducks they brought in—”

  “In violation of the laws of game and decency,” observed Malcourt, shedding his fur coat and unstrapping the mail-satchel from Pride’s Fall.

  “Shut up, Louis! Can’t a man eat the things that come into his own property?” And he continued unfolding to Hamil his luncheon programme while, with a silver toddy-stick, heirloom from bibulous generations of Portlaws, he stirred the steaming concoction which, he explained, had been constructed after the great Sir William’s own receipt.

  “You’ve never tried a Molly Brant toddy? Man alive, you’ve wasted your youth,” he insisted, genuinely grieved. “Well, wise men, chiefs, and sachems, here’s more hair on your scalp-locks, and a fat buck to every bow!”

  Malcourt picked up his glass. “Choh” he said maliciously; but Portlaw did not understand the irony in the Seminole salutation of The Black Drink; and the impudent toast was swallowed without suspicion.

  Then Hamil’s luggage arrived, and he went away to inspect his quarters, prepare for luncheon, and exchange his attire for forest dress. For he meant to lose no time in the waste corners of the earth when Gotham town might any day suddenly bloom like Eden with the one young blossom that he loved.

  There was not much for him in Eden now — little enough except to be in her vicinity, near her at times, at intervals with her long enough to exchange a word or two under the smooth mask of convention which leaves even the eyes brightly expressionless.

  Never again to touch her hand save under the formal laws sanctioned by usage; never again to wake with the intimate fragrance of her memory on his lips; never again to wait for the scented dusk to give them to each other — to hear her frail gown’s rustle on the terrace, her footfall in the midnight corridor, her far, sweet hail to him from the surf, her soft laughter under the roses on the moon-lit balcony.

  That — all of it — was forever ended. But he believed that the pallid northern phantom of the past was still left to him; supposed that now, at least, they might miserably consider themselves beyond peril.

  But what man supposes of woman is vain imagining; and in that shadowy neutral ground which lies between martyrdom and sin no maid dwells for very long before she crosses one frontier or the other.

  When he descended the stairs once more he found Portlaw, surrounded by the contents of the mail-sack, and in a very bad temper, while Malcourt stood warming his back at the blazing birch-logs, and gazing rather stupidly at a folded telegram in his hands.

  “Well, Hamil — damn it all! What do you think of that!” demanded Portlaw, turning to Hamil as he entered the room; and unheeding Malcourt’s instinctive gesture of caution which he gave, not comprehending why he gave it, Portlaw went on, fairly pouting out his irritation:

  “In that bally mail-sack which Louis brought in from Pride’s Fall there’s a telegram from your friend, Neville Cardross; and why the devil he wants Louis to come to New York on the jump—”

  “I have a small balance at the Shoshone Trust,” said Malcourt. “Do you suppose there’s anything queer about the company?”

  Hamil shook his head, looking curiously at Malcourt.

  “Well, what on earth do you think Cardross wants with you?” demanded Portlaw. “Read that telegram again.”

  Again Malcourt’s instinct seemed to warn him to silence. All the same, with a glance at Hamil, he unfolded the bit of yellow paper and read:

  “LOUIS MALCOURT,

  “Superintendent Luckless Lake,

  “Adirondacks.

  “Your presence is required at my office in the Shoshone Securities Building on a matter of most serious and instant importance. Telegraph what train you can catch. Mr. Carrick will meet you on the train at Albany.

  “NEVILLE CARDROSS.

  “Answer Paid.”

  “Well, what the devil does it mean?” demanded Portlaw peevishly. “I can’t spare you now. How can I? Here’s Hamil all ready for you to take him about and show him what I want to have done—”

  “I wonder what it means,” mused Malcourt. “Maybe there’s something wrong with the Tressilvain end of the family. The Shoshone Securities people manage her investments here—”

  “The way to do is to wire and find out,” grumbled Portlaw, leading the way to the luncheon table as a servant announced that function.

  For it was certainly a function with Portlaw; all eating was more or less of a ceremony, and dinner rose to the dignity of a rite.

  “I can’t imagine what that telegram—”

  “Forget it!” snapped Portlaw; “do you want to infect my luncheon? When a man lunches he ought to give his entire mind to it. Talk about your lost arts! — the art of eating scarcely survives at all. Find it again and you revive that other lost art of prandial conversation. Digestion’s not possible without conversation. Hamil, you look at your claret in a funny way.”

  “I was admiring the colour where the sun strikes through,” said the latter, amused.

  “Oh! I thought you were remembering that claret is temporarily unfashionable. That’s part of the degeneracy of the times. There never was and never will be any wine to equal it when it has the body of a Burgundy and the bouquet of wild-grape blossoms. Louis,” cocking his heavy red face and considering a morsel of duck, “what is your opinion concerning the proper mélange for that plumcot salad dressing?”

  “They say,” said Malcourt gravely, “that when it’s mixed, a current of electricity passed through it gives it a most astonishing flavour—”

  “What!”

  “So they say at the Stuyvesant Club.”

  Portlaw’s eyes bulged; Hamil had to bend his head low over his plate, but Malcourt’s bland impudence remained unperturbed.

  “Good God!” muttered Portlaw; “Hamil, did you ever hear of passing electricity through a salad dressing composed of olive oil, astragon, Arequipa pepper, salt, Samara mustard, essence of anchovy, chives, distilled fresh mushrooms, truffles pickled in 1840 port — did you?”

  “No,” said Hamil, “I never did.”

  For a while silence settled upon the table while Portlaw struggled to digest mentally the gastronomic suggestion offered by Malcourt.

  “I
could send to town for a battery,” he said hesitatingly; “or — there’s my own electric plant—”

  Malcourt yawned. There was not much fun in exploiting such a man. Besides, Hamil had turned uncomfortable, evidently considering it the worst of taste on Malcourt’s part.

  “What am I to do about that telegram?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

  Portlaw, immersed in sauce and the electrical problem, adjusted his mind with an effort to this other and less amusing question.

  “Wire for particulars and sit tight,” advised Portlaw. “We’ve just three now for ‘Preference,’ and if you go kiting off to town Hamil and I will be forced into double dummy, and that’s a horrible mental strain on a man — isn’t it, Hamil?”

  “I could use the long-distance telephone,” said Malcourt pensively.

  “Well, for the love of Mike go and do it!” shouted Portlaw, “and let me try to enjoy this Andelys cheese.”

  So Malcourt sauntered out through the billiard-room, leaving an aromatic trail of cigarette smoke in his wake; and he closed all the intervening doors — why, he himself could not have explained.

  He was absent a long time. Portlaw had terminated the table ceremony, and now, ensconced among a dozen fat cushions by the fire, a plump cigar burning fragrantly between his curiously clean-cut and sharply chiselled lips, he sat enthroned, majestically digesting; and his face of a Greek hero, marred by heavy flesh, had become almost somnolent in its expression of well-being and corporeal contentment.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without Louis,” he said sleepily. “He keeps my men hustling, he answers for everything on the bally place, he’s so infernally clever that he amuses me and my guests, he’s on the job every minute. It would be devilishly unpleasant for me if I lost him.... And I’m always afraid of it.... There are usually a lot of receptive girls making large eyes at him.... My only safety is that they are so many — and so easy.... If Cardross hadn’t signed that telegram I’d bet my bottes-sauvage it concerned some entanglement.”