Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Langly stared at him, every vein suddenly dark and swollen; then his bark of a laugh broke loose.

  “I suppose you’ve got it in your pocket,” he said.

  Ledwith fumbled in his coat pocket and produced a dully blued weapon of heavy calibre; and Sprowl walked slowly up to him, slapped his face, took the revolver from him, and flung it into the woods.

  “Now go home and punch yourself full of dope,” he said; swung on his heel, and sauntered off.

  Ledwith looked after him, one bloodless hand resting on the cheek which Sprowl had struck — watched him out of sight. Then, patiently, he started to search for the weapon, dropping on all-fours, crawling, peering, parting the ferns and bushes. But the sun was low and the woods dusky, and he could not find what he was looking for. So he sat up on the ground among the dead leaves of other years, drew from his pocket what he needed, and slowly bared his scarred arm to the shoulder.

  As for Sprowl, his vigorous tread lengthened to a swinging stride as he shouldered his way through a thicket and out again into the open.

  Already he scarcely remembered Ledwith at all, or his menace, or the blow; scarcely even recollected that Mary Ledwith had returned or that his aunt was within driving distance of his own quarters.

  A dull hot anguish, partly rage, possessed him, tormenting brain and heart incessantly and giving him no rest. His own clumsy madness in destroying what he believed had been a certainty — his stupidity, his loss of self-control, not only in betraying passion prematurely but in his subsequent violence and brutality, almost drove him insane.

  Never before in any affair with women had he forgotten caution in any crisis; his had been a patience unshakable when necessary, a dogged, driving persistence when the time came, the subtlety of absolute inertness when required. But above all and everything else he has been a master of patience, and so a master of himself; and so he had usually won.

  And now — now in this crisis — a crisis involving the loss of what he cared for enough to marry — if he must marry to have his way with her — what was to be done?

  He tried to think coolly, but the cinders of rage and passion seemed to stir and move with every breath he drew awaking the wild fire within.

  He would try to reason and think clearly — try to retrace matters to the beginning and find out why he had blundered when everything was in his own hands.

  It was his aunt’s sudden policy that betrayed him into a premature move — Mary Ledwith’s return, and his aunt’s visit. Mary Ledwith was there to marry him; his aunt to make mischief unless he did what was expected of him.

  Leisurely but thoroughly he cursed them both as he walked back across his lawn. But he was already thinking of Strelsa again when, as he entered the wide hall, his aunt waddled across the rugs of the drawing-room, pronouncing his name with unmistakable decision. And, before the servants, he swallowed the greeting he had hoped to give her, and led her into the library.

  “Mercy on us, Langly!” she exclaimed, eyeing his reeking boots and riding-breeches; “do you live like a pig up here?”

  “I’ve been out,” he said briefly. “What do you want?”

  Her little green eyes lighted up, and her smile, which was fading, she forced into a kind of fixed grin.

  “Your polished and thoughtful inquiry is characteristic of you,” she said. “Mary is here, and I want you to come over to dinner.”

  “I’m not up to it,” he said.

  “I want you to come.”

  “I tell you I’m not up to it,” he said bluntly.

  “And I tell you that you’d better come.”

  “Better come?” he repeated.

  “Yes, better come. More than that, Langly, you’d better behave yourself, or I’ll make New York too hot to hold you.”

  His prominent eyes were expressionless.

  “Ah?” he remarked.

  “Exactly, my friend. Your race is run. You’ve done one thing too publicly to squirm out of the consequences. The town has stood for a good deal from you. When that girl at the Frivolity Theatre shot herself, leaving a letter directed to you, the limit of public patience was nearly reached. You had to go abroad, didn’t you? Well, you can’t go abroad this time. Neither London nor Paris nor Vienna nor Budapest — no, nor St. Petersburg nor even Constantinople would stand you! Your course is finished. If you’ve an ounce of brains remaining you know that you’re done for this time. So go and dress and come over to dinner.... And don’t worry; I’ll keep away from you after you’re married.”

