Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Like you, then, John,” said Annan, “honest, solid, but totally unacquainted with the finer phases of contemporary humour—”

  “I’m as humorous as anybody!” roared Burleson.

  “Sure you are, John — just as humorously contemporaneous as anybody of our anachronistic era,” said Ogilvy, soothingly. “You’re right; there’s nothing funny about a hen.”

  “And here’s a highball for you, John,” said Neville, concocting a huge one on the sideboard.

  “And here are two charming ladies for you, John,” added Sam, as Valerie and Rita Tevis entered the open door and mockingly curtsied to the company.

  “We’ve dissected your character,” observed Annan to Valerie, pointing to her portrait. “We know all about you now; Sam was the professor who lectured on you, but you can blame Kelly for turning on the searchlight.”

  “What search-light?” she asked, pivotting from Neville’s greeting, letting her gloved hand linger in his for just a second longer than convention required.

  “Harry means that portrait of you I started last year,” said Neville, vexed. “He pretends to find it full of psychological subtleties.”

  “Do you?” inquired Valerie. “Have you discovered anything horrid in my character?”

  “I haven’t finished looking for the character yet,” said Sam with an impudent grin. “When I find it I’ll investigate it.”

  “Sam! Come here!”

  He came carefully, wincing when she took him by the generous lobes of both ears.

  “Now what did you say?”

  “Help!” he murmured, contritely; “will no kind wayfarer aid me?”

  “Answer me!”

  “I only said you were beautifully decorative but intellectually impulsive—”

  “No, answer me, Sam!”

  “Ouch! I said you had a pair of baby eyes and an obstinate mouth and an immature mind that came to, conclusions before facts were properly assimilated. In other words I intimated that you were afflicted with incurable femininity and extreme youth,” he added with satisfaction, “and if you tweak my ears again I’ll kiss you!”

  She let him go with a last disdainful tweak, gracefully escaping his charge and taking refuge behind Neville who was mixing another highball for Annan.

  “This is a dignified episode,” observed Neville, threatening Ogilvy with the siphon.

  “Help me make tea, Sam,” coaxed Valerie. “Bring out the table; that’s an exceedingly nice boy. Rita, you’ll have tea, too, won’t you, dear?”

  Unconsciously she had come to assume the role of hostess in Neville’s studio, even among those who had been familiar there long before Neville ever heard of her.

  Perfectly unaware herself of her instinctive attitude, other people noticed it. For the world is sharp-eyed, and its attitude is always alert, ears pricked forward even when its tail wags good-naturedly.

  Ogilvy watched her curiously as she took her seat at the tea table.

  Then he glanced at Neville; but could not make up his mind.

  It would be funny if there was anything between Valerie and Neville — anything more than there ever had been between the girl and dozens of her men friends. For Ogilvy never allowed himself to make any mistake concerning the informality and freedom of Valerie West in her intimacies with men of his kind. She was a born flirt, a coquette, daring, even indiscreet; but that ended it; and he knew it; and so did every man with whom she came in contact.

  Yet — and he looked again at her and then at Neville — there seemed to him to be, lately, something a little different in the attitudes of these two toward each other — nothing that he could name — but it preoccupied him sometimes.

  There was a little good-natured malice in Ogilvy; some masculine curiosity, too. Looking from Valerie to Neville, he said very innocently:

  “Kelly, you know that peachy dream with whom you cut up so shamefully on

  New-year’s night? Well, she asked me for your telephone number—”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Neville, annoyed.

  “Why, I’m talking about Mazie,” said Sam, pleasantly. “You remember

  Mazie Gray? And how crazy you and she became about each other?”

  Valerie, who was pouring tea, remained amiably unconcerned; and Ogilvy obtained no satisfaction from her; but Neville’s scowl was so hearty and unfeigned that a glimpse of his visage sent Annan into fits of laughter. To relieve which he ran across the floor, like a huge spider. Then Valerie leisurely lifted her tranquil eyes and her eyebrows, too, a trifle.

