Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Across the hall, in the library, Duane stood absently twisting an unlighted cigar, and Kathleen, her hand on his shoulder, eyes lifted in sweet distress, was searching for words that seemed to evade her.

  He cut the knot without any emotion:

  “I know what you are trying to say, Kathleen. It is true that there has been a wretched misunderstanding, but if I know Geraldine at all I know that a mere misunderstanding will not do any permanent harm. It is something else that — worries me.”

  “Oh, Duane, I know! I know! She cannot marry you — in honour — until that — that terrible danger is eliminated. She will not, either. But — don’t give her up! Be with her — with us in this crisis — during it! See us through it, Duane; she is well worth what she costs us both — and costs herself.”

  “She must marry me now,” he said. “I want to fight this thing with all there is in me and in her, and in my love for her and hers for me. I can’t fight it in this blind, aloof way — this thing that is my rival — that stands with its claw embedded in her body warning me back! The horror of it is in the blind, intangible, abstract force that is against me. I can’t fight it aloof from her; I can’t take her away from it unless I have her in my arms to guard, to inspire, to comfort, to watch. Can’t you see, Kathleen, that I must have her every second of the time?”

  “She will not let you run the risk,” murmured Kathleen. “Duane, she had a dreadful night — she broke down so utterly that it scared me. She is horribly frightened; her nervous demoralisation is complete. For the first time, I think, she is really terrified. She says it is hopeless, that her will and nerve are undermined, her courage contaminated.... Hour after hour I sat with her; she made me tell her about her grandfather — about what I knew of the — the taint in her family.”

  “Those things are merely predispositions,” he said. “Self-command makes them harmless.”

  “I told her that. She says that they are living sparks that will smoulder while life endures.”

  “Suppose they are,” he said; “they can never flame unless nursed.... Kathleen, I want to see her — —”

  “She will not.”

  “Has she spoken at all of me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bitterly?”

  “Y-yes. I don’t know what you did. She is very morbid just now, anyway; very desperate. But I know that, unconsciously, she counts on an adjustment of any minor personal difficulty with you.... She loves you dearly, Duane.”

  He passed an unsteady hand across his eyes.

  “She must marry me. I can’t stand aloof from this battle any longer.”

  “Duane, she will not. I — she said some things — she is morbid, I tell you — and curiously innocent — in her thoughts — concerning herself and you. She says she can never marry.”

  “Exactly what did she say to you?”

  Kathleen hesitated; the intimacy of the subject left her undecided; then very seriously her pure, clear gaze met his:

  “She will not marry, for your own sake, and for the sake of any — children. She has evidently thought it all out.... I must tell you how it is. There is no use in asking her; she will never consent, Duane, as long as she is afraid of herself. And how to quiet that fear by exterminating the reason for it I don’t know—” Her voice broke pitifully. “Only stand by us, Duane. Don’t go away just now. You were packing to go; but please don’t leave me just yet. Could you arrange to remain for a while?”

  “Yes, I’ll arrange it.... I’m a little troubled about my father—” He checked himself. “I could run down to town for a day or two and return — —”

  “Is Colonel Mallett ill?” she asked.

  “N-no.... These are rather strenuous times — or threaten to be. Of course the Half-Moon is as solid as a rock. But even the very, very great are beginning to fuss.... And my father is not young, Kathleen. So I thought I’d like to run down and take him out to dinner once or twice — to a roof-garden or something, you know. It’s rather pathetic that men of his age, grown gray in service, should feel obliged to remain in the stifling city this summer.”

  “Of course you must go,” she said; “you couldn’t even hesitate. Is your mother worried?”

  “I don’t suppose she has the slightest notion that there is anything to worry over. And there isn’t, I think. She and Naïda will be in the Berkshires; I’ll go up and stay with them later — when Geraldine is all right again,” he added cheerfully.

  Scott, fidgeting like a neglected pup, came wandering into the hall, book in hand.

  “For the love of Mike,” he said impatiently, “what have you two got to talk about all night?”

