Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Valerie laughed: “I would do much more than that for him, Mrs. Collis…. Only I must first be sure of what is really the best way to serve him.”

  Lily’s gloved hand tightened over hers; and she laid the other one over it:

  “You are so generous, so sweet about it!” she said unsteadily. “And I look into your face and I know you are good — good — all the way through—”

  Valerie laughed again:

  “There isn’t any real evil in me…. And I am not astonishingly generous — merely sensible. I knew from the first that I couldn’t marry him — if I really loved him,” she added, under her breath.

  They were at the door now. Lily passed out into the entry, halted, turned impulsively, the tears in her eyes, and put both arms tenderly around the girl.

  “You poor child,” she whispered. “You dear, brave, generous girl! God knows whether I am right or wrong. I am only trying to do my duty — trying to do what is best for him.”

  Valerie looked at her curiously:

  “Yes, you cannot choose but think of him if you really love him…. That is the way it is with love.”

  Afterward, sewing by the window, she could scarcely see the stitches for the clinging tears. But they dried on her lashes; not one fell. And when Rita came in breezily to join her at luncheon she was ready, her costume mended and folded in her hand-satchel, and there remained scarcely even a redness of the lids to betray her.

  That evening she did not stop for tea at Neville’s studio; and, later, when he telephoned, asking her to dine with him, she pleaded the feminine prerogative of tea in her room and going to bed early for a change. But she lay awake until midnight trying to think out a modus vivendi for Neville and herself which, would involve no sacrifice on his part and no unhappiness for anybody except, perhaps, for herself.

  The morning was dull and threatened rain, and she awoke with a slight headache, remembering that she had dreamed all night of weeping.

  In her mail there was a note from Querida asking her to stop for a few moments at his studio that afternoon, several business communications, and a long letter from Mrs. Collis which she read lying in bed, one hand resting on her aching temples:

  “MY DEAR Miss WEST: Our interview this morning has left me with a somewhat confused sense of indebtedness to you and an admiration and respect for your character which I wished very much to convey to you this morning, but which I was at a loss to express.

  “You are not only kind and reasonable, but so entirely unselfish that my own attitude in this unhappy matter has seemed to me harsh and ungracious.

  “I went to you entertaining a very different idea of you, and very different sentiments from the opinion which I took away with me. I admit that my call on you was not made with any agreeable anticipations; but I was determined to see you and learn for myself what manner of woman had so disturbed us all.

  “In justice to you — in grateful recognition of your tact and gentleness, I am venturing to express to you now my very thorough respect for you, my sense of deep obligation, and my sympathy — which I am afraid you may not care for.

  “That it would not be suitable for a marriage to take place between my brother and yourself is, it appears, as evident to you as it is to his own family. Yet, will you permit me to wish that it were otherwise? I do wish it; I wish that the circumstances had made such a marriage possible. I say this to you in spite of the fact that we have always expected my brother to marry into a family which has been intimate with our own family for many generations. It is a tribute to your character which I am unwilling to suppress; which I believe I owe to you, to say that, had circumstances been different, you might have been made welcome among us.

  “The circumstances of which I speak are of an importance to us, perhaps exaggerated, possibly out of proportion to the fundamental conditions of the situation. But they are conditions which our family has never ignored. And it is too late for us to learn to ignore them now.

  “I think that you will feel — I think that a large part of the world might consider our attitude toward such a woman as you have shown yourself to be, narrow, prejudiced, provincial. The modern world would scarcely arm us with any warrant for interfering in a matter which a man nearly thirty is supposed to be able to manage for himself. But my father and mother are old, and they will never change in their beliefs and prejudices inherited from their parents, who, in turn, inherited their beliefs.

  “It was for them more than for myself — more even than for my brother — that I appealed to you. The latter end of their lives should not be made unhappy. And your generous decision assures me that it will not be made so.

  “As for myself, my marriage permitted me an early enfranchisement from the obsolete conventional limits within which my brother and I were brought up.

