Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Once more he started away, hesitated, came back.

  “Who’s this Countess that Sam is so crazy about?”

  “A sweet little woman, well-bred, and very genuine and sincere.”

  “Never heard of her in Dartford,” muttered the doctor.

  Neville laughed grimly:

  “Billy, Tenth Street and lower Fifth Avenue and Greenwich Village and Chelsea and Stuyvesant Square — and Syringa Avenue, Dartford, are all about alike. Bird Centre is just as stupid as Manhattan; and there never was and never will be a republic and a democracy in any country on the face of this snob-cursed globe.”

  The doctor, very red, stared at him.

  “By jinks!” he said, “I guess I’m one after all. Now, who in hell would suspect that! — after all the advice I’ve given you!”

  “It was another fellow’s family, that’s all,” said Neville wearily. “Theories work or they don’t; only few care to try them on themselves or their own families — particularly when they devoutly believe in them.”

  “Gad! That’s a stinger! You’ve got me going all right,” said the doctor, wincing, “and you’re perfectly correct. Here I’ve been practically counselling you to marry where your inclination led you, and let the rest go to blazes; and when it’s a question of Sam doing something similar, I retire hastily across the river and establish a residence in Missouri. What a rotten, custom-ridden bunch of snippy-snappy-snobbery we are after all!… All the same — who is the Countess?”

  Neville didn’t know much about her.

  “Sam’s such an ass,” said his brother, “and it isn’t all snobbery on my part.”

  “The safest thing to do,” said Neville bitterly, “is to let a man in love alone.”

  “Right. Foolish — damned foolish — but right! There is no greater ass than a wise one. Those who don’t know anything at all are the better asses — and the happier.”

  And he went away down the stairs, muttering and gesticulating.

  Mrs. Neville came to the door as he opened it to go out. They talked in low voices for a few moments, then the doctor went out and Mrs. Neville called to Stephanie.

  The girl came from the lighted drawing-room, and, together, the two women ascended the stairs.

  Stephanie smiled and nodded to Neville, then continued on along the hall; but his mother stopped to speak to him.

  “Go and sit with your father a little while,” she said. “And don’t be impatient with him, dear. He is an old man — a product of a different age and a simpler civilisation — perhaps a narrower one. Be patient and gentle with him. He really is fond of you and proud of you.”

  “Very well, mother…. Is anybody going to sit up with Valerie?”

  “Stephanie insists on sleeping on the couch at the foot of her bed. I offered to sit up but she wouldn’t let me…. You’ll see that I’m called if anything happens, won’t you?”

  “Yes. Good-night, mother.”

  He kissed her, stood a moment looking at the closed door behind which lay Valerie — tried to realise that she did lie there under the same roof-tree that sheltered father, mother, and sister — then, with a strange thrill in his heart, he went downstairs.

  Cameron passed him, on his upward way to slumberland.

  “How’s Miss West?” he asked cheerfully.

  “Asleep, I think. Billy Ogilvy expects her to be all right in the morning.”

  “Good work! Glad of it. Tell your governor; he’s been inquiring.”

  “Has he?” said Neville, with another thrill, and went into the living room where his father sat alone before the whitening ashes of the fire.

  “Well, father!” he said, smiling.

  The older man turned his head, then turned it away as his son drew up a chair and laid a stick across the andirons.

  “It’s turned a little chilly,” he said.

  “I have known of many a frost in May,” said his father.

  There was a silence; then his father slowly turned and gazed at him.

  “How is — Miss West?” he asked stiffly.

  “Billy Ogilvy says she will be all right to-morrow, father.”

  “Was she injured by her unfortunate experience?”

  “A little briar-torn, I’m afraid. Those big beech woods are rather a puzzle to anybody who is not familiar with the country. No wonder she became frightened when it grew dark.”

  “It was — very distressing,” nodded his father.

  They remained silent again until Mr. Neville rose, took off his spectacles, laid aside The Evening Post, and held out his hand.

  “Good-night, my son.”

  “Good-night, father.”

  “Yes — yes — good-night — good-night — to many, many things, my son; old-fashioned things of no value any more — of no use to me, or you, or anybody any more.”

  He retained his son’s hand in his, peering at him, dim-eyed, without his spectacles:

  “The old order passes — the old ideas, the old beliefs — and the old people who cherished them — who know no others, needed no others…. Good-night, my son.”

  But he made no movement to leave, and still held to his son’s hand:

  “I’ve tried to live as blamelessly as my father lived, Louis — and as God has given me to see my way through life…. But — the times change so — change so. The times are perplexing; life grows noisier, and stranger and more complex and more violent every day around us — and the old require repose, Louis. Try to understand that.”

  “Yes, father.”

  The other looked at him, wearily:

  “Your mother seems to think that your happiness in life depends on — what we say to you — this evening. Stephanie seems to believe it, too…. Lily says very little…. And so do I, Louis — very little … only enough to — to wish you — happiness. And so — good-night.”