  “You’ll keep your distance before that,” he said slowly.

  “You’re mistaken. Many people are afraid of you, but I never was and never could be. You’re no good; you never were. If you didn’t lug my name about with you I’d let you go to hell. You’ll go there anyway, but you’ll go married first.”

  “I expect to.”

  “Married to Mary Ledwith,” she said looking at him.

  He picked up a cigar, examined it, yawned, then glanced at her:

  “As I had — recently — occasion to tell Chester Ledwith, I’ll marry whom I please. Now suppose you clear out.”

  “Are you dining with us?”

  “No.”

  “What time may we expect you to-morrow?”

  “At no time.”

  “Do you intend to marry Mary Ledwith?”

  “No.”

  “Is that final?”

  “Yes!”

  “Do you expect to marry anybody else?”

  “Yes!” he shouted, partly rising from his chair, his narrow face distorted. “Yes, I do! Now you know, don’t you! Is the matter settled at last? Do you understand clearly? — you fat-headed, meddlesome old fool!”

  He sprang to his feet in an access of fury and began loping up and down the room, gesticulating, almost mouthing out his hatred and abuse — rendered more furious still by the knowledge of his own weakness and disintegration — his downfall from that silent citadel of self-control which had served him so many years as a stronghold for defiance or refuge.

  “You impertinent old woman!” he shouted, “if you don’t keep your fat nose out of my affairs I’ll set a thousand men tampering with the foundations of your investments! Keep your distance and mind your business — I warn you now and for the last time, or else—” He swung around on her, and the jaw muscles began to work— “or else I’ll supply the Yellows with a few facts concerning that Englishman’s late father and yourself!”

  Mrs. Sprowl’s face went pasty-white; in the fat, colourless expanse only the deathless fury of her eyes seemed alive.

  “So that fetched you,” he observed, coolly. “I don’t want to give you apoplexy; I don’t want you messing up my house. I merely want you to understand that it’s dangerous to come sniffing and nosing around my threshold. You do understand, I guess.”

  He continued his promenade but presently came back to her:

  “You know well enough who I want to marry. If you say or do one thing to interfere I’ll see that you figure in the Yellows.”

  He thought a moment; the colour slowly returned to her face. After a fit of coughing she struggled to rise from her chair. He let her pant and scuffle and kick for a while, then opened the door and summoned her footman.

  “I’m sorry I cannot drive with you this evening,” he said quietly, as the footman supported Mrs. Sprowl to her feet, “but I’ve promised the Wycherlys. Pray offer my compliments and friendly wishes to Mrs. Ledwith.”

  When she had gone he walked back into the library, picked up the telephone and finally got Molly Wycherly on the wire.

  “Won’t you ask me to dinner?” he said. “I’ve an explanation to make to Mrs. Leeds and I’d be awfully obliged to you.”

  There was a silence, then Molly said, deliberately:

  “You must be a very absent-minded young man. I saw your aunt for a moment this afternoon and she said that you are dining with her at Mrs. Ledwith’s.”

  “She was mistaken—” began Sprowl quietly, bu
t Molly cut him short with a laughing “good-bye,” and hung up the receiver.

  “That was Langly,” she remarked, turning to Strelsa who was already dressed for dinner and who had come into Molly’s boudoir to observe the hair-dressing and comprehensive embellishment of that young matron’s person by a new maid on probation.

  Strelsa’s upper lip curled faintly, then the happy expression returned, and she watched the decorating of Molly until the maid turned her out in the perfection of grooming from crown to toe.

  There was nobody in the music-room. Molly turned again to Strelsa as they entered:

  “What a brute he is! — asking me to invite him here for dinner when Mary Ledwith has just arrived.”

  “Did he do that?”

  “Yes. And his excuse was that he had an explanation to make you. What a sneaking way of doing it!”

  Strelsa looked out of the dark window in silence.