  “I understand enough of the modern world not to clash with, it unnecessarily, enough of ultra-modernity not to be too much afraid of it.

  “But even I, while I might theoretically admit and even admire that cheerful and fearless courage which makes it possible for such a self-respecting woman as yourself to face the world and force it to recognise her right to earn her own living as she chooses — I could not bring myself to contemplate with equanimity my brother’s marrying you. And I do not believe my father would survive such an event.

  “To us, to me, also, certain fixed conventional limits are the basis of all happiness. To offend them is to be unhappy; to ignore them would mean destruction to our peace of mind and self-respect. And, though I do admire you and respect you for what you are, it is only just to you to say that we could never reconcile ourselves to those modern social conditions which you so charmingly represent, and which are embodied in you with such convincing dignity.

  “Dear Miss West, have I pained you? Have I offended you in return for all your courtesy to me? I hope not. I felt that I owed you this. Please accept it as a tribute and as a sorrowful acquiescence in conditions which an old-fashioned family are unable to change.

  “Very sincerely yours,

  “LILLY COLLIS.”

  She lay for a while, thinking, the sheets of the letter lying loose on the bed. It seemed to require no answer. Nor had Mrs. Collis, apparently, any fear that Valerie would ever inform Louis Neville of what had occurred between his sister and herself.

  Still, to Valerie, an unanswered letter was like a civil observation ignored.

  She wrote that evening to Lily:

  “Dear Mrs. Collis: In acknowledging your letter of yesterday I beg to assure you that I understand the inadvisability of my marrying your brother, and that I have no idea of doing it, and that, through me, he shall never know of your letters or of your visit to me in his behalf.

  “With many thanks for your kindly expressions of good-will toward me, I am

  “Very truly yours,

  “VALERIE WEST.”

  She had been too tired to call at Querida’s studio, too tired even to take tea at the Plaza with Neville.

  Rita came in, silent and out of spirits, and replied in monosyllables to

  Valerie’s inquiries.

  It finally transpired that Sam Ogilvy and Harry Annan had been tormenting John Burleson after their own fashion until their inanity had exasperated her and she expressed herself freely to everybody concerned.

  “It makes me very angry,” she said, “to have a lot of brainless people believe that John Burleson is stupid. He isn’t; he is merely a trifle literal, and far too intelligent to see any humour in the silly capers Sam and Harry cut.”

  Valerie, who was feeling better, sipped her tea and nibbled her toast, much amused at Rita’s championship of the big sculptor.

  “John is a dear,” she said, “but even his most enthusiastic partisans could hardly characterise him as a humorist.”

  “He’s not a clown — if that’s what you mean,” said Rita shortly.

  “But, Rita, he isn’t humorous, you know.”

  “He is. He has a sense of humour perfectly intel
ligible to those who understand it.”

  “Do you, dear?”

  “Certainly … And I always have understood it.”

  “Oh, what kind of occult humour is it?”

  “It is a quiet, cultivated, dignified sense of humour not uncommon in

  New England, and not understood in New York.”

  Valerie nibbled her toast, secretly amused. Burleson was from Massachusetts. Rita was the daughter of a Massachusetts clergyman. No doubt they were fitted to understand each other.

  It occurred to her, too, that John Burleson and Rita Tevis had always been on a friendly footing rather quieter and more serious than the usual gay and irresponsible relations maintained between two people under similar circumstances.

  Sometimes she had noticed that when affairs became too frivolous and the scintillation of wit and epigram too rapid and continuous, John Burleson and Rita were very apt to edge out of the circle as though for mutual protection.

  “You’re not posing for John, are you, Rita?” she asked.

  “No. He has a bad cold, and I stopped in to see that he wore a red flannel bandage around his throat. A sculptor’s work is so dreadfully wet and sloppy, and his throat has always been very delicate.”

