Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Then he said:

  “I’ve concluded to let Hélène know about it this afternoon.”

  “About what? — you monkey?”

  “About our marriage. Won’t it surprise her though! Oh, no! But I think I’ll let her into the secret before some suspicious gink gets wind of it and tells her himself.”

  Neville looked at the boy, perplexed, undecided, until he caught his eye. And over Sam’s countenance stole a vivid and beauteous blush.

  “Sam! I — upon my word I believe you mean it!”

  “Sure I do!”

  Neville grasped his hand:

  “My dear fellow!” he said cordially, “I was slow, not unsympathetic. I’m frightfully glad — I’m perfectly delighted. She’s a charming and sincere woman. Go in and win and God bless you both!”

  Ogilvy wrung his hand, then, to relieve his feelings, ran all over the floor like a spider and was pretending to spin a huge web in a corner when Harry Annan and Rita Tevis came in and discovered him.

  “Hah!” he exclaimed, “flies! Two nice, silly, appetising flies. Pretend to fall into my web, Rita, and begin to buzz like mad!”

  Rita’s dainty nose went up into the air, but Annan succumbed to the alluring suggestion, and presently he was buzzing frantically in a corner while Sam spun an imaginary web all over him.

  Rita and Neville looked on for a while.

  “Sam never will grow up,” she said disdainfully.

  “He’s fortunate,” observed Neville.

  “You don’t think so.”

  “I wish I knew what I did think, Rita. How is John?”

  “I came to tell you. He has gone to Dartford.”

  “To see Dr. Ogilvy? Good! I’m glad, Rita. Billy Ogilvy usually makes people do what he tells them to do.”

  [Illustration: “Ogilvy … began a lively fencing bout with an imaginary adversary.”]

  The girl stood silent, eyes lowered. After a while she looked up at him; and in her unfaltering but sorrowful gaze he read the tragedy which he had long since suspected.

  Neither spoke for a moment; he held out both hands; she laid hers in them, and her gaze became remote.

  After a while she said in a low voice:

  “Let me be with you now and then while he’s away; will you, Kelly?”

  “Yes. Would you like to pose for me? I haven’t anything pressing on hand. You might begin now if it suits you.”

  “May I?” she asked gratefully.

  “Of course, child…. Let me think—” He looked again into her dark blue eyes, absently, then suddenly his attention became riveted upon something which he seemed to be reading in her face.

  Long before Sam and Harry had ended their puppy-like scuffling and had retired to woo their respective deputy-muses, Rita was seated on the model-stand, and Neville had already begun that strange and sombre picture afterward so famous, and about which one of the finest of our modern poets wrote:

  ”Her gold hair, fallen about her face

  Made light within that shadowy place,

  But on her garments lay the dust

  Of many a vanished race.

  ”Her deep eyes, gazing straight ahead,

  Saw years and days and hours long dead,

  While strange gems glittered at her feet,

  Yellow, and green, and red.

  ”And ever from the shadows came

  Voices to pierce her heart like flame,

  The great bats fanned her with their wings,

  The voices called her name.

  ”But yet her look turned not aside

  From the black deep where dreams abide,

  Where worlds and pageantries lay dead

  Beneath that viewless tide.

  ”Her elbow on her knee was set,

  Her strong hand propt her chin, and yet

  No man might name that look she wore,

  Nor any man forget.”

  All day long in the pleasant June weather they worked together over the picture; and if he really knew what he was about, it is uncertain, for his thoughts were of Valerie; and he painted as in a dream, and with a shadowy splendour that seemed even to him unreal.

  They scarcely spoke; now and then Rita came silently on sandalled feet to stand behind him and look at what he had done.

  The first time she thought to herself, “Querida!” But the second time she remained mute; and when the daylight was waning to a golden gloom in the room she came a third time and stood with one hand on his arm, her eyes fixed upon the dawning mystery on the canvas — spellbound under the sombre magnificence already vaguely shadowed forth from infinite depth of shade.

