Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Why?” he asked unsteadily.

  “Because you ought to tell me. I should not wish to die and never know it.”

  “Would you care?”

  “Care? Do you ask a girl whether she could remain unmoved, uninterested, indifferent, if the man she cares for most falls in love with her?”

  “Could you — respond?”

  “Respond? With love? I don’t know. How can I tell? I believe that I have never been in love in all my life. I don’t know what it feels like. You might as well ask somebody born blind to read an ordinary book.... But one thing is certain: if that ever happens to you, you ought to tell me. Will you?”

  “What good would it do?”

  “What harm would it do?” she asked frankly.

  “Suppose, knowing we could not marry, I made love to you, Athalie?”

  Suddenly the smile flashed in her eyes: “Do you think I’m a baby, Clive? Suppose, knowing what we know, you did make love to me? Is that very dreadful?”

  “My responsibility would be.”

  “The responsibility is mine. I’m my own mistress. If I chose to be yours the responsibility is mine—”

  “Don’t say such things, Athalie!”

  “Why not? Such things happen — or they don’t happen. I have no idea they’re likely to happen to us.... I’m not a bit alarmed, Clive.... Perhaps it’s the courage of ignorance—” She glanced at him again with the same curious, questioning look in her eyes,— “Perhaps because I cannot comprehend any such temptation.... And never could.... Nevertheless if you fall in love with me, tell me. I would not wish you to remain dumb. You have a right to speak. Love isn’t a question of conditions or of convenience. You ought to have your chance.”

  “Chance!”

  “Certainly.”

  “What chance?”

  “To win me.”

  “Win you! — when I can’t marry you—”

  “I didn’t say marry; I said, win.... If you ever fell in love with me you would wish to win my love, wouldn’t you? And if you did, and I gave it to you, you would have won me for yourself, wouldn’t you? Then why should you worry concerning how I might love you? That would be my affair, my personal responsibility. And I admit to you that I know no more than a kitten what I might do about it.”

  She looked at him a moment, her hands still resting on his shoulders, and suddenly threw back her head, laughing deliciously: “Did you ever before take part in such a ridiculous conversation?” she demanded. “Oh, but I have always adored theoretical conversations. Only give me an interesting subject and take one end of it and I’ll gratefully grasp the other, Clive. What an odd man you are; and I suppose I’m odd, too. And we may yet live to inhabit an odd little house together.... Wouldn’t the world tear me to tatters!... I wonder if I’d dare — even knowing I was all right!”... The laughter died in her eyes; a swift tenderness melted them: “I do care for you so truly, Clive! I can’t bear to think of ever again living without you.... You know it isn’t silliness or love or anything except what I’ve always felt for you — loyalty and devotion, endless, eternal. And that is all there is or ever will be in my heart and mind.”

  So clear and sweet and confident in his understanding were her eyes that the quick emotion that leaped responsive left only a ruddy trace on his face and a slight quiver on his lips.

  He said: “Nothing shall ever threaten your trust in me. No man can ask for more than you give, Athalie.”

  “I give you all I am. What more is there?”

  “I ask no more.”

  “Is there more to wish for? Are you really satisfied, Clive?”

  “Perfectly;” — but he looked away from her.

  “And you don’t imagine that you love me, do you?”

  “No,” — still looking away from her.

  “Meet my eyes, and say it.”

  “I—”

  “Clive!”

  “There is no—”

  “Clive, obey me!”

  So he turned and looked her in the eyes. And after a moment’s silence she laughed, uncertainly, almost nervously.

  “You — you do imagine it!” she said. “Don’t you?”

  He made no reply.

  Presently she began to laugh again, a gay, tormenting, excited little laugh. Something in his face seemed to exhilarate her, sending the blood like wine to her cheeks.

  “You do imagine it! Oh, Clive! You! You think yourself in love with your old comrade!... I knew it! There was something about you — I can’t explain exactly what — but there was something that told me.”

  She was laughing, now, almost wickedly and with all the naïve and innocently malicious delight of a child delighting in its fellow’s torment.

  “Oh, Clive!” she said, “what are you going to do about it? And why do you gaze at me so oddly? — as though I were angry or disconcerted. I’m not. I’m happy. I’m crazy about this new relation of ours. It makes you more interesting than I ever dreamed even you could be—”

  “You know,” he said almost grimly, “if you are going to take it like this—”

  “Take what?”

  “The knowledge that—”

  “That you are in love with me? Then you are! Oh, Clive, Clive! You dear, sweet, funny boy! And you’ve told me so, haven’t you? Or it amounts to that; doesn’t it?”

  “Yes; I love you.”

  She leaned swiftly toward him, sparkling, flushed, radiant, tender:

  “You dear boy! I’m not really laughing at you. I’m laughing — I don’t know why: happiness — excitement — pride — I don’t know.... Do you suppose it actually is love? It won’t make you unhappy, will it? Besides you can be very busy trying to win me. That will be exciting enough for both of us, won’t it?”

  “Yes — if I try.”

  “But you will try, won’t you?” she demanded mockingly.

  He said, forcing a smile: “You seem to think it impossible that I could win you.”