  “Do you mean to say that you charge your mind with the coddling of that great big, pink-cheeked boy?” laughed Valerie,

  “Coddling!” repeated Rita, flushing up. “I don’t call it coddling to stop in for a moment to remind a friend that he doesn’t know how to take care of himself, and never will.”

  “Nonsense. You couldn’t kill a man of that size and placidity of character.”

  “You don’t know anything about him. He is much more delicate than he looks.”

  Valerie glanced curiously at the girl, who was preparing oysters in the chafing dish.

  “How do you happen to know so much about him, Rita?”

  She answered, carelessly: “I have known him ever since I began to pose — almost.”

  Valerie set her cup aside, sprang up to rinse mouth and hands. Then, gathering her pink negligée around her, curled up in a big wing-chair, drawing her bare feet up under the silken folds and watching Rita prepare the modest repast for one.

  “Rita,” she said, “who was the first artist you ever posed for? Was it

  John Burleson — and did you endure the tortures of the damned?”

  “No, it was not John Burleson…. And I endured — enough.”

  “Don’t you care to tell me who it was?”

  Rita did not reply at that time. Later, however, when the simple supper was ended, she lighted a cigarette and found a place where, with lamplight behind her, she could read a book which Burleson had sent her, and which she had been attempting to assimilate and digest all winter. It was a large, thick, dark book, and weighed nearly four pounds. It was called “Essays on the Obvious “; and Valerie had made fun of it until, to her surprise, she noticed that her pleasantries annoyed Rita.

  Valerie, curled up in the wing-chair, cheek resting against its velvet side, was reading the Psalms again — fascinated as always by the noble music of the verse. And it was only by chance that, lifting her eyes absently for a moment, she found that Rita had laid aside her book and was looking at her intently.

  “Hello, dear!” she said, indolently humorous.

  Rita said: “You read your Bible a good deal, don’t you?”

  “Parts of it.”

  “The parts you believe?”

  “Yes; and the parts that I can’t believe.”

  “What parts can’t you believe?”

  Valerie laughed: “Oh, the unfair parts — the cruel parts, the inconsistent parts.”

  “What about faith?”

  “Faith is a matter of temperament, dear.”

  “Haven’t you any?”

  “Yes, in all things good.”

  “Then you have faith in yourself that you are capable of deciding what is good and worthy of belief in the Scriptures, and what is unworthy?”

  [Illustration: “It was a large, thick, dark book, and weighed nearly four pounds.”]

  “It must be that way. I am intelligent. One must decide for one’s self what is fair and what is unfair; what is cruel and what is merciful and kind. Intelligence must always evolve its own religion; sin is only an unfaithfulness to what one really believes.”

  “What do you believe, Valerie?”

  “About what, dear?”

  “Love.”

  “Loving a man?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what my creed is — that love must be utterly unselfish to be pure — to be love at all.”

  “One must not think of one’s self,” murmured Rita, absently.

  “I don’t mean that. I mean that one must not hesitate to sacrifice one’s self when the happiness or welfare of the other is in the balance.”

  “Yes. Of course!… Suppose you love a man.”

  “Yes,” said Valerie, smiling, “I can imagine that.”

  “Listen, dear. Suppose you love a man. And you think that perhaps he is beginning — just beginning to care a little for you. And suppose — suppose that you are — have been — long ago — once, very long ago—”

  “What?”

  “Unwise,” said Rita, in a low voice.

  “Unwise? How?”

  “In the — unwisest way that a girl can be.”

  “You mean any less unwise than a man might be — probably the very man she is in love with?”

  “You know well enough what is thought about a girl’s unwisdom and the same unwisdom in a man.”

  “I know what is thought; but I don’t think it.”

  “Perhaps you don’t. But the world’s opinion is different.”

  “Yes, I know it…. What is your question again? You say to me, here’s a man beginning to care for a girl who has been unwise enough before she knew him to let herself believe she cared enough for another man to become his mistress. Is that it, Rita?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Very well. What do you wish to ask me?”