  “Why such unseemly contortions, Harry?” she inquired.

  “Sam tormenting Kelly to stir you up! He’s got a theory that you and

  Kelly are mutually infatuated.”

  “What a delightful theory, Sam,” said Valerie, smiling so sincerely at Ogilvy that he made up his mind there wasn’t anything in it. But the next moment, catching sight of Neville’s furious face, his opinion wavered.

  Valerie said laughingly to Rita: “They’ll never grow up, these two—” nodding her head toward Ogilvy and Annan. And to Neville carelessly — too carelessly: “Will you have a little more tea, Kelly dear?”

  Her attitude was amiable and composed; her voice clear and unembarrassed. There may have been a trifle more colour in her cheeks; but what preoccupied Rita was in her eyes — a fleeting glimpse of something that suddenly concentrated all of Rita’s attention upon the girl across the table.

  For a full minute she sat looking at Valerie who seemed pleasantly unconscious of her inspection; then almost stealthily she shifted her gaze to Neville.

  Gladys and her kitten came purring around in quest of cream; Rita gathered them into her arms and caressed them and fed them bits of cassava and crumbs of cake. She was unusually silent that afternoon. John Burleson tried to interest her with heavy information of various kinds, but she only smiled absently at that worthy man. Sam Ogilvy and Harry Annan attempted to goad her into one of those lively exchanges of banter in which Rita was entirely capable of taking care of herself. But her smile was spiritless and non-combative; and finally they let her alone and concentrated their torment upon Valerie, who endured it with equanimity and dangerously sparkling eyes, and an occasional lightening retort which kept those young men busy, especially when the epigram was in Latin — which hurt their feelings.

  She had just furnished them with a sample of this classical food for thought when the door-bell rang and Neville looked up in astonishment to see José Querida come in.

  “Hello,” he said, springing up with friendly hand outstretched— “this is exceedingly good of you, Querida. You have not been here in a very long while.”

  Querida’s smile showed his teeth; he bowed to Valerie and to Rita, bowed to the men in turn, and smiled on Neville.

  “In excuse I must plead work, my dear fellow — a poor plea and poorer excuse for the pleasure lost in seeing you—” he nodded to the others— “and in missing many agreeable little gatherings — similar to this, I fancy?”

  There was a rising inflection to his voice which made the end of his little speech terminate as a question; and he looked to Valerie for his answer.

  “Yes,” she said, “we usually have tea in Kelly’s studio. And you may have some now, if you wish, José.”

  He nodded his thanks and placed his chair beside hers.

  The conversation had become general; Rita woke up, dumped the cats out of her lap, and made a few viciously verbal passes at Ogilvy. Burleson, earnest and most worthy, engaged Querida’s attention for a while; but that intellectually lithe young man evaded the ponderously impending dispute with suave skill, and his gentle smile lingered longer on Valerie than on anybody else. Several times, with an adroit carelessness that seemed to be purposeless, he contrived to draw Valerie out of the general level of conversation by merely lowering his voice; but she seemed to understand the invitation; and, answering him as carelessly as he spoke, keyed her replies in harmony with the chatter going on arou
nd them.

  He drank his tea smilingly; listened to the others; bore his part modestly; and at intervals his handsome eyes wandered about the studio, reverting frequently to the great canvas overhead.

  “You know,” he said to Neville, showing the eternal edge of teeth under his crisp black beard— “that composition of yours is simply superb. I am all for it, Neville.”

  “I’m glad you are,” nodded Neville, pleasantly, “but it hasn’t yet developed into what I hoped it might.” His eyes swerved toward Valerie; their glances encountered casually and passed on. Only Rita saw the girl’s breath quicken for an instant — saw the scarcely perceptible quiver of Neville’s mouth where the smile twitched at his lip for its liberty to tell the whole world that he was in love. But their faces were placid, their expressions well schooled; Querida’s half-veiled eyes appeared to notice nothing and for a while he remained smilingly silent.