  “My son,” observed Duane, “there are a few subjects for conversation which do not include the centipede and the polka-dotted dickey-bird. These subjects Kathleen and I furtively indulge in when we can arrange to elude you.”

  Scott covered a yawn and glanced at Kathleen.

  “Is Geraldine all right?” he asked with all the healthy indifference of a young man who had never been ill, and was, therefore, incapable of understanding illness in others.

  “Certainly, she’s all right,” said Duane. And to Kathleen: “I believe I’ll venture to knock at her door — —”

  “Oh, no, Duane. She isn’t ready to see anybody — —”

  “Well, I’ll try — —”

  “Please, don’t!”

  But he had her at a disadvantage, and he only laughed and mounted the stairs, saying:

  “I’ll just exchange a word with her or with her maid, anyway.”

  When he turned into the corridor Geraldine’s maid, seated in the window-seat sewing, rose and came forward to take his message. In a few moments she returned, saying:

  “Miss Seagrave asks to be excused, as she is ready to retire.”

  “Ask Miss Seagrave if I can say good-night to her through the door.”

  The maid disappeared and returned in a moment.

  “Miss Seagrave wishes you good-night, sir.”

  So he thanked the maid pleasantly and walked to his own room, now once more prepared for him after the departure of those who had temporarily required it.

  Starlight made the leaded windows brilliant; he opened them wide and leaned out on the sill, arms folded. The pale astral light illuminated a fairy world of meadow and garden and spectral trees, and two figures moving like ghosts down by the fountain among the roses — Rosalie and Grandcourt pacing the gravel paths shoulder to shoulder under the stars.

  Below him, on the terrace, he saw Kathleen and Scott — the latter carrying a butterfly net — examining the borders of white pinks with a lantern. In and out of the yellow rays swam multitudes of night moths, glittering like flakes of tinsel as the lantern light flashed on their wings; and Scott was evidently doing satisfactory execution, for every moment or two Kathleen uncorked the cyanide jar and he dumped into it from the folds of the net a fluttering victim.

  “That last one is a Pandorus Sphinx!” he said in great excitement to Kathleen, who had lifted the big glass jar into the lantern light and was trying to get a glimpse of the exquisite moth, whose wings of olive green, rose, and bronze velvet were already beating a hazy death tattoo in the lethal fumes.

  “A Pandorus! Scott, you’ve wanted one so much!” she exclaimed, enchanted.

  “You bet I have. Pholus pandorus is pretty rare around here. And I say, Kathleen, that wasn’t a bad net-stroke, was it? You see I had only a second, and I took a desperate chance.”

  She praised his skill warmly; then, as he stood admiring his prize in the jar which she held up, she suddenly caught him by the arm and pointed:

  “Oh, quick! There is a hawk-moth over the pinks which resembles nothing we have seen yet!”

  Scott very cautiously laid his net level, stole forward, shining the lantern light full on the darting, hazy-winged creature, which was now poised, hovering over a white blossom and probing the honeyed depths with a long, slim proboscis.

  “I thought it might be o
nly a Lineata, but it isn’t,” he said excitedly. “Did you ever see such a timid moth? The slightest step scares the creature.”

  “Can’t you try a quick net-stroke sideways?”

  Her voice was as anxious and unsteady as his own.

  “I’m afraid I’ll miss. Lord but it’s a lightning flier! Where is it now?”

  “Behind you. Do be careful! Turn very slowly.”

  He pivoted; the slim moth darted past, circled, and hung before a blossom, wings vibrating so fast that the creature was merely a gray blur in the lantern light. The next instant Gray’s net swung; a furious fluttering came from the green silk folds; Kathleen whipped off the cover of the jar, and Duane deftly imprisoned the moth.

  “Upon my word,” he said shakily, “I believe I’ve got a Tersa Sphinx! — a sub-tropical fellow whose presence here is mere accident!”

  “Oh, if you have!” she breathed softly. She didn’t know what a Tersa Sphinx might be, but if its capture gave him pleasure, that was all she cared for in the world.

