Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Her lifted eyes betrayed no curiosity; a growing sense of depression crept over him.

  “Oh, well,” he said, “it doesn’t matter.” And turned toward the door.

  She looked into the empty fireplace with a sigh; then, gently, “I don’t mean to make it any drearier for you than I can help.”

  He considered her a moment.

  “Are you really well, Shiela?”

  “Why, yes; only a little tired. I do not sleep well.”

  He nodded toward the west wing of the house.

  “Do they bother you?”

  She did not answer.

  He said: “Thank you for putting them up. We’ll get rid of them if they annoy you.”

  “They are quite welcome.”

  “That’s very decent of you, Shiela. I dare say you have not found them congenial.”

  “We have nothing in common. I think they consider me a fool.”

  “Why?” He looked up, keenly humourous.

  “Because I don’t understand their inquiries. Besides, I don’t gamble—”

  “What kind of inquiries do they make?”

  “Personal ones,” she said quietly.

  He laughed. “They’re probably more offensively impertinent than the Chinese — that sort of Briton. I think I’ll step into the west wing and greet my relations. I won’t impose them on you for very long. Do you know when they are going?”

  “I think they have made plans to remain here for a while.”

  “Really?” he sneered. “Well, leave that to me, Shiela.”

  So he crossed into the western wing and found the Tressilvains tête-à-tête over a card-table, deeply interested in something that resembled legerdemain; and he stood at the door and watched them with a smile that was not agreeable.

  “Well, Helen!” he said at last; and Lady Tressilvain started, and her husband rose to the full height of his five feet nothing, dropping the pack which he had been so nimbly manipulating for his wife’s amusement.

  “Where the devil did you come from?” blurted his lordship; but his wife made a creditable appearance in her rôle of surprised sisterly affection; and when the two men had gone through the form of family greeting they all sat down for the conventional family confab.

  Tressilvain said little but drank a great deal of whisky — his long, white, bony fingers were always spread around his glass — unusually long fingers for such a short man, and out of all proportion to the scant five-foot frame, topped with a little pointed head, in which the eyes were set exactly as glass eyes are screwed into the mask of a fox.

  “Bertie and I have been practising leads from trick hands,” observed Lady Tressilvain, removing the ice from her glass and filling it from a soda bottle which Malcourt uncorked for her.

  “Well, Herby,” said Malcourt genially, “I suppose you and Helen play a game well worth — ah — watching.”

  Tressilvain looked dully annoyed, although there was nothing in his brother-in-law’s remark to ruffle anybody, except that his lordship did not like to be called Herby. He sat silent, caressing his glass; and presently his little black eyes stole around in Malcourt’s direction, and remained there, waveringly, while brother and sister discussed the former’s marriage, the situation at Luckless Lake, and future prospects.

  That is to say, Lady Tressilvain did the discussing; Malcourt, bland, amiable, remained uncommunicatively polite, parrying everything so innocently that his sister, deceived, became plainer in her questions concerning the fortune he was supposed to have married, and more persistent in her suggestions of a winter in New York — a delightful and prolonged family reunion, in which the Tressilvains were to figure as distinguished guests and virtual pensioners of everybody connected with his wife’s family.

  “Do you think,” drawled Malcourt, intercepting a furtive glance between his sister and brother-in-law, to that gentleman’s slight confusion, “do you think it might prove interesting to you and Herby? Americans are so happy to have your countrymen to entertain — particularly when their credentials are as unquestionable as Herby’s and yours.”

  For a full minute, in strained silence, the concentrated gaze of the Tressilvains was focused upon the guileless countenance of Malcourt; and discovered nothing except a fatuous cordiality.

  Lady Tressilvain drew a deep, noiseless breath and glanced at her husband.

  “I don’t understand, Louis, exactly what settlement — what sort of arrangement you made when you married this — very interesting young girl—”

  “Oh, I didn’t have anything to endow her with,” said Malcourt, so amiably stupid that his sister bit her lip.

  Tressilvain essayed a jest.

