Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Great heavens!” he said. “When did you bake that cake?”

  “Y-yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  “B-because I was going away to New York and would never perhaps see you again unless I was entirely cured. And I meant to leave this for you — so you would know that I had followed you even here — so you would know I had made a plucky try at you — through all these months—”

  “You — you corker!”

  “D-do you really mean it?”

  “Mean it! I tell you, Diana, you women put it all over the lords of creation — or any lord ever created! Mean it! You bet I do, sweetness! I’ll take back everything I ever said about women. They’re the real thing in the world! And the best thing for the world is to let them run it!”

  “But — dear — —” she faltered, lifting her beautiful eyes to him, “if men are going to feel that way about it, we won’t want to run anything at all. . . . It was only because you wouldn’t let us that we wanted to.”

  He said in impassioned tones:

  “Let the bally world run itself, Diana. What do we care — you and I?”

  “No,” she said, “we don’t care now.”

  Then that rash and infatuated young man, losing his head entirely, drew from his jeans a large jack-knife, and, before she could prevent him, he had sliced off an enormous hunk of plum cake heavily frosted with his own words.

  “Don’t, dear!” she begged him. “I couldn’t ask that of you — —”

  “I will!” he said, and bit into it.

  “Don’t!” she begged him; “please don’t! I haven’t had much experience with pastry. It may give you dreadful dreams!”

  “Let it!” he said. “What do I care for dreams while you remain real! Diana — Diana — huntress of bigger game than ever fled through the age of fable!”

  And he bolted a section of frosting and began to chew vigorously upon another, while she slipped both hands into his, regarding him with tender solicitude.

  “Have no fears for me, dearest,” he said indistinctly; “fortified by months of pie I dread no food ever prepared by youth and beauty. Even the secret dishes of the Medici — —”

  “John!”

  “W-what, darling?”

  “After all — I don’t cook so badly.”

  So, in the gloaming, he swallowed the last crumb and gathered her into his strong young arms, and drew her golden head down close to his.

  “Take it from me,” he whispered, relapsing into the noble idioms of his adopted country, “you’re all to the mustard, Diana; your eats were bully and I liked ’em fine!”

  XIV

  The situation in Great Britain was becoming deplorable; the Home Secretary had been chased into the Serpentine; the Prime Minister and a dozen members of Parliament had taken permanent refuge in the vaults of the Bank of England; a vast army of suffragettes was parading the streets of London, singing, cheering, and eating bon-bons. Statues, monuments, palaces were defaced with the words “Votes for Women,” and it was not an uncommon sight to see some handsome young man rushing distractedly through Piccadilly pursued by scores of fleet-footed suffragettes of the eugenic wing of their party, intent on his capture for the purposes of scientific propagation.

  No young man who conformed to the standard of masculine beauty set by the eugenist suffragettes was safe any longer. Scientific marriage between perfectly healthy people was now a firmly established principle of the suffragette propaganda; they began to chase attractive young men on sight with the avowed determination of marrying them to physically qualified individuals of their own sex and party, irrespective of social or educational suitability.

  This had already entailed much hardship; the young Marquis of Putney was chased through Cadogan Place, caught, taken away in a taxi, and married willy-nilly to a big, handsome, strapping girl who sold dumb-bells in the new American department store. No matter who the man might be professionally and socially, if he was young and well-built and athletic he was chased on sight and, if captured, married to some wholesome and athletic young suffragette in spite of his piteous protests.

  “We will found,” cried Mrs. Blinkerly Dank-some-Hankly triumphantly, “a perfect human race and teach it the immortal principles of woman’s rights. So, if we can’t persuade Parliament to come out for us, we’ll take Parliament by the slack of its degraded trousers, some day, and throw it out!”

  This terrible menace delivered in Trafalgar Square was cabled to the Outlook, which instantly issued its first extra; and New York, already in the preliminary throes of a feminine revolution, went wild.