  “It is a Tersa!” he almost shouted. “By George! it’s a wonder.”

  Radiant, she bent eagerly above the jar where the strange, slender, gray-and-brown hawk-moth lay dying. Its recoiling proboscis and its slim, fawn-coloured legs quivered. The eyes glowed like tiny jewels.

  “If we could only keep these little things alive,” she sighed; then, fearful of taking the least iota from his pleasure, added: “but of course we can’t, and for scientific purposes it’s all right to let the lovely little creatures sink into their death-sleep.”

  A slight haze had appeared over the lake; a sudden cool streak grew in the air, which very quickly cleared the flower-beds of moths; and the pretty sub-tropical sphinx was the last specimen of the evening.

  In the library Scott pulled out a card-table and Kathleen brought forceps, strips of oiled paper, pins, setting-blocks, needles, and oblong glass weights; and together, seated opposite each other, they removed the delicate-winged contents of the collecting jar.

  Kathleen’s dainty fingers were very swift and deft with the forceps. Scott watched her. She picked up the green-and-rose Pandorus, laid it on its back on a setting-block, affixed and pinned the oiled-paper strips, drew out the four wings with the setting-needle until they were symmetrical and the inner margin of the anterior pair was at right angles with the body.

  Then she arranged the legs, uncoiled and set the proboscis, and weighted the wings with heavy glass strips.

  They worked rapidly, happily there together, exchanging views and opinions; and after a while the brilliant spoils of the evening were all stretched and ready to dry, ultimately to be placed in plaster-of-Paris mounts and hermetically sealed under glass covers.

  Kathleen went away to cleanse her hands of any taint of cyanide; Scott, returning from his own ablutions, met her in the hall, and so miraculously youthful, so fresh and sweet and dainty did she appear that, in some inexplicable manner, his awkward, self-conscious fear of touching her suddenly vanished, and the next instant she was in his arms and he had kissed her.

  “Scott!” she faltered, pushing him from her, too limp and dazed to use the strength she possessed.

  Surprised at what he had done, amazed that he was not afraid of her, he held her tightly, thrilled dumb at the exquisite trembling contact.

  “Oh, what are you doing,” she stammered, in dire consternation; “what have you done? We — you cannot — you must let me go, Scott — —”

  “You’re only a girl, after all — you darling!” he said, inspecting her in an ecstacy of curiosity. “I wonder why I’ve been afraid of you for so long? — just because I love you!”

  “You don’t — you can’t care for me that way — —”

  “I care for you in every kind of a way that anybody can care about anybody.” She turned her shoulder, desperately striving to release herself, but she had not realised how tall and strong he was. “How small you are,” he repeated wonderingly; “just a soft, slender girl, Kathleen. I can’t see how I ever came to let you make me study when I didn’t want to.”

  “Scott, dear,” she pleaded breathlessly, “you must let me go. This — this is utterly impossible — —”

  “What is?”

  “That you and I can — could care — this way — —”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I — no!”

  “Is that the truth, Kathleen?”

  She looked up; the divine distress in her violet eyes sobered him, awed him for a moment.

  “Kathleen,” he said, “there are only a few years’ difference between our ages. I feel older than you; you look younger than I — and you are all in the world I care for — or ever have cared for. Last spring — that night — —”

  “Hush, Scott,” she begged, blushing scarlet.

  “I know you remember. That is when I began to love you. You must have known it.”

  She said nothing; the strain of her resisting arms against his breast had relaxed imperceptibly.

  “What can a fellow say?” he went on a little wildly, checked at moments by the dryness of his throat and the rapid heartbeats that almost took his breath away when he looked at her. “I love you so dearly, Kathleen; there’s no use in trying to live without loving you, for I couldn’t do it!... I’m not really young; it makes me furious to think you consider me in that light. I’m a man, strong enough and old enough to love you — and make you love me! I will make you!” His arms tightened.