  Gladys came and rubbed and purred around his legs; the most recent progeny toddled after her, ratty tails erect; sportive, casual little optimists frisking unsteadily on wavering legs among the fading sunbeams on the floor.

  The sunbeams died out on wall and ceiling; high through the glass roof above, a shoal of rosy clouds paled to saffron, then to a cinder gray. And the first night-hawk, like a huge, erratic swallow, sailed into view, soaring, tumbling aloft, while its short raucous cry sounded incessantly above the roofs and chimneys.

  Neville was still seated before his canvas, palette flat across his left arm, the sheaf of wet brushes held loosely.

  “I suppose you are dining with Valerie,” he said.

  “No.”

  He turned and looked at her, inquiringly.

  “Valerie has gone away.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, Kelly…. I was not to know.”

  “I see.” He picked up a handful of waste and slowly began to clean the brushes, one by one. Then he drove them deep into a bowl of black soap.

  “Shall we dine together here, Rita?”

  “If you care to have me.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He laid aside his palette, rang up the kitchen, gave his order, and slowly returned to where Rita was seated.

  Dinner was rather a silent affair. They touched briefly and formally on Querida and his ripening talent prematurely annihilated; they spoke of men they knew who were to come after him — a long, long way after him.

  “I don’t know who is to take his place,” mused Neville over his claret.

  “You.”

  “Not his place, Rita. He thought so; but that place must remain his.”

  “Perhaps. But you are carving out your own niche in a higher tier. You are already beginning to do it; and yesterday his niche was the higher…. Yet, after all — after all—”

  [Illustration: “Then Rita came silently on sandalled feet to stand behind him and look at what he had done.”]

  He nodded. “Yes,” he said, “what does it matter to him, now? A man carves out his resting place as you say, but he carves it out in vain. Those who come after him will either place him in his proper sepulchre … or utterly neglect him…. And neglect or transfer will cause him neither happiness nor pain…. Both are ended for Querida; — let men exalt him above all, or bury him and his work out of sight — what does he care about it now? He has had all that life held for him, and what another life may promise him no man can know. All reward for labour is here, Rita; and the reward lasts only while the pleasure in labour lasts. Creative work — even if well done — loses its savour when it is finished. Happiness in it ends with the final touch. It is like a dead thing to him who created it; men’s praise or blame makes little impression; and the aftertaste of both is either bitter or flat and lasts but a moment.”

  “Are you a little morbid, Kelly?”

  “Am I?”

  “It seems to me so.”

  “And you, Rita?”

  She shook her pretty head in silence.

  After a while Gladys jumped up into her lap, and she lay back in her arm-chair smoothing the creature’s fur, and gazing absently into space.

  “Kelly,” she said, “how many, many years ago it seems when you came up to Delaware County to see us.”

  “It seems very long ago to me, too.
”

  She lifted her blue eyes:

  “May I speak plainly? I have known you a long while. There is only one man I like better. But there is no woman in the world whom I love as I love Valerie West…. May I speak plainly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then — be fair to her, Kelly. Will you?”

  “I will try.”

  “Try very hard. For after all it is a man’s world, and she doesn’t understand it. Try to be fair to her, Kelly. For — whether or not the laws that govern the world are man-made and unjust — they are, nevertheless, the only laws. Few men can successfully fight them; no woman can — yet…. I am not angering you, am I?”

  “No. Go on.”

  “I have so little to say — I who feel so deeply — deeply…. And the laws are always there, Kelly, always there — fair or unfair, just or unjust — they are always there to govern the world that framed them. And a woman disobeys them at her peril.”

  She moved slightly in her chair and sat supporting her head on one pretty ringless hand.

  “Yet,” she said, “although a woman disobeys any law at her peril — laws which a man may often ignore with impunity — there is one law to which no woman should dare subscribe. And it is sometimes known as ‘The Common Law of Marriage.’”