  “Rather good, that!” he said with his short, barking laugh; “but I da’say the glove was on the other hand, eh, Louis?”

  “What?”

  “Why the — ah — the lady did the endowing and all that, don’t you see?”

  “See what?” asked Malcourt so pleasantly that his sister shot a look at her husband which checked him.

  Malcourt was now on maliciously humourous terms with himself; he began to speak impulsively, affectionately, with all the appearance of a garrulous younger brother impatient to unbosom himself to his family; and he talked and talked, confidingly, guilelessly, voluminously, yet managed to say absolutely nothing. And, strain their ears as they might, the Tressilvains in their perplexity and increasing impatience could make out nothing of all this voluntary information — understand nothing — pick out not one single fact to satisfy their desperately hungry curiosity.

  There was no use interrupting him with questions; he answered them with others; he whispered ambiguities in a manner most portentous; hinted at bewildering paradoxes with an air; nodded mysterious nothings, and finally left them gaping at him, exasperated, unable to make any sense out of what most astonishingly resembled a candid revelation of the hopes, fears, ambitions, and worldly circumstances of Louis Malcourt.

  “Good-night,” he said, lingering at the door to look upon and enjoy the fruit of his perversity and malice. “When I start on that journey I mentioned to you I’ll leave something for you and Herby — merely to show you how much I think of my own people — a little gift — a trifle! No — no!” — lifting his hand with smiling depreciation as Tressilvain began to thank him. “One must look out for one’s own family. It’s natural — only natural to make some provision. Good-night, Helen! Good-night, Herby. Portlaw and I will take you on at Bridge if it rains to-morrow. It will be a privilege for us to — ah — watch your game — closely. Good-night!”

  And closed the door.

  “What the devil does he mean?” demanded Tressilvain, peering sideways at his wife.

  “I don’t exactly know,” she said thoughtfully, sorting the cards. She added: “If we play to-morrow you stick to signals; do you understand? And keep your ring and your fingers off the cards until I can make up my mind about my brother. You’re a fool to drink American whisky the way you did yesterday. Mr. Portlaw noticed the roughness on the aces; you pricked them too deep. You’d better keep your wits about you, I can tell you. I’m a Yankee myself.”

  “Right — O! But I say, Helen, I’m damned if I make out that brother of yours. Doesn’t he live in the same house as his wife?”

  Lady Tressilvain sat listening to the uproar from the dogs as Malcourt left the garden. But this time the outbreak was only a noisy welcome; and Malcourt, on excellent terms with himself, patted every sleek, wet head thrust up for caresses and walked gaily on through the driving rain.

  The rain continued the following day. Piloted by Malcourt, the Tressilvains, thickly shod and water-proofed, tramped about with rod and creel and returned for luncheon where their blunt criticisms on the fishing aroused Portlaw’s implacable resentment. For they sneered at the trout, calling them “char,” patronised the rather scanty pheasantry, commented on the kennels, stables, and gardens in a manner that brought the red into Portlaw’s face and left him silent while luncheon lasted
.

  After luncheon Tressilvain tried the billiards, but found the game inferior to the English game. So he burrowed into a box of cigars, established himself before the fire with all the newspapers, deploring the fact that the papers were not worth reading.

  Lady Tressilvain cornered Shiela and badgered her and stared at her until she dared not lift her hot face or open her lips lest the pent resentment escape; Portlaw smoked a pipe — a sure indication of smouldering wrath; Malcourt, at a desk, blew clouds of smoke from his cigarette and smilingly continued writing to his attorney:

  “This is the general idea for the document, and it’s up to you to fix it up and make it legal, and have it ready for me when I come to town.

  “1st. I want to leave all my property to a Miss Dorothy or Dolly Wilming; and I want you to sell off everything after my death and invest the proceeds for her because it’s all she’ll have to live on except what she gets by her own endeavours. This, in case I suddenly snuff out.

  “2d. I want to leave my English riding-crop, spurs, bridle, and saddle to a Miss Virginia Suydam. Fix it legally.