  “I wish to ask you what that girl should do.”

  “Do? Nothing. What is there for her to do?”

  “Ought she to let that man care for her?”

  “Has he ever made the same mistake she has?”

  “I — don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Almost.”

  “Well, then, I’d tell him.”

  Rita lay silent, gazing into space, her blond hair clustering around the pretty oval of her face.

  Valerie waited for a few moments, then resumed her reading, glancing inquiringly at intervals over the top of her book at Rita, who seemed disinclined for further conversation.

  After a long silence she sat up abruptly on the sofa and looked at

  Valerie.

  “You asked me who was the first man for whom I posed. I’ll tell you if you wish to know. It was Penrhyn Cardemon!… And I was eighteen years old.”

  Valerie dropped her book in astonishment.

  “Penrhyn Cardemon!” she repeated. “Why, he isn’t an artist!”

  “He has a studio.”

  “Where?”

  “On Fifth Avenue.”

  “What does he do there?”

  “Deviltry.”

  Valerie’s face was blank; Rita sat sullenly cradling one knee in her arms, looking at the floor, her soft, gold hair hanging over her face and forehead so that it shadowed her face.

  “I’ve meant to tell you for a long time,” she went on; “I would have told you if Cardemon had ever sent for you to — to pose — in his place.”

  “He asked me to go on The Mohave.”

  “I’d have warned you if Louis Neville had not objected.”

  “Do you suppose Louis knew?”

  “No. He scarcely knows Penrhyn Cardemon. His family and Cardemon are neighbours in the country, but the Nevilles and the Collises are snobs — I’m speaking plainly, Valerie — and they have no u
se for that red-faced, red-necked, stocky young millionaire.”

  Valerie sat thinking; Rita, nursing her knee, brooded under the bright tangle of her hair, linking and unlinking her fingers as she gently swayed her foot to and fro.

  “That’s how it is,” she said at last. “Now you know.”

  Valerie’s head was still lowered, but she raised her eyes and looked straight at Rita where she sat on the sofa’s edge, carelessly swinging her foot to and fro.

  “Was it — Penrhyn Cardemon?” she asked.

  “Yes…. I thought it had killed any possibility of ever caring — that way — for any other man.”

  “But it hasn’t?”

  “No.”

  “And — you are in love?”

  “Yes.”

  “With John Burleson?”

  Rita looked up from the burnished disorder of her hair:

  “I have been in love with him for three years,” she said, “and you are the only person in the world except myself who knows it.”

  Valerie rose and walked over to Rita and seated herself beside her. Then she put one arm around her; and Rita bit her lip and stared at space, swinging her slender foot.

  “You poor dear,” said Valerie. Rita’s bare foot hung inert; the silken slipper dropped from it to the floor; and then her head fell, sideways, resting on Valerie’s shoulder, showering her body with its tangled gold.

  Valerie said, thoughtfully: “Girls don’t seem to have a very good chance…. I had no idea about Cardemon — that he was that kind of a man. A girl never knows. Men can be so attractive and so nice…. And so many of them are merciless…. I suppose you thought you loved him.”

  “Y — yes.”

  “We all think that, I suppose,” said Valerie, thoughtfully.

  “Other girls have thought it of Penrhyn Cardemon.”

  “Other girls?”

  “Yes.”

  Valerie’s face expressed bewilderment.

  “I didn’t know that there were really such men.”

  Rita closed her disillusioned eyes.

  “Plenty,” she said wearily.

  “I don’t care to believe that.”

  “You may believe it, Valerie. Men are almost never single-minded; women are — almost always. You see what chance for happiness we have? But it’s the truth, and the world has been made that way. It’s a man’s world, Valerie. I don’t think there’s much use for us to fight against it…. She sat very silent for a while, close to Valerie, her hot face on the younger girl’s shoulder. Suddenly she straightened up and dried her eyes naïvely on the sleeve of her kimona.