  CHAPTER XV

  It was barely daylight when Valerie awoke. She lay perfectly still, listening, remembering, her eyes wandering over the dim, unfamiliar room. Through thin silk curtains a little of the early light penetrated; she heard the ceaseless chorus of the birds, cocks crowing near and far away, the whimpering flight of pigeons around the eaves above her windows, and their low, incessant cooing.

  Suddenly, through the foot-bars of her bed she caught sight of Stephanie lying sound asleep on the couch, and she sat up — swiftly, noiselessly, staring at her out of wide eyes from which the last trace of dreams had fled.

  For a long while she remained upright among her pillows, looking at Stephanie, remembering, considering; then, with decision, she slipped silently out of bed, and went about her dressing without a sound.

  In the connecting bath-room and dressing-room beyond she found her clothing gathered in a heap, evidently to be taken away and freshened early in the morning. She dared not brush it for fear of awakening Stephanie; her toilet was swift and simple; she clothed herself rapidly and stepped out into the hall, her rubber-soled walking shoes making no noise.

  Below, the side-lights of the door made unbolting and unchaining easy; it would be hours yet before even the servants were stirring, but she moved with infinite caution, stepping out onto the veranda and closing the door behind her without making the slightest noise.

  Dew splashed her shoes as she hastened across the lawn. She knew the Estwich road even if there had been no finger-posts to point out her way.

  The sun had not yet risen; woods were foggy; the cattle in the fields stood to their shadowy flanks in the thin mist; and everywhere, like the cheery rush of a stream, sounded the torrent of bird-music from bramble patch and alder-swale, from hedge and orchard and young woodland.

  It was not until she had arrived in sight of Estwich Corners that she met the first farmer afield; and, as she turned into the drive, the edge of the sun sent a blinding search-light over a dew-soaked world, and her long-shadow sprang into view, streaming away behind her across the lawn.

  To her surprise the front door was open and a harnessed buck-board stoo
d at the gate; and suddenly she recollected with a hot blush that the household must have been amazed and probably alarmed by her non-appearance the night before.

  Hélène’s farmer and her maid came out as she entered the front walk, and, seeing her, stood round-eyed and gaping.

  “I got lost and remained over night at Mrs. Collis’s,” she said, smiling. “Now, I’d like a bath if you please and some fresh clothing for travelling, because I am obliged to go to the city, and I wish to catch the earliest train.”

  When at last it was plain to them that she was alive and well, Hélène’s maid, still trembling, hastened to draw a bath for her and pack the small steamer trunk; and the farmer sat down on the porch and waited, still more or less shaken by the anxiety which had sent him pottering about the neighbouring woods and fields with a lantern the night before, and had aroused him to renewed endeavour before sunrise.

  Bathed and freshly clothed, Valerie hastened into the pretty library, seated herself at the desk, pushed up her veil, and wrote rapidly:

  “MY DEAR MRS. COLLIS: My gratitude to you, to Mrs. Neville, and to Miss

  Swift is none the less real because I am acknowledging it by letter.

  Besides, I am very certain that you would prefer it so.

  “You and your family have been kindness itself to me in my awkward and painful dilemma; you have sheltered me and provided medical attendance; and I am deeply in your debt.

  “Had matters been different I need scarcely say that it would have been a pleasure for me to personally acknowledge to you and your family my grateful appreciation.

  “But I am very sure that I could show my gratitude in no more welcome manner than by doing what I have done this morning and by expressing that obligation to you in writing.

  “Before I close may I ask you to believe that I had no intention of seeking shelter at your house? Until I heard Mr. Neville’s voice I had no idea where I was. I merely made my way toward the first lighted windows that I saw, never dreaming that I had come to Ashuelyn.

  “I am sorry that my stupid misadventure has caused you and your family so much trouble and annoyance. I feel it very keenly — more keenly because of your kindness in making the best of what must have been to you and your family a most disagreeable episode.

  “May I venture to express to you my thanks to Miss Swift who so generously remained in my room last night? I am deeply sensible of her sweetness to an unwelcome stranger — and of Mrs. Neville’s gentle manner toward one who, I am afraid, has caused her much anxiety.

  “To the very amiable physician who did so much to calm a foolish and inexcusable nervousness, I am genuinely grateful. If I knew his name and address I would write and properly acknowledge my debt.

  “There is one thing more before I close: I am sorry that I wrote you so ungraciously after receiving your last letter. It would have been perfectly easy to have thanked you courteously, whatever private opinion I may have entertained concerning a matter about which there may be more than my own opinion.

  “And now, please believe that I will never again voluntarily cause you and your family the slightest uneasiness or inconvenience; and believe me, too, if you care to. Very gratefully yours,

  “VALERIE WEST.”

  She directed and sealed the letter, then drew toward her another sheet of paper:

  “DEAREST: I could die of shame for having blundered into your family circle. I dare not even consider what they must think of me now. You will know how innocently and unsuspiciously it was done — how utterly impossible it would have been for me to have voluntarily committed such an act even in the last extremity. But what they will think of my appearance at your door last night, I don’t know and I dare not surmise. I have done all I could; I have rid them of me, and I have written to your sister to thank her and your family for their very real kindness to the last woman in the world whom they would have willingly chosen to receive and entertain.

