Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Conscience was tearing him inwardly to shreds, as the fox tore the Spartan. How could he pose as the sort of man she believed him to be, and endure the self-contempt now almost overwhelming him?

  “I — I’m not good,” he blurted out, miserably.

  She turned and looked at him seriously for a moment. Then, for the first time aware of his arm encircling her, and her hands in his, she flushed brightly and freed herself, straightening up in her little wooden chair.

  “You need not tell me that,” she said. “I know you are good.”

  “As a m-matter of f-fact,” he stammered. “I’m a scoundrel!”

  “What?”

  “I can’t bear to have you know it — b-but I am!”

  “How can you say that? — when you’ve been so perfectly sweet to me?” she exclaimed.

  And after a moment’s silence she laughed deliciously.

  “Only to look at you is enough,” she said, “for a girl to feel absolute confidence in you.”

  “Do you feel that?”

  “I?... Yes.... Yes, I do. I would trust you without hesitation. I have trusted you, have I not? And after all, it is not so strange. You are the sort of man to whom I am accustomed. We are both of the same sort.”

  “No,” he said gloomily, “I’m really a pariah.”

  “You! Why do you say such things, after you have been so — perfectly charming to a frightened girl?”

  “I’m a pariah,” he repeated. “I’m a social outcast! I — I know it, now.” And he leaned his head wearily on both palms.

  The girl looked at him in consternation.

  “Are you unhappy?” she asked.

  “Wretched.”

  “Oh,” she said softly, “I didn’t know that.... I am so sorry.... And to think that you took all my troubles on your shoulders, too, — burdened with your own! I — I knew you were that kind of man,” she added warmly.

  He only shook his head, face buried in his hands.

  “I am so sorry,” she repeated gently. “Would it help you if you told me?”

  He did not answer.

  “Because,” she said sweetly, “it would make me very happy if I could be of even the very slightest use to you!”

  No response.

  “Because you have been so kind.”

  No response.

  “ — And so p-pleasant and c-cordial and — —”

  No response.

  She looked at the young fellow who sat there with head bowed in his hands; and her blue eyes grew wistful.

  “Are you in physical pain?”

  “Mental,” he said in a muffled voice.

  “I am sorry. Don’t you believe that I am?” she asked pitifully.

  “You would not be sorry if you knew why I am suffering,” he muttered.

  “How can you say that?” she exclaimed warmly. “Do you think I am ungrateful? Do you think I am insensible to delicate and generous emotions? Do you suppose I could ever forget what you have done for me?”

  “Suppose,” he said in a muffled voice, “I turned out to be a — a villain?”

  “You couldn’t!”

  “Suppose it were true that I am one?”

  She said, with the warmth of total inexperience with villains, “What you have been to me is only what concerns me. You have been good, generous, noble! And I — like you.”

  “You must not like me.”

  “I do! I do like you! I shall continue to do so — always — —”

  “You can not!”

  “What? Indeed I can! I like you very much. I defy you to prevent me!”

  “I don’t want to prevent you — but you mustn’t do it.”

  She sat silent for a moment. Then her lip trembled.

  “Why may I not like you?” she asked unsteadily.

  “I am not worth it.”

  He didn’t know it, but he had given her the most fascinating answer that a man can give a young girl.

  “If you are not worth it,” she said tremulously, “you can become so.”

  “No, I never can.”

  “Why do you say that? No matter what a man has done — a young man — such as you — he can become worthy again of a girl’s friendship — if he wishes to.”

  “I never could become worthy of yours.”

  “Why? What have you done? I don’t care anyway. If you — if you want my — my friendship you can have it.”

  “No,” he groaned, “I am sunk too low to even dream of it! You don’t know — you don’t know what you’re saying. I am beyond the pale!”

  He clutched his temples and shuddered. For a moment she gazed at him piteously, then her timid hand touched his arm.

  “I can’t bear to see you in despair,” she faltered, “ — you who have been so good to me. Please don’t be unhappy — because — I want you to be happy — —”

  “I can never be that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because — I am in love!”

  “What?”

  “With a girl who — hates me.”

  “Oh,” she said faintly. Then the surprise in her eyes faded vaguely into wistfulness, and into something almost tender as she gazed at his bowed head.

  “Any girl,” she said, scarcely knowing what she was saying, “who could not love such a man as you is an absolutely negligible quantity.”

  His hands fell from his face and he sat up.

  “Could you?”

  “What?” she said, not understanding.

  “Could you do what — what I — mentioned just now?”

  She looked curiously at him for a moment, not comprehending. Suddenly a rose flush stained her face.

  “I don’t think you mean to say that to me,” she said quietly.

  “Yes,” he said, “I do mean to say it.... Because, since I first saw you, I have — have dared to — to be in love with you.”

  “With me! We — you have not known me an hour!”

  “I have known you three days.”

  “What?”

  “I am George Z. Green!”

  XXV

  Minute after minute throbbed in silence, timed by the loud rhythm of the roaring wheels. He did not dare lift his head to look at her, though her stillness scared him. Awful and grotesque thoughts assailed him. He wondered whether she had survived the blow — and like an assassin he dared not look to see what he had done, but crouched there, overwhelmed with misery such as he never dreamed that a human heart could endure.