  That day the handsome young Governor of New York, attended by his ornamental young Military Secretary in full uniform, had arrived at the Waldorf-Astoria to confer with the attractive young Mayor of the metropolis concerning a bill to be introduced into the legislature, permitting the franchise to women under certain conditions. And on the same day a monster suffragette parade was scheduled.

  Some provisions of the proposed measure, somehow or other, had become known to the National Federation of Women; and as the Governor, his Military Secretary, and the Mayor sat in earnest conference in a private room at the Waldorf, the most terrible riot that New York ever saw began on Fifth Avenue just as the head of the parade, led by the suffragette band of 100 pieces, arrived at the hotel.

  The Governor, Mayor, and Secretary rushed to the windows; acres of banners waved wildly below; cheer after cheer rent the raw March atmosphere; in every direction handsome young men were fleeing, pursued by eugenists. Under their very windows the shocked politicians beheld an exceedingly good-looking youth seized by several vigorous and beautiful suffragettes, dragged into a taxi, and hurried away toward a scientific marriage, kicking and struggling. This was nothing new, alas. More than one attractive young man had already been followed and spoken to in Manhattan.

  Mr. Dill, president of the Board of Aldermen, and the handsomest incumbent of the office that the city ever beheld, had been courted so persistently that, fearful of being picked up, he remained in hiding disguised as a Broadway fortune teller, where the Mayor came at intervals to consult him on pretense of having his palms read.

  But now the suffragettes threw off all restraint; men, frightened and confused, were being not only spoken to on Fifth Avenue, but were being seized and forcibly conducted in taxicabs toward the marriage license bureau.

  It was a very St. Bartholomew for bachelors.

  “John,” said the Governor to his capable young Military Secretary, “take off that uniform. I’m going to flee in disguise.”

  “What does your excellency expect me to flee in — dishabille?” stammered the Military Secretary.

  “I don’t care what you flee in,” said the Governor bluntly; “but I will not have it said that the Governor of the great State of New York was seized by a dozen buxom eugenists and hurried away to become the founder of a physically and politically perfect race of politicians. Get out of those gold-laced jeans!”

  “I’ll flee disguised as a chambermaid,” muttered the handsome, rosy-cheeked young Mayor. And he rang for one.

  While the Governor and his Secretary were exchanging clothes they heard the Mayor in the hallway arguing with a large German chambermaid in an earnest and fatherly manner, punctuated by coy screams from the maid.

  By and by he came back to the room, perspiring.

  “I bought her clothes,” he said; “she’ll throw them over the transom.”

  The clothing arrived presently by way of the transom; the Governor and the Secretary tried to aid the Mayor to get into the various sections of clothing, but as they all were bachelors and young they naturally were not aware of the functions of the various objects scattered over the floor.

  The Governor picked up a bunch of curls attached to a cup-shaped turban swirl.

  “Good heavens!” he said. “The girl has scalped herself for your sake, John!”

  “I bought that, too,” said the Mayor, sullenly. “Do you know which w
ay it goes on, George?”

  They fixed it so that two curls fell down and dangled on either side of his Honour’s nose.

  Meanwhile the unfortunate Military Secretary had dressed in the top hat and cutaway of the Governor.

  He said huskily, “If I can’t outrun them they’ll catch me and try to start raising statesmen.”

  “It’s your duty to defend me,” observed the Governor.

  “Yes, with my life, but not with my p-progeny—”

  “Then you’d better run faster than you’ve ever run in all your life,” said the Governor coldly.

  At that moment there came a telephone call.

  “Lady at the desk to speak to the Governor,” came a voice.

  “Hello, who is it?” asked his excellency coyly.

  “Professor Elizabeth Challis!” came a very sweet but determined voice.

  At the terrible name of the new President of the National Federation of American Women the Governor jumped with nervousness. Anonymous letters had warned him that she was after him for eugenic purposes.

  “What do you want?” he asked tremulously.

  “In the name of the Federation I demand that you instantly destroy the draft of that infamous bill which you are preparing to rush through at Albany.”