  “Oh,” she said airily, “I don’t say that. You see I don’t know the method of procedure. I don’t know what you’re going to do about your falling in love with me.”

  He leaned over and took her by the waist; and she drew back instinctively, surprised and disconcerted.

  “That is silly,” she said. “Are you going to be silly with me, Clive?”

  “No,” he said, “I won’t be that.”

  He sat looking at her in silence for a few moments. And slowly the belief entered his heart like a slim steel blade that she had never loved, and that there was in her nothing except what she had said there was, loyalty and devotion, unsullied and spiritual, clean of all else lower and less noble, guiltless of passion, ignorant of desire.

  As he looked at her he remembered the past — remembered that once he might have taught her love in all its attributes — that once he might have married her. For in a school so gentle and secure as wedlock such a girl might learn to love.

  He had had his chance. What did he want of her now, then? — more than he had of her already. Love? Her devotion amounted to that — all of it that could concern a man already married — hopelessly married to a woman who would never submit to divorce. What did he want of her then?

  He turned and walked to the open window and stood looking out over the city. Sunset blazed crimson at the western end of every cross-street. Far away on the Jersey shore electric lights began to sparkle.

  He did not know she was behind him until one arm fell lightly on his shoulder.

  It remained there after her imprisoned waist yielded a little to his arm.

  “You are not unhappy, are you, Clive?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t mean to take it lightly. I don’t comprehend; that’s all. It seems to me that I can’t care for you more than I do already. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  She raised one cool hand and drew his cheek gently against her own, and rested so a moment, looking out across the misty city.

  He reme
mbered that night of his departure when she had put both arms around his neck and kissed him. It had been like the serene touch of a crucifix to his lips. It was like that now, — the smooth, passionless touch of her cool, young face against his, and her slim hand framing his cheek.

  “To think,” she murmured to herself, “that you should ever care for me in that way, too.... It is wonderful, wonderful — and very sweet — if it does not make you unhappy. Does it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s so dear of you to love me that way, Clive. Could — could I do anything — about it?”

  “How?”

  “Would you care to kiss me?” she asked with a faint smile. And turned her face.

  Chaste, cool and fresh as a flower her young mouth met his, lingered; then, still smiling, and a trifle flushed and shy, she laid her cheek against his shoulder, and her hands in his, calm in her security.

  “You see,” she said, “you need not worry over me. I am glad you are in love with me.”

  CHAPTER XXI

  IT was in the days when nothing physical tainted her passionate attachment to Clive. When she was with him she enjoyed the moment with all her heart and soul — gave to it and to him everything that was best in her — all the richness of her mental and bodily vigour, all the unspoiled enthusiasm of her years, all the sturdy freshness of youth, eager, receptive, credulous, unsatiated.

  With them, once more, the old happy companionship began; the Café Arabesque, the Regina, the theatres, the suburban restaurants knew them again. Familiar faces among the waiters welcomed them to the same tables; the same ushers guided them through familiar aisles; the same taxi drivers touched their caps with the same alacrity; the same porters bestirred themselves for tips.

  Sometimes when they were not alone, they and their friends danced late at Castle House or the Sans-Souci, or the Humming-Bird, or some such resort, at that time in vogue.

  Sometimes on Saturday afternoons or on Sundays and holidays they spent hours in the museums and libraries — not that Clive had either inherited or been educated to any truer appreciation of things worth while than the average New York man — but like the majority he admitted the solemnity and fearsomeness of art and letters, and his attitude toward them was as carefully respectful as it was in church.

  Which first perplexed and then amused Athalie who, with no opportunities, had been born with a wholesome passion for all things beautiful of the mind.

  The little she knew she had learned from books or from her companionship with Captain Dane that first summer after Clive had gone abroad. And there was nothing orthodox, nothing pedantic, nothing simulated or artificial in her likes or dislikes, her preferences or her indifference.

  Yet, somehow, even without knowing, the girl instinctively gravitated toward all things good.

  In modern art — with the exception of a few painters — she found little to attract her; but the magnificence of the great Venetians, the sombre splendour of the great Spaniards, the nobility of the great English and Dutch masters held her with a spell forever new. And, as for the exquisite, naïvely self-conscious works of Greuze, Lancret, Fragonard, Boucher, Watteau, and Nattier, she adored them with all the fresh and natural appetite of a capacity for visual pleasure unjaded.

  He recognised Raphael with respect and pleasure when authority reassured him it was Raphael. Also he probably knew more about the history of art than did she. Otherwise it was Athalie who led, instinctively, toward what gallery and library held as their best.

  Her favourite lingering places were amid the immortal Chinese porcelains and the masterpieces of the Renaissance. And thither she frequently beguiled Clive, — not that he required any persuading to follow this young and lovely creature who ranged the full boundaries of her environment, living to the full life as it had been allotted her.

  Wholesome with that charming and rounded slenderness of perfect health there yet seemed no limit to her capacity for the enjoyment of all things for which an appetite exists — pleasures, mental or physical — it did not seem to matter.

  She adored walking; to exercise her body delighted her. Always she ate and drank with a relish that fascinated; she was mad about the theatre and about music: — and whatever she chanced to be doing she did with all the vigour, intelligence, and pleasure of which she was capable, throwing into it her entire heart and soul.