  She sat silent for a while, her gaze never leaving his shadowy face.

  “That is the only law — if it is truly a law — that a woman must ignore. All others it is best for her to observe. And if the laws of marriage are merely man-made or divine, I do not know. There is a din in the world to-day which drowns the voices preaching old beliefs…. And a girl is deafened by the clamour…. And I don’t know.

  “But, it seems to me, that back of the laws men have made — if there be nothing divine in their inspiration — there is another foundation solid enough to carry them. Because it seems to me that the world’s laws — even when unjust — are built on natural laws. And how can a girl say that these natural laws are unjust because they have fashioned her to bear children and feed them from her own body?

  “And another thing, Kelly; if a man breaks a man-made law — founded, we believe, on a divine commandment — he suffers only in a spiritual and moral sense…. And with us it may be more than that. For women, at least, hell is on earth.”

  He stirred in his chair, and his sombre gaze rested on the floor at her feet.

  “What are we to do?” he said dully.

  Rita shook her head:

  “I don’t know. I am not instructing you, Kelly, only recalling to your mind what you already know; what all men know, and find so convenient to forget. Love is not excuse enough; the peril is unequally divided. The chances are uneven; the odds are unfair. If a man really loves a woman, how can he hazard her in a game of chance that is not square? How can he let her offer more than he has at stake — even if she is willing? How can he permit her to risk more than he is even able to risk? How can he accept a magnanimity which leaves him her hopeless debtor? But men have done it, men will continue to do it; God alone knows how they reconcile it with their manhood or find it in their hearts to deal so unfairly by us. But they do…. And still we stake all; and proudly overlook the chances against us; and face the contemptible odds with a smile, dauntless and — damned!”

  He leaned forward in the dusk; she could see his bloodless features now only as a pale blot in the twilight.

  “All this I knew, Rita. But it is just as well, perhaps, that you remind me.”

  “I thought it might be as well. The world has grown very clever; but after all there is no steadier anchor for a soul than a platitude.”

  Ogilvy and Annan came mincing in about nine o’clock, disposed for flippancy and gossip; but neither Neville nor Rita encouraged them; so after a while they took their unimpaired cheerfulness and horse-play elsewhere, leaving the two occupants of the studio to their own silent devices.

  It was nearly midnight when he walked back with Rita to her rooms.

  And now day followed day in a sequence of limpid dawns and cloudless sunsets. Summer began with a clear, hot week in June, followed by three days’ steady downpour which freshened and cooled the city and unfolded, in square and park, everything green into magnificent maturity.

  Every day Neville and Rita worked together in the studio; and every evening they walked together in the park or sat in the cool, dusky studio, companionably conversational or permitting silence to act as their interpreter.

  Then John Burleson came back from Dartford after remaining there ten days under Dr. Ogilvy’s observation; and Rita arrived at the studio next day almost smiling.

  “We’re’ going to Arizona,” she said. “What do you think of that,

  Kelly?”

  “You poor child!” exclaimed Neville, taking her hands into his and holding them closely.

  “Why, Kelly,” she said gently, “I knew he had to go. This has not taken me unawares.”

  “I hoped there might be some doubt,” he said.

  “There was none in my mind. I foresaw it. Listen to me: twice in a woman’s life a woman becomes a prophetess. That fatal clairvoyance is permitted to a woman twice in her life — and the second time it is neither for herself that she foresees the future, nor for him whom she loves….”

  “I wish — I wish—” he hesitated; and she flushed brightly.

  “I know what you wish, Kelly dear. I don’t think it will ever happen. But it is so much for me to be permitted to remain near him — so much! — Ah, you don’t know, Kelly! You don’t know!”

  “Would you marry him?”

  Her honest blue eyes met his:

  “If he asked me; and if he still wished it — after he knew.”

  “Could you ever be less to him — and perhaps more, Rita?”

  “Do you mean—”

  He nodded deliberately.

  She hung her head.