  “Dear, I didn’t know I had nerves; but this experience seems to have developed them. I am perfectly well, but the country here has become distasteful to me, and I am going to town in a few minutes. I want to get away — I want to go back to my work — earn my living again — live in blessed self-respect where, as a worker, I have the right to live.

  “Dearest, I am sorry about not meeting you at the station and going back to town with you. But I simply cannot endure staying here after last night. I suppose it is weak and silly of me, but I feel now as though your family would never be perfectly tranquil again until I am out of their immediate vicinity. I cannot convey to you or to them how sorry and how distressed I am that this thing has occurred.

  “But I can, perhaps, make you understand that I love you, dearly — love you enough to give myself to you — love you enough to give you up forever.

  “And it is to consider what is best, what to do, that I am going away quietly somewhere by myself to think it all out once more — and to come to a final decision before the first of June.

  “I want to search my heart, and let God search it for any secret selfishness and unworthiness that might sway me in my choice — any overmastering love for you that might blind me. When I know myself, you shall know me. Until then I shall not write you; but sometime before the first of June — or on that day, you shall know and I shall know how I have decided wherein I may best serve you — whether by giving or withholding — whether by accepting or refusing forever all that I care for in the world — you, Louis, and the love you have given me.

  “VALERIE WEST.”

  She sealed and directed this, laid it beside the other, and summoned the maid:

  “Have these sent at once to Ashuelyn,” she said; “let Jimmy go on his bicycle. Are my things ready? Is the buck-board still there? Then I will leave a note for the Countess.”

  And she scribbled hastily:

  “HÉLÈNE DEAR: I’ve got to go to town in a hurry on matters of importance, and so I am taking a very unceremonious leave of you and of your delightful house.

  “They’ll tell you I got lost in the woods last night, and I did. It was too stupid of me; but no harm came of it — only a little embarrassment in accepting a night’s shelter at Ashuelyn among people who were everything that was hospitable, but who must have been anything but delighted to entertain me.

  “In a few weeks I shall write you again. I have not exactly decided what to do this summer. I may go abroad for a vacation as I have saved enough to do so in an economical manner; and I should love to see the French cathedrals. Perhaps, if I so decide, you might be persuaded to go with me.

  “However, it is too early to plan yet. A matter of utmost importance is going to keep me busy and secluded for a week or so. After that I shall come to some definite decision; and then you shall hear from me.

  “In the meanwhile — I have enjoyed Estwich and you immensely. It was kind and dear of you to ask me. I shall never forget my visit.

  “Good-bye, Hélène dear.

  “VALERIE WEST.”

  This note she left on Hélène’s dresser, then ran downstairs and sprang into the buck-board.

  They had plenty of time to catch the train; and on the train she had plenty of leisure for reflection. But she could not seem to think; a confused sensation of excitement invaded her mind and she sat in her velvet armed chair alternately shivering with the memory of Cardemon’s villainy, and quivering under the recollection of her night at Ashuelyn.

  Rita was not at home when she came into their little apartment. The parrot greeted her, flapping his brilliant wings and shrieking from his perch; the goldfish goggled his eyes and swam ‘round and ‘round. She stood still in the centre of her room looking vacantly about her. An immense, overwhelming sense of loneliness came over her; she turned as the rush of tears blinded her and flung herself full length among the pillows of her bed.

  * * * * *

  Her first two or three days in town were busy ones; she had her accounts to balance, her inventories to take, her mending to do, her modes
t summer wardrobe to acquire, letters to write and to answer, engagements to make, to fulfill, to postpone; friends to call on and to receive, duties in regard to the New Idea Home to attend to.

  [Illustration: “The parrot greeted her, flapping his brilliant wings and shrieking from his perch.”]

  Also, the morning after her arrival came a special delivery letter from

  Neville:

  “It was a mistake to go, dear, because, although you could not have known it, matters have changed most happily for us. You were a welcome guest in my sister’s house; you would have been asked to remain after your visit at Estwich was over. My family’s sentiments are changing — have changed. It requires only you yourself to convince them. I wish you had remained, although your going so quietly commanded the respect of everybody. They all are very silent about it and about you, yet I can see that they have been affected most favourably by their brief glimpse of you.

  “As for your wishing to remain undisturbed for a few days, I can see no reason for it now, dear, but of course I shall respect your wishes.

  “Only send me a line to say that the month of June will mean our marriage. Say it, dear, because there is now no reason to refuse.”

  To which she answered:

  “Dearest among all men, no family’s sentiments change over night. Your people were nice to me and I have thanked them. But, dear, I am not likely to delude myself in regard to their real sentiments concerning me. Too deeply ingrained, too basic, too essentially part of themselves and of their lives are the creeds, codes, and beliefs which, in spite of themselves, must continue to govern their real attitude toward such a girl as I am.

  “It is dear of you to wish for us what cannot be; it is kind of them to accept your wish with resignation.

  “But I have told you many times, my darling, that I would not accept a status as your wife at any cost to you or to them — and I can read between the lines, even if I did not know, what it would cost them and you. And so, very gently, and with a heart full of gratitude and love for you, I must decline this public honour.