  She uttered a little cry, which was half a sob; his boyish roughness sent a glow rushing through her. She fought against the peril of it, the bewildering happiness that welled up — fought against her heart that was betraying her senses, against the deep, sweet passion that awoke as his face touched hers.

  “Will you love me?” he said fiercely.

  “No!”

  “Will you?”

  “Yes.... Let me go!” she gasped.

  “Will you love me in the way I mean? Can you?”

  “Yes. I do. I — have, long since.... Let me go!”

  “Then — kiss me.”

  She looked up at him a moment, slowly put both arms around his neck: “Now,” she breathed faintly, “release me.”

  And at the same instant he saw Geraldine descending the stairs.

  Kathleen saw her, too; saw her turn abruptly, re-mount and disappear. There was a moment’s painful silence, then, without a word, she picked up her lace skirts, ran up the stairway, and continued swiftly on to Geraldine’s room.

  “May I come in?” She spoke and opened the door of the bedroom at the same time, and Geraldine turned on her, exasperated, hands clenched, dark eyes harbouring lightning:

  “Have I gone quite mad, Kathleen, or have you?” she demanded.

  “I think I have,” whispered Kathleen, turning white and halting. “Geraldine, you will have to listen. Scott has told me that he loves me — —”

  “Is this the first time?”

  “No.... It is the first time I have listened. I can’t think clearly; I scarcely know yet what I’ve said and done. What must you think?... But won’t you be a little gentle with me — a little forbearing — in memory of what I have been to you — to him — so long?”

  “What do you wish me to think?” asked the girl in a hard voice. “My brother is of age; he will do what he pleases, I suppose. I — I don’t know what to think; this has astounded me. I never dreamed such a thing possible — —”

  “Nor I — until this spring. I know it is all wrong; this is making me more fearfully unhappy every minute I live. There is nothing but peril in it; the discrepancy in our ages makes it hazardous — his youth, his overwhelming fortune, my position and means — the world will surely, surely misinterpret, misunderstand — I think even you, his sister, may be led to credit — what, in your own heart, you must know to be utterly and cruelly untrue.”

  “I don’t know what to say or think,” repeated Geraldine in a dull voice. “I can’t realise it; I thought that our affect
ion for you was so — so utterly different.”

  She stared curiously at Kathleen, trying to reconcile what she had always known of her with what she now had to reckon with — strove to find some alteration in the familiar features, something that she had never before noticed, some new, unsuspected splendour of beauty and charm, some undetected and subtle allure. She saw only a wholesome, young, and lovely woman, fresh-skinned, slender, sweet, and graceful — the same companion she had always known and, as she remembered, unchanged in any way since the years of childhood, when Kathleen was twenty and she and her brother were ten.

  “I suppose,” she said, “that if Scott is in love with you, there is only one thing to do.”

  “There are several,” said Kathleen in a low voice.

  “Will you not marry him?”

  “I don’t know; I think not.”

  “Are you not in love with him?”

  “Does that matter?” asked Kathleen steadily. “Scott’s happiness is what is important.”

  “But his happiness, apparently, depends on you.”

  Kathleen flushed and looked at her curiously.

  “Dear, if I knew that was so, I would give myself to him. Neither you nor he have ever asked anything of me in vain. Even if I did not love him — as I do — and he needed me, I would give myself to him. You and he have been all there was in life for me. But I am afraid that I may not always be all that life holds for him. He is young; he has had no chance yet; he has had little experience with women. I think he ought to have his chance.”

  She might have said the same thing of herself. A bride at her husband’s death-bed, widowed before she had ever been a wife, what experience had she? All her life so far had been devoted to the girl who stood there confronting her, and to the brother. What did she know of men? — of whether she might be capable of loving some man more suitable? She had not given herself the chance. She never would, now.

  There was no selfishness in Kathleen Severn. But there was much in the Seagrave twins. The very method of their bringing up inculcated it; they had never had any chance to be otherwise. The “cultiwation of the indiwidool” had driven it into them, taught them the deification of self, forced them to consider their own importance above anything else in the world.