  It led to temporary misunderstandings — particularly with the men she met — even in the small circle of friends whom she received and with whom she went about. Arthur Ensart entirely mistook her until fiercely set right one evening when alone with him; James Allys also listened to a curt but righteously impassioned discourse which he never forgot. Hargrave’s gentlemanly and suavely villainous intentions, when finally comprehended, became radically modified under her coolly scornful rebuke. Welter, fat and sentimental, never was more than tiresomely saccharine; Ferris and Lyndhurst betrayed symptoms of being misunderstood, but it was a toss-up as to the degree of seriousness in their intentions.

  “Once more, the old happy companionship began.”

  The intentions of men are seldom more serious than they have to be. But they all were helplessly, hopelessly caught in the magic, gossamer web of Athalie’s beauty and personal charm; and some merely kicked and buzzed and some tried to rend the frail rainbow fabric, and some struggled silently against they knew not what — themselves probably. And some, like Dane, hung motionless, enmeshed, knowing that to struggle was futile. And some, like Clive, were still lying under her jewelled feet in the very centre of the sorcery, so far silent and unstirring, awaiting to see whether the grace of God would fall upon them or the coup-de-grâce that ended all. Eventually, however, like all other men, Clive gave signs of life and impatience.

  “Can’t you love me, Athalie?” he said abruptly one night, when they had returned from the theatre and he had already taken his leave — and had come back from the door to take it again more tenderly. The girl let him kiss her.

  She, in her clinging, sparkling evening gown was standing by her crystal, the fingers of one hand lightly poised upon it, looking down at it.

  “Love you, Clive,” she repeated in smiling surprise. “Why, I do, you dear, foolish boy. I’ve admitted it to you. Also haven’t you just kissed me?”

  “I know.... But I mean — couldn’t you love me above all other men — above everything in this world—”

  “But I do! Were you annoyed because I was silly with Cecil to-night?”

  “No.... I understand. You simply can’t help turning everybody’s head. It’s in you, — it’s part of you—”

  “I’m merely having a good time,” she protested. “It means no more than you see, when I flirt with other men.... It never goes any farther — except — once or twice I have let men kiss me.... Only two or three.... Before you came back, of course—”

  “I didn’t know that,” he said sullenly.

  “Didn’t you? Then the men were more decent than I supposed.... Yes, I let John Lyndhurst kiss me once. And Francis Hargrave did it.... And Jim Allys tried to, against my wishes — but he never attempted it after that.”

  She had been looking down again at the crystal while speaking; her attitude was penitential, but the faint smile on her lips adorably mischievous. Presently she glanced up at him to see how he was taking it. He must have been taking it very badly, for:

  “Clive!” she said, startled; “are you really annoyed with me?”

  The gathering scowl faded and he forced a smile. Then the frown returned; he flung one arm around her supple waist and gathered both her hands into his, holding them closely imprisoned.

  “You must love!” he said almost roughly.

  “My dear! I’ve told you that I do love you.”

  “And I tell you you don’t! Your calm and cheerful friendship for me isn’t love!”

  “Oh. What else is it, please?”

  He kissed her on the mouth. She suffered his lips again without flinching, then drew back laughingly to a
void him.

  “Why are you becoming so very demonstrative?” she asked. “If you are not careful it will become a horrid habit with you.”

  “Does it mean nothing more than a habit to you?” he asked, unsmilingly.

  “It means that I care enough for you to let you do it more than once, doesn’t it?”

  He shrugged and turned his face toward the window:

  “And you believe that you love me,” he said, sullenly and partly to himself.

  “You amazingly sulky man, what are you muttering to yourself?” she demanded, bending forward and across his shoulder to see his face which was still turned from her. He swung about and caught her fiercely in his arms; and the embrace left her breathless and flushed.

  “Clive — please—”

  “Can’t you care for me! For God’s sake show it if you can!”

  “Please, dear — I—”

  “Can’t you!” he repeated unsteadily, drawing her closer. “You know what I am asking. Answer me!”

  She bent her head and rested it against his shoulder a moment, considering; she then looked away from him, troubled:

  “I don’t want to be your — mistress,” she said. Truth disconcerts the vast majority. It disconcerted him — after a ringing silence through which the beating of rain on the window came to him like the steady tattoo of his own heart.

  “I did not ask that,” he said, very red.

  “You meant that.... Because I’ve been everything to you except that.”

  “I want you for my wife,” he interrupted sharply.

  “But you are married, Clive. So what more can I be to you, unless I become — what I don’t want to become—”

  “I merely want you to love me — until I can find some way out of this hell on earth I’m living in!”

  “Dear, I’m sorry! I’m sorry you are so unhappy. But you can’t get free, — can you? She won’t let you, will she?”

  “I’ve got to have my freedom! I can’t stand this. Good God! Must a man do life for being a fool once? Isn’t there any allowance to be made for a first offence? I’ve always wanted to marry you. I was a miserable, crazy coward to do what I did! Haven’t I paid for it? Do you know what I’ve been through?”