  Later, by accident, he caught sight of Valerie’s portrait; he turned sharply in his chair and looked full at the canvas.

  Nobody spoke for a moment; Neville, who was passing Valerie, felt the slightest contact as the velvet of her fingers brushed across his.

  Then Querida rose and walked over to the portrait and stood before it in silence, biting at his vivid under lip and at the crisp hairs of his beard that framed it.

  Without knowing why, Neville began to feel that Querida was finding in that half-finished work something that disturbed him; and that he was not going to acknowledge what it was that he saw there, whether of good or of the contrary.

  Nobody spoke and Querida said nothing.

  A mild hope entered Neville’s mind that the something, which had never been in any work of his, might perhaps lie latent in that canvas — that Querida was discovering it — without a pleasure — but with a sensitive clairvoyance which was already warning him of a new banner in the distance, a new trumpet-call from the barriers, another lance in the lists where he, Querida, had ridden so long unchallenged and supreme.

  Within him he felt a sudden and secret excitement that he never before had known — a conviction that the unexpressed hostility of Querida’s silence was the truest tribute ever paid him — the tribute that at last was arousing hope from its apathy, and setting spurs to his courage.

  Rita, watching Querida, yawned and concealed the indiscretion with her hand and a taunting word directed at Ogilvy, who retorted in kind. And general conversation began again.

  Querida turned toward Neville, caught his eye, and shrugged:

  “That portrait is scarcely in your happiest manner, is it?” he asked with a grimace. “For me—” he touched his breast with long pale fingers— “I adore your gayer vein — your colour, clarity — the glamour of splendour that you alone can cast over such works as that—” He waved his hand upward toward the high canvas looming above. And he smiled at Neville and seated himself beside Valerie.

  A portfolio of new mezzotints attracted Annan; others gathered around to examine Neville’s treasures; the tea table was deserted for a while except by Querida and Valerie. Then he deliberately dropped his voice:

  “Will you give me another cup of tea, Valerie? And let me talk to you?”

  “With pleasure.” She set about preparing it.

  “I have not seen you for some time,” he said in the same caressing undertone.

  “You haven’t required me, José.”

  “Must it be entirely a matter of business between us?”

  “Why, of course,” she said in cool surprise. “You know perfectly well how busy I am — and must be.”

  “You are sometimes busy — pouring tea, here.”

  “But it is after hours.”

  “Yet, after hours, you no longer drop in to chat with me.”

  “Why, yes, I do—”

  “Pardon. Not since — the new year began…. Will you permit me a word?”

  She inclined her head with undisturbed composure; he went on:

  “I have asked you to many theatres, invited you to dine with me, to go with me to many, many places. And, it appeared, that you had always other engagements…. Have I offended you?”

  “Of course not. You know I like you immensely—”

  “Immensely,” he repeated with a smile. “Once there was more of sentiment in your response, Valerie. There is little sentiment in immensity.”

  She flushed: “I was spoons on you,” she said, candidly. “I was silly with you — and very indiscreet…. But I’d rather not recall that—”

  “I can not choose but recall it!”

  “Nice men forget such things,” she said, hastily.

  “How can you speak that way about it?”

  “Because I think that way, José,” she said, looking up at him; but she saw no answering smile in his face, and little colour in it; and she remained unquietly conscious of his gaze.

  “I will not talk to you if you begin to look at me like that,” she began under her breath; “I don’t care for it—”

  “Can I help it — remembering—”

  “You have nothing to remember except my pardon,” she interrupted hotly.

  “Your pardon — for showing that I cared for you?”

  “My pardon for your losing your head.”

  “We were absolutely frank with one another—”

  “I do not understand that you are the sort of man a girl can not be frank with. We imprudently exchanged a few views on life. You—”

  “Many,” he said— “and particularly views on marriage.”