  Molly said: “I wish he’d go away, I never can look at him without thinking of Chester Ledwith — and all that wretched affair.... Not that I am sniffy about Mary — the poor little fool.... Anyway,” she added naïvely, “old lady Sprowl has fixed her status and now we all know how to behave toward her.”

  Strelsa, arms clasped behind her back, came slowly forward from the window:

  “What a sorry civilisation,” she said thoughtfully, “and what sorry codes we frame to govern it.”

  “What?” sharply.

  Strelsa looked at her, absently.

  “Nobody seems to be ashamed of anything any more,” she said, half to herself. “The only thing that embarrasses us is what the outside world may think of us. We don’t seem to care what we think of each other.”

  Molly, a trifle red, asked her warmly what she meant.

  “Oh, I was just realising what are the motives that govern us — the majority of us — and how primitive they are. So many among us seem to be moral throwbacks — types reappearing out of the mists of an ancient and unmoral past.... Echoes of primitive ages when nobody knew any better — when life was new, and was merely life and nothing else — fighting, treacherous, cringing life which knew of nothing else to do except to eat, sleep, and reproduce itself — bully the weaker, fawn on the stronger, lie, steal, and watch out that death should not interfere with the main chance.”

  Molly, redder than ever, asked her again what she meant.

  “I don’t know, dear.... How clean the woods and fields seem after a day indoors with many people.”

  “You mean we all need moral baths?”

  “I do.”

  Molly smiled: “For a moment I thought you meant that I do.”

  Strelsa smiled, too:

  “You’re a good wife, Molly; and a good friend.... I wish you had a baby.”

  “I’m — going to.”

  They looked at each other a moment; then Strelsa caught her in her arms.

  “Really?”

  Molly nodded:

  “That’s why I worry about Jim taking chances in his aeroplane.”

  “He mustn’t! He’s got to stop! What can he be thinking of!” cried Strelsa indignantly.

  “But he — doesn’t know.”

  “You haven’t told him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I — don’t know how he’ll take it.”

  “What?”

  Molly flushed: “We didn’t want one. I don’t know what he’ll say. We didn’t care for them — —”

  Strelsa’s angry beauty checked her with its silent scorn; suddenly her pretty head fell forward on Strelsa’s breast:

  “Don’t look that way at me! I was a fool. How was I to know — anything? I’d never had one.... You can’t know whether you want a baby or not until you have one.... I know now. I’m crazy about it.... I think it would — would kill me if Jim is annoyed — —”

  “He won’t be, darling!” whispered Strelsa. “Don’t mind what he says anyway. He’s only a man. He never even knew as much about it as you did. What do men know, anyway? Jim is a dear — just the regular sort of man interested in business and sport and probably afraid that a baby might interfere with both. What does he know about it?... Besides he’s too decent to be annoyed — —”

  “I’m afraid — I can’t stand — even his indifference—” whimpered Molly.

  Strelsa, holding her clasped to her breast, started to speak, but a noise of men in the outer hall silenced her — the aviators returning from their hangars and gathering in the billiard-room for a long one before dressing.

  “Wait,” whispered Strelsa, gently disengaging herself— “wait just a moment — —”

  And she was out in the hall in an instant, just in time to touch Jim on the arm as he closed the file toward the billiard-room.

  “Hello, Sweetness!” he said, pivoting on his heels and seizing her hands. “Are you coming in to try a cocktail with us?”

  “Jim,” she said, “I want to tell you something.”

  “Shoot,” he said. “And if you don’t hurry I’ll kiss you.”

  “Listen, please. Molly is in the music-room. Make her tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Ask her, Jim.... And, if you care one atom for her — be happy at what she tells you — and tell her that you are. Will you?”

  He stared at her, then lost countenance. Then he looked at her in a panicky way and started to go, but she held on to him with determination:

  “Smile first!”

  “Thunder! I — —”

  “Smile. Oh, Jim, isn’t there any decency in men?”

  His mind was working like mad; he stared at her, then through the astonishment and consternation on his good-looking features a faint grin broke out.

  “All right,” she whispered, and let him go.