  A century seemed to have passed before, far ahead, the locomotive whistled warningly for the Ormond station.

  He understood what it meant, and clutched his temples, striving to gather courage sufficient to lift his head and face her blazing contempt — or her insensible and inanimate but beautiful young form lying in a merciful faint on the floor of the baggage car.

  And at last he lifted his head.

  She had risen and was standing by the locked side doors, touching her eye-lashes with her handkerchief.

  When he rose, the train was slowing down. Presently the baggage master came in, yawning; the side doors were unbolted and flung back as the car glided along a high, wooden platform.

  They were standing side by side now; she did not look at him, but when the car stopped she laid her hand lightly on his arm.

  Trembling in every fibre, he drew the little, gloved hand through his arm and aided her to descend.

  “Are you unhappy?” he whispered tremulously.

  “No.... What are we to do?”

  “Am I to say?”

  “Yes,” she said faintly.

  “Shall I register as your brother?”

  She blushed and looked at him in a lovely and distressed way.

  “What are we to do?” she faltered.

  They entered the main hall of the great hotel at that moment, and she turned to look around her.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, clutching his arm. “Do you see that man? Do you see him?”

  “Which man — dearest? — —”<
br />
  “That one over there! That is the clergyman I saw in the crystal. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Is it going to come true right away?”

  “I think it is,” he said. “Are you afraid?”

  She drew a deep, shuddering breath, lifted her eyes to his:

  “N-no,” she said.

  Ten minutes later it was being done around the corner of the great veranda, where nobody was. The moon glimmered on the Halifax; the palmettos sighed in the chilly sea-wind; the still, night air was scented with orange bloom and the odour of the sea.

  He wore his overcoat, and he used the plain, gold band which had decorated his little finger. The clergyman was brief and businesslike; the two clerks made dignified witnesses.

  When it was done, and they were left alone, standing on the moonlit veranda, he said:

  “Shall we send a present to the Princess Zimbamzim?”

  “Yes.... A beautiful one.”

  He drew her to him; she laid both hands on his shoulders. When he kissed her, her face was cold and white as marble.

  “Are you afraid?” he whispered.

  The marble flushed pink.

  “No,” she said.

  “That,” said Stafford, “was certainly quick action. Ten minutes is a pretty short time for Fate to begin business.”

  “Fate,” remarked Duane, “once got busy with me inside of ten seconds.” He looked at Athalie.

  “Ut solent poetae,” she rejoined, calmly.

  I said: “Verba placent et vox, et quod corrumpere non est; Quoque minor spes est, hoc magis ille cupit.”

  In a low voice Duane replied to me, looking at her: “Vera incessu patuit Dea.”

  Slowly the girl blushed, lowering her dark eyes to the green jade god resting in the rosy palm of her left hand.

  “Physician, cure thyself,” muttered Stafford, slowly twisting a cigarette to shreds in his nervous hands.

  I rose, walked over to the small marble fountain and looked down at the sleeping goldfish. Here and there from the dusky magnificence of their colour a single scale glittered like a living spark under water.

  “Are you preaching to them?” asked Athalie, raising her eyes from the green god in her palm.

  “No matter where a man turns his eyes,” said I, “they may not long remain undisturbed by the vision of gold. I was not preaching, Athalie; I was reflecting upon my poverty.”

  “It is an incurable ailment,” said somebody; “the millionaire knows it; the gods themselves suffered from it. From the bleaching carcass of the peon to the mausoleum of the emperor, the world’s highway winds through its victims’ graves.”

  “Athalie,” said I, “is it possible for you to look into your crystal and discover hidden treasure?”

  “Not for my own benefit.”

  “For others?”

  “I have done it.”

  “Could you locate a few millions for us?” inquired the novelist.

  “Yes, widely distributed among you. Your right hand is heavy as gold; your brain jingles with it.”

  “I do not write for money,” he said bluntly.

  “That is why,” she said, smiling and placing a sweetmeat between her lips.

  I had the privilege of lighting a match for her.

  XXVI

  When the tip of her cigarette glowed rosy in the pearl-tinted gloom, the shadowy circle at her feet drew a little nearer.

  “This is the story of Valdez,” she said. “Listen attentively, you who hunger!”

  On the first day it rained torrents; the light was very dull in the galleries; fashion kept away. Only a few monomaniacs braved the weather, left dripping mackintoshes and umbrellas in the coat room, and spent the dull March morning in mousing about among the priceless treasures on view to those who had cards of admission. The sale was to take place three days later. Heikem was the auctioneer.

  The collection to be disposed of was the celebrated library of Professor Octavo de Folio — a small one; but it was composed almost exclusively of rarities. A million and a half had been refused by the heirs, who preferred to take chances at auction.

  And there were Caxtons, first edition Shakespeares, illuminated manuscripts, volumes printed privately for various kings and queens, bound sketch books containing exquisite aquarelles and chalk drawings by Bargue, Fortuny, Drouais, Boucher, John Downman; there were autographed monographs in manuscript; priceless order books of revolutionary generals, private diaries kept by men and women celebrated and notorious the world over.