  She said, steadily: “I told you that I cared at heart nothing at all for ceremony and form. You said the same. But you misunderstood me. What was there in that silly conversation significant to you or to me other than an impersonal interest in hearing ideas expressed?”

  “You knew I was in love with you.”

  “I did not!” she said, sharply.

  “You let me touch your hands — kiss you, once—”

  “And you behaved like a madman — and frightened me nearly to death! Had you better recall that night, José? I was generous about it; I was even a little sorry for you. And I forgave you.”

  “Forgave me my loving you?”

  “You don’t know what love is,” she said, reddening.

  “Do you, Valerie?”

  She sat flushed and silent, looking fixedly at the cups and saucers before her.

  “Do you?” he repeated in a curious voice. And there seemed to be something of terror in it, for she looked up, startled, to meet his long, handsome eyes looking at her out of a colourless visage.

  “José,” she said, “what in the world possesses you to speak to me this way? Have you any right to assume this attitude — merely because I flirted with you as harmlessly — or meant it harmlessly—”

  She glanced involuntarily across the studio where the others had gathered over the new collection of mezzotints, and at her glance Neville raised his head and smiled at her, and encountered Querida’s expressionless gaze.

  For a moment Querida turned his head away, and Valerie saw that his face was pale and sinister.

  “José,” she said, “are you insane to take our innocent affair so seriously? What in the world has come over you? We have been such excellent friends. You have been just as nice as you could be, so gay and inconsequential, so witty, so jolly, such good company! — and now, suddenly, out of a perfectly clear sky your wrath strikes me like lightning!”

  “My anger is like that.”

  “José!” she exclaimed, incredulously.

  He showed the edge of perfect teeth again, but she was not sure that he was smiling. Then he laughed gently.

  “Oh,” she said in relief— “you really startled me.”

  “I won’t do it again, Valerie.” She looked at him, still uncertain, fascinated by her uncertainty.

  The colour — as much as he ever had — returned to his face; he reached over for a cigarette, lighted it, smiled at her charmingly.

  “I was just lonely without
you,” he said. “Like an unreasonable child I brooded over it and—” he shrugged, “it suddenly went to my head. Will you forgive my bad temper?”

  “Yes — I will. Only I never knew you had a temper. It — astonishes me.”

  He said nothing, smilingly.

  “Of course,” she went on, still flushed, “I knew you were impulsive — hot-headed — but I know you like me—”

  “I was crazily in love with you,” he said, lightly; “and when you let me touch you—”

  “Oh, I won’t ever again, José!” she exclaimed, half-fearfully; “I supposed you understood that sentiment could be a perfectly meaningless and harmless thing — merely a silly moment — a foolish interlude in a sober friendship…. And I liked you, José—”

  [Illustration: “‘I shall have need of friends,’ she said half to herself.”]

  “Can you still like me?”

  “Y-yes. Why, of course — if you’ll let me.”

  “Shall we be the same excellent friends, Valerie? And all this ill temper of mine will be forgotten?”

  “I’ll try…. Yes, why not? I do like you, and I admire you tremendously.”

  His eyes rested on her a moment; he inhaled a deep breath from his cigarette, expelled it, nodded.

  “I’ll try to win back all your friendship for me,” he said, pleasantly.

  “That will be easy. I want you to like me. I want to be able to like you…. I shall have need of friends,” she said half to herself, and looked across at Neville with a face tranquil, almost expressionless save for the sensitive beauty of the mouth.

  After a moment Querida, too, lifted his head and gazed deliberately at

  Neville. Then very quietly:

  “Are you dining alone this evening?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Perhaps to-morrow evening, then—”

  “I’m afraid not, José.”

  He smiled: “Not dining alone ever again?”

  “Not — for the present.”

  “I see.”

  “There is nothing to see,” she said calmly. But his smile seemed now so genuine that it disarmed her; and she blushed when he said:

  “Am I to wish you happiness, Valerie? Is that the trouble?”

  “Certainly. Please wish it for me always — as I do for you — and for everybody.”