  “I won’t,” said the Governor.

  “If you don’t,” she said, “the committee on eugenics will seize you.”

  “Let ’em catch me first,” he replied, boldly; and rang off.

  “Now, John,” he said briskly, “as soon as they catch sight of you in my top hat and cutaway they’ll start for you. And I advise you to leg it if you want to remain single.”

  The unfortunate Military Secretary gulped with fright, buttoned his cutaway coat, crammed his top hat over his ears, and gazed fearfully out of the window, where in the avenue below the riot was still in lively progress. Terrified young men fled in every direction, pursued by vigorous and youthful beauty, while the suffragette band played and thousands of suffragettes cheered wildly.

  “Isn’t it awful!” groaned the Mayor, arranging the lace cap on his turban-swirl and shaking out his skirts. “The police are no use. The suffragettes kidnap the good-looking ones. Are you ready for the sortie, Governor?”

  The Governor in the handsome uniform of his Military Secretary adjusted his sword and put on the gold-laced cap. Then, thrusting the draft of the obnoxious bill into the bosom of his tunic, he strode from the room, followed by his Secretary and the unfortunate Mayor, who attempted in vain to avoid treading on his own trailing skirts.

  “George,” said the Mayor, spitting out a curl that kept persistently getting into his mouth every time he opened it, “I’ll be in a pickle unless I can reach Dill’s rooms. . . . Wait! There’s a pin sticking into me — —”

  “Too late,” said the Governor; “it will spur you to run all the faster. . . . Where is Dill’s?”

  The Mayor whispered the directions, spitting out his curl at intervals when it incommoded him; the Governor walked faster to escape.

  Down in the elevator they went, gazed at by terror-stricken bell-hops and scared porters.

  As the cheering and band playing grew louder and more distinct the Secretary quailed, but the Governor admonished him:

  “You’ve simply got to save me,” he said. “Pro bono publico! Come on now. Make a dash for a taxi and the single life! One — two — three!”

  The next moment the Secretary’s top hat was carried away by a brick; the Mayor’s turban-swirl went the same way, amid showers of confetti and a yell of fury from a thousand suffragettes who saw in his piteous attempt to disguise himself, by aid of a turban-swirl, an insult to womanhood the world over.

  A perfect blizzard of missiles rained on the terrified politicians; the Secretary and the Mayor burst into a frantic canter up Thirty-fourth Street, pursued by a thousand strikingly handsome women. The Governor ran west.

  XV

  The Governor of the great State of New York was now running up Broadway with his borrowed sword between his legs and his borrowed uniform covered with confetti — footing it as earnestly as though he were running behind his ticket with New York County yet to hear from.

  After him sped bricks, vegetables, spot-eggs, and several exceedingly fashionable suffragettes, their perfectly gloved hands full of horsewhips, banners, and farm produce.

  But his excellency was now running strongly; one by one his eager and beautiful pursuers gave up the chase and fell out, panting and flushed from the exciting and exhilarating sport, until, at Forty-second Street, only one fleet-footed young girl remained at his heels.

  The order of precedence then shifted as follows: First, the young and handsome Governor running like a lost dog at a fair and clutching the draft of the obnoxious bill to his gold-laced bosom; second, one distractingly lovely young girl, big, wholesome-looking, athletic, and pink of cheeks, swinging a ci-devant cat by the tail as menacingly as David balanced the loaded sling; third, several agitated policemen whistling and rapping for assistance; fourth, the hoi polloi of the Via Blanca; fifth, a small polychromatic dog; sixth, the idle wind toying carelessly with the dust and refuse and hats and skirts of all Broadway.

  “Only one fleet-footed young girl remained at his heels.”

  This municipal dust storm, mingling with the brooding metropolitan gasoline fog, produced a sirocco of which no Libyan desert needed to be ashamed; and it alternately blotted out and revealed the interesting Marathonian procession, until one capricious and suffocating flurry, full of whirling newspapers and derbies, completely blotted out the Governor and the young lady at his heels.