  “3d. Here is a list of eighteen ladies. Each is to have one of my eighteen Chinese gods.

  “4th. To my wife I leave the nineteenth god. Mr. Hamil has it in his possession. I have no right to dispose of it, but he will have some day.

  “5th. To John Garret Hamil, 3d, I leave my volume of Jean DuMont, the same being an essay on Friendship.

  “6th. To my friend, William Van Bueren Portlaw, I leave my dogs, rods, and guns with a recommendation that he use them and his legs.

  “7th. To my sister, Lady Tressilvain, I leave my book of comic Bridge rules, and to her husband a volume of Methodist hymns.

  “I’ll be in town again, shortly, and expect you to have my will ready to be signed and witnessed. One ought always to be prepared, particularly when in excellent health.

  “Yours sincerely,

  “LOUIS MALCOURT.”

  “P.S. I enclose a check for the Greenlawn Cemetery people. I wish you’d see that they keep the hedge properly trimmed around my father’s plot and renew the dead sod where needed. I noticed that one of the trees was also dead. Have them put in another and keep the flowers in good shape. I don’t want anything dead around that lot.

  “L.M.”

  When he had sealed and directed his letter he looked around the silent room. Shiela was sewing by the window. Portlaw, back to the fire, stood staring out at the rain; Lady Tressilvain, a cigarette between her thin lips, wandered through the work-shop and loading-room where, from hooks in the ceiling, a thicket of split-cane rod-joints hung, each suspended by a single strong thread.

  The loading-room was lined with glass-faced cases containing fowling-pieces, rifles, reels, and the inevitable cutlery and ironmongery associated with utensils for the murder of wild creatures. Tressilvain sat at the loading-table to which he was screwing a delicate vise to hold hooks; for Malcourt had given him a lesson in fly-tying, and he meant to dress a dozen to try on Painted Creek.

  So he sorted snell and hook and explored the tin trunk for hackles, silks, and feathers, up to his bony wrists in the fluffy heap of brilliant plumage, burrowing, busy as a burying beetle under a dead bird.

  Malcourt dropped his letter into the post-box, glanced uncertainly in the direction of his wife, but as she did not lift her head from her sewing, turned with a shrug and crossed the floor to where Portlaw stood scowling and sucking at his empty pipe.

  “Look at that horrid little brother-in-law of mine with his ferret eyes and fox face, fussing around those feathers — as though he had just caught and eaten the bird that wore them!”

  Portlaw continued to scowl.

  “Suppose we take them on at cards,” suggested Malcourt.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ve taken a thousand out of me already.”

  Malcourt said quietly: “You’ve never before given such a reason for discontinuing card-playing. What’s your real reason?”

  Portlaw was silent.

  “Did you quit a thousand to the bad, Billy?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Then why not get it back?”

  “I don’t care to play,” said Portlaw shortly.

  The eyes of the two men met.

  “Are you, by any chance, afraid of our fox-faced guest?” asked Malcourt suavely.

  “I don’t care to give any reason, I tell you.”

  “That’s serious; as there could be only one reason. Did you think you noticed — anything?”

  “I don’t know what I think.... I’ve half a mind to stop payment on that check — if that enlightens you any.”

  “There’s an easier way,” said Malcourt coolly. “You know how it is in sparring? You forecast what your opponent is going to do and you stop him before he does it.”

  “I’m not certain that he — did it,” muttered Portlaw. “I can’t afford to make a mistake by kicking out your brother-in-law.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me—”

  “I wouldn’t if I were sure.... I wish I had that thousand back; it drives me crazy to think of losing it — in that way—”

  “Oh; then you feel reasonably sure—”

  “No, confound it.... The backs of the aces were slightly rough — but I can scarcely believe—”

  “Have you a magnifying glass?”

  The pack has disappeared.... I meant to try that.”

  “My dear fellow,” said Malcourt calmly, “it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest to learn that Tressilvain is a blackguard. It’s easy enough to get your thousand back. Shall we?”

  “How?”

  Malcourt sauntered over to a card table, seated himself, motioned Portlaw to the chair opposite, and removed the cover from a new pack.