  But the heirs apparently preferred yachts and automobiles.

  The library was displayed in locked glass cases, an attendant seated by each case, armed with a key and discretionary powers.

  From where James White sat beside his particular case, he had a view of the next case and of the young girl seated beside it.

  She was very pretty. No doubt, being out of a job, like himself, she was glad to take this temporary position. She was so pretty she made his head ache. Or it might have been the ventilation.

  It rained furiously; a steady roar on the glass roof overhead filled the long and almost empty gallery of Mr. Heikem, the celebrated auctioneer, with a monotone as dull and incessant as the business voice of that great man.

  Here and there a spectacled old gentleman nosed his way from case to case, making at intervals cabalistic pencil marks on the margin of his catalogue — which specimen of compiled literature alone cost five dollars.

  It was a very dull day for James White, and also, apparently, for the pretty girl in charge of the adjoining case. Nobody even asked either of them to unlock the cases; and it began to appear to young White that the books and manuscripts confided to his charge were not by any means the chefs-d’oeuvre of the collection.

  They were a dingy looking lot of books, anyway. He glanced over the private list furnished him, read the titles, histories and pedigrees of the volumes, stifled a yawn, fidgetted in his chair, stared at the rain-battered glass roof overhead, mused lightly upon his misfortunes, shrugged his broad shoulders, and glanced at the girl across the aisle.

  She also was reading her private list. It seemed to bore her.

  He looked at her as long as decency permitted, then gazed elsewhere. She was exceedingly pretty in her way, red haired, white skinned; and her eyes seemed to be a very lovely Sevres blue. Except in porcelain he thought he had never seen anything as dainty. He knew perfectly well that he could very easily fall in love with her. Also he knew he’d never have the opportunity.

  Duller and duller grew the light; louder roared the March rain. Even monomaniacs no longer came into the galleries, and the half dozen who had arrived left by luncheon time.

  When it was White’s turn to go out to lunch, he went to Childs’ and returned in half an hour. Then the girl across the aisle went out — probably to a similar and sumptuous banquet. She came back very shortly, reseated herself, and glanced around the empty galleries.

  There seemed to be absolutely nothing for anybody to do, except to sit there and listen to the rain.

  White pondered on his late failure in affairs. Recently out of Yale, and more recently still established in business, he had gone down in the general slump, lacking sufficient capital to tide him over. His settlement with his creditors left him with fifteen hundred dollars. He was now waiting for an opportunity to invest it in an enterprise. He believed in enterprises. Also, he was firmly convinced that Opportunity knocked no more than once in a lifetime, and he was always cocking his ear to catch the first timid rap. It was knocking then but he did not hear it, for it was no louder than the gentle beating of his red-haired neighbour’s heart.

  But Opportunity is a jolly jade. She knocks every little while — but one must possess good hearing.

  Having nothing better to do as he sat there, White drifted into mental speculation — that being the only sort available.

  He dreamed of buying a lot in New York for fifteen hundred dollars and selling it a few years later for fifty thousand. He had a well developed ima
gination; wonderful were the lucky strikes he made in these day dreams; marvellous the financial returns. He was a very Napoleon of finance when he was dozing. Many are.

  The girl across the aisle also seemed to be immersed in day dreams. Her Sevres blue eyes had become vague; her listless little hands lay in her lap unstirring. She was pleasant to look at.

  After an hour or so it was plain to White that she had had enough of her dreams. She sighed very gently, straightened up in her chair, looked at the rain-swept roof, patted a yawn into modest suppression, and gazed about her with speculative and engaging eyes.

  Then, as though driven to desperation, she turned, looked into the glass case beside her for a few minutes, and then, fitting her key to the door, opened it, selected a volume at hazard, and composed herself to read.

  For a while White watched her lazily, but presently with more interest, as her features gradually grew more animated and her attention seemed to be concentrated on the book.

  As the minutes passed it became plain to White that the girl found the dingy little volume exceedingly interesting. And after a while she appeared to be completely absorbed in it; her blue eyes were rivetted on the pages; her face was flushed, her sensitive lips expressive of the emotion that seemed to be possessing her more and more.

  White wondered what this book might be which she found so breathlessly interesting. It was small, dingy, bound in warped covers of old leather, and anything but beautiful. And by and by he caught a glimpse of the title— “The Journal of Pedro Valdez.”

  The title, somehow, seemed to be familiar to him; he glanced into his own case, and after a few minutes’ searching he caught sight of another copy of the same book, dingy, soiled, leather-bound, unlovely.

  He looked over his private list until he found it. And this is what he read concerning it:

  Valdez, Pedro — Journal of. Translated by Thomas Bangs, of Philadelphia, in 1760. With map. Two copies, much worn and damaged by water. Several pages missing from each book.

  Pedro Valdez was a soldier of fortune serving with Cortez in Mexico and with De Soto in Florida. Nothing more is known of him, except that he perished somewhere in the semi-tropical forests of America.