  And when, a moment later, the miniature tornado had subsided into a series of playful sidewalk eddys, only the policemen, the hoi polloi, and the dog were still going; the Governor and the beautiful suffragette had completely disappeared.

  They had, it is true, chosen a very good time and place for such an occult performance; Long Acre at its busiest.

  Several mounted policemen had now joined in the frantic festivities. They galloped hurriedly in every direction. The crowd cheered and pursued the police, the small dog barked in eddying circles till he resembled an expiring pinwheel.

  Meanwhile a curious thing had occurred; the youthful Governor was now chasing the suffragette. It occurred abruptly, and in the following manner:

  No sooner had the dust cloud spread a momentary fog around the radiant young man — like a hurricane eclipse of the sun — than he darted into the narrow and dark hallway of an old-fashioned office building devoted to theatrical agencies, all-night lawyers, and “astrologists,” and started up the stairs. But his unaccustomed sword tripped him up, and as he fell flat with a startling outcrash of accoutrements, there came a flurry of delicately perfumed skirts, the type-written papers were snatched from his gloved hands, and the perfumed skirts went scurrying away through the dusky corridor which ought to have opened on the next cross street. And didn’t.

  After her ran the Governor, now goaded to courage by the loss of his papers, and she, finding herself in a cul-de-sac, turned at bay, launched the cat at his head, and attempted to spring past him. But he caught the whirling feline in one white-gloved hand and barred her way with the other; and she turned once more in desperation to seek an egress which did not exist.

  A flight of precipitate and rickety stairs led upward into an obscurity rendered deeper by a single gas jet burning low on the landing above.

  Up this she sprang, two at a time, the young man at her heels; up, up, passing floor after floor, until a dirty skylight overhead warned her that the race was ending.

  On the top corridor there was a door ajar; she sprang for it, opened it, tried to slam and lock it behind her, then, exhausted, she shrank backward into the room and sank into a red velvet chair, holding the bunch of papers tightly to her heaving breast.

  There was another chair — a gilt one. Into it fell his excellency, gasping, speechless, his spurred and booted legs trailing, his borrowed uniform all o
ver confetti and dust from his tumble on the stairs.

  Minute after minute elapsed as they lay there, fighting for breath, watching each other.

  She was the first to stir; and instantly he dragged himself to his feet, staggered over to the door, locked it, dropped the key into his pocket, returned to his chair, and collapsed once more.

  After a few moments he glanced down at the cat which he was still clutching. A slight shiver passed over him, then, as he inspected it more closely, over his features crept an ironical smile.

  For the cat was not even a ci-devant cat; it had never been a cat; it was only an imitation of a defunct one made out of floss and chenille, like a teddy-bear; and he smiled at her scornfully and dangled it by its black and white tail.

  “Pooh,” he panted; “I suppose even your bricks and vegetables and eggs were cotillion favours full of confetti.”

  “They were,” she admitted defiantly. “Which did not prevent their serving their purposes.”

  “As what?”

  “As symbols!”

  “Symbols?” he retorted in derision.

  “Yes, symbols! The three most ancient symbols of an insulted people’s fury — the egg, the turnip, and the cat.”

  “Mala gallina, malum ovum,” he laughed, adjusting his sword and picking several streamers of confetti from his tunic. “Did they hurl spot-eggs in ancient Rome, fair maid?”

  “They did; and cats — ex necessitate rei,” she observed with composure.

  “Ex nihilo felis fit — a cat-fit for nothing,” he retorted, flippantly.

  Half disdainfully she straightened out the slight disorder of her own apparel, still breathing fast, and keeping tight hold of the bundle of papers.

  “How soon are you going to let me have them?” he asked good-humouredly.

  “Never.”

  “I can’t permit you to leave this room until you hand them to me.”

  “Then I shall never leave this room.”

  “You certainly shall not leave it until I have those papers.”

  “Then I’ll remain here all my life!” she said defiantly.