  “Yes,” she said, “if I could be no more I would be what I could.”

  “And you tell me that, after all that you have said?”

  “I did not pretend to speak for men, Kelly. I told you that women had, and women still would overlook the chances menacing them and face the odds dauntlessly…. Because, whatever a man is — if a woman loves him enough — he is worth to her what she gives.”

  “Rita! Rita! Is it you who content yourself with such sorry philosophy?”

  “Yes, it is I. You asked me and I answer you. Whatever I said — I know only one thing now. And you know what that is.”

  “And where am I to look for sympathy and support in my own decision?

  What can I think now about all that you have said to me?”

  “You will never forget it, Kelly — whatever becomes of the girl who said it. Because it’s the truth, no matter whose lips uttered it.”

  He released her hands and she went away to dress herself for the pose. When she returned and seated herself he picked up his palette and brushes and began in silence.

  * * * * *

  That evening he went to see John Buries on and found him smoking tranquilly in the midst of disorder. Packing cases, trunks, bundles, boxes were scattered and piled up in every direction, and the master of the establishment, apparently in excellent health, reclined on a lounge in the centre of chaos, the long clay stem of a church-warden pipe between his lips, puffing rings at the ceiling.

  “Hello, Kelly!” he exclaimed, sitting up; “I’ve got to move out of this place. Rita told you all about it, didn’t she? Isn’t it rotten hard luck?”

  “Not a bit of it. What did Billy Ogilvy say?”

  “Oh, I’ve got it all right. Not seriously yet. What’s Arizona like, anyway?”

  “Half hell, half paradise, they say.”

  “Then me for the celestial section. Ogilvy gave me the name of a place” — he fumbled about— “Rita has it, I believe…. Isn’t she a corker to go? My conscience, Kelly, what a Godsend it will be to have a Massachusetts girl out there to talk to!”

  “Isn’t she going as your
model?”

  “My Lord, man! Don’t you talk to a model? Is a nice girl who poses for a fellow anything extra-human or superhuman or — or unhuman or inhuman — so that intelligent conversation becomes impossible?”

  “No,” began Neville, laughing, but Burleson interrupted excitedly:

  “A girl can be anything she chooses if she’s all right, can’t she? And

  Rita comes from Massachusetts, doesn’t she?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Not only from Massachusetts, but from Hitherford!” added Burleson triumphantly. “I came from Hitherford. My grandfather knew hers. Why, man alive, Rita Tevis is entitled to do anything she chooses to do.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, anyway,” admitted Neville gravely.

  “I look at it that way. You can’t; you’re not from Massachusetts; but you have a sort of a New England name, too. It’s Yankee, isn’t it?”

  “Southern.”

  “Oh,” said Burleson, honestly depressed; “I am sorry. There were

  Nevilles in Hitherford Lower Falls two hundred years ago. I’ve always

  liked to think of you as originating, somehow or other, in Massachusetts

  Bay.”

  “No, John: unlike McGinty, I am unfamiliar with the cod-thronged ocean deeps…. When are you going?”

  “Day after to-morrow. Rita says you don’t need her any longer on that picture—”

  “Lord, man! If I did I wouldn’t hold you up. But don’t worry, John; she wouldn’t let me…. She’s a fine specimen of girl,” he added casually.

  [Illustration: “‘You’d better understand, Kelly, that Rita Tevis is as well born as I am.’”]

  “Do you suppose that is news to me?”

  “Oh, no; I’m sure you find her amusing—”

  “What!”

  “Amusing,” repeated Neville innocently. “Don’t you?”

  “That is scarcely the word I would have chosen, Kelly. I have a very warm admiration and a very sincere respect for Rita Tevis—”

  “John! You sound like a Puritan making love!”

  Burleson was intensely annoyed:

  “You’d better understand, Kelly, that Rita Tevis is as well born as I am, and that there would be nothing at all incongruous in any declaration that any decent man might make her!”