  Molly, idling at the piano, heard his tread behind her, and looked up over her shoulder.

  “Hello, Jim,” she said, faintly.

  “Hello, ducky. Strelsa says you have something to tell me.”

  “I — Jim?”

  “So she said. So I cut out a long one to find out what it is. What’s up, ducky?”

  Molly’s gaze grew keener: “Did that child tell you?”

  “She said that you had something to tell me.”

  “Did she?”

  “No! Aren’t you going to tell me either?”

  He dropped into a chair opposite her; she sat on the piano-stool considering him for a while in silence. Then, dropping her arms with a helpless little gesture:

  “We are going to have a baby. Are you — annoyed?”

  For a second he sat as though paralysed, and the next second he had her in his arms, the grin breaking out from utter blankness.

  “You’re a corker, ducky!” he whispered. “You for me all the time!”

  “Jim!... Really?”

  “Surest thing you know! Which is it? — boy or — Oh, I beg your pardon, dear — I’m not accustomed to the etiquette. But I’m delighted, ducky, overwhelmed!”

  “Oh, Jim! I’m so glad. And I’m crazy about it — perfectly mad about it.... And you’re a dear to care — —”

  “Certainly I care! What do you take me for — a wooden Indian!” he exclaimed virtuously. “Come on and we’ll celebrate — —”

  “But, Jim! We can’t tell people.”

  “Oh — that’s the christening. I forgot, ducky. No, we can’t talk about it of course. But I’ll do anything you say — —”

  “Will you?”

  “Will I? Watch me!”

  “Then — then don’t take out the Stinger for a while. Do you mind, dear?”

  “What!” he said, jaw dropping.

  “I can’t bear it, Jim. I was a good sport before; you know I was. But my nerve has gone. I can’t take chances now; I want you to see — it — —”

  After a moment he nodded.

  “Sure,” he said. “It’s like Lent. You’ve got to offer up something.... If you feel that way—” he sighed unconsciously— “I’ll
lock up the hangar until — —”

  “Oh, darling! Will you?”

  “Yes,” said that desolate young man, and kissed his wife without a scowl. He had behaved pretty well — about like the majority of husbands outside of popular romances.

  The amateur aeronauts left in the morning before anybody was stirring except the servants — Vincent Wier, Lester Caldera, the Van Dynes and the rest, bag, baggage, and, later, two aeroplanes packed and destined for Barent Van Dyne’s Long Island estate where there was to be some serious flying attempted over the flat and dusty plains of that salubrious island.

  Sir Charles Mallison was leaving that same day, later; and there were to be no more of Jim’s noisy parties; and now under the circumstances, no parties of Molly’s, either; because Molly was becoming nervous and despondent and a mania for her husband possessed her — the pretty resurgence of earlier sentiment which, if not more than comfortably dormant, buds charmingly again at a time like this.

  Also she wanted Strelsa, and nobody beside these two; and although she liked parties of all sorts including Jim’s sporting ones, and although she liked Sir Charles immensely, she was looking forward to comfort of an empty house with only her husband to decorate the landscape and Strelsa to whisper to in morbid moments.

  For Chrysos was going to Newport, Sir Charles and her maid accompanying her as far as New York from where the Baronet meant to sail the next day.

  His luggage had already gone; his man was packing when Sir Charles sauntered out over the dew-wet lawn, a sprig of sweet-william in his lapel, tall, clear-skinned, nice to look upon.

  What he really thought of what he had seen in America, of the sort of people who had entertained him, of the grotesque imitation of exotic society — or of a certain sort of it — nobody really knew. Doubtless his estimate was inclined to be a kindly one, for he was essentially that — a philosophical, chivalrous, and modest man; and if his lines had fallen in places where vulgarity, extravagance, and ostentation predominated — if he had encountered little real cultivation, less erudition, and almost nothing worthy of sympathetic interest, he never betrayed either impatience or contempt.

  He had come for one reason only — the same reason that had brought him to America for the first time — to ask Strelsa Leeds to marry him.