  Then, to Portlaw’s astonishment, he began to take aces and court cards from any part of the pack at his pleasure; any card that Portlaw called for was produced unerringly. Then Malcourt dealt him unbelievable hands — all of a colour, all of a suit, all the cards below the tens, all above; and Portlaw, fascinated, watched the dark, deft fingers nimbly dealing, shuffling, until his senses spun round; and when Malcourt finally tore up all the aces, and then, ripping the green baize cover from the table, disclosed the four aces underneath, intact, Portlaw, petrified, only stared at him out of distended eyes.

  “Those are nice tricks, aren’t they?” asked Malcourt, smiling.

  “Y-yes. Lord! Louis, I never dreamed you could do such devilish things as—”

  “I can. If I were not always behind you in my score I’d scarcely dare let you know what I might do if I chose.... How far ahead is that little mink, yonder?”

  “Tressilvain?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has taken about a thousand — wait!” Portlaw consulted his note-book, made a wry face, and gave Malcourt the exact total.

  Malcourt turned carelessly in his chair.

  “O Herbert!” he called across to his brother-in-law; “don’t you and Helen want to take us on?”

  “Rather!” replied Tressilvain briskly; and came trotting across the room, his close-set black eyes moving restlessly from Malcourt to Portlaw.

  “Come on, Helen,” said Malcourt, drawing up a chair for her; and his sister seated herself gracefully. A moment later the game began, Portlaw passing it over to Malcourt, who made it no trumps, and laid out all the materials for international trouble, including a hundred aces.

  The games were brutally short, savage, decisive; Tressilvain lost countenance after the fastest four rubbers he had ever played, and shot an exasperated glance at his wife, who was staring thoughtfully at her brother.

  But that young man appeared to be in an innocently merry mood; he gaily taunted Herby, as he chose to call him, with loss of nerve; he tormented his sister because she didn’t seem to know what Portlaw’s discards meant; and no wonder, because he discarded from an obscure system taught him by Malcourt. Also, with a malice which Tressilva
in ignored, he forced formalities, holding everybody ruthlessly to iron-clad rule, taking penalties, enforcing the most rigid etiquette. For he was one of those rare players who knew the game so thoroughly that while he, and the man he had taught, often ignored the classics of adversary play, the slightest relaxing of etiquette, rule, precept, or precedent, in his opponents, brought him out with a protest exacting the last item of toll for indiscretion.

  Portlaw was perhaps the sounder player, Malcourt certainly the more brilliant; and now, for the first time since the advent of the Tressilvains, the cards Portlaw held were good ones.

  “What a nasty thing to do!” said Lady Tressilvain sharply, as her brother’s finesse went through, and with it another rubber.

  “It was horrid, wasn’t it, Helen? I don’t know what’s got into you and Herby”; and to the latter’s protest he added pleasantly: “You talk like a bucket of ashes. Go on and deal!”

  “A — what!” demanded Tressilvain angrily.

  “It’s an Americanism,” observed his wife, surveying her cards with masked displeasure and making it spades. “Louis, I never held such hands in all my life,” she said, displaying the meagre dummy.

  “Do you good, Helen. Mustn’t be too proud and haughty. No, no! Good for you and Herby—”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call him Herby,” snapped his sister.

  “Not respectful?” inquired Malcourt, lifting his eyebrows. “Well, I’ll call him anything you like, Helen; I don’t care. But make it something I can say when ladies are present—”

  Tressilvain’s mink-like muzzle turned white with rage. He didn’t like to be flouted, he didn’t like his cards, he didn’t like to lose money. And he had already lost a lot between luncheon and the impending dinner.

  “Why the devil I continue to hold all these three-card suits I don’t know,” he said savagely. “Isn’t there another pack in the house?”

  “There was” said Malcourt; and ironically condoled with him as Portlaw accomplished a little slam in hearts.

  Then Tressilvain dealt; and Malcourt’s eyes never left his brother-in-law’s hands as they distributed the cards with nervous rapidity.