Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Rosamund! Do you mean Rosamund? How should you know that?” he faltered.

  The struggle for memory focused all his groping senses; his eyes seemed to look her through and through.

  “How can you know?” he repeated unsteadily. “You are not Rosamund.... Are you?... She is dead. I heard that she was dead.... Are you Rosamund?”

  “Do you not know?”

  “Yes; you are not Rosamund.... What do you know of her?”

  “I think she loved you.”

  “Is she dead?”

  The girl looked up at him, smiling, following with delicate perception the sequence of his thoughts; and already his thoughts were far from the child Rosamund, a sweetheart of a day long since immortal; already he had forgotten his question, though the question was of life or death.

  Sadness and unrest and the passing of souls concerned not him; she knew that all his thoughts were centered on her; that he was already living over once more the last three years, with all their mystery and charm, savoring their fragrance anew in the exquisite enchantment of her presence.

  Through the autumn silence the pines began to sway in a wind unfelt below. She raised her eyes and saw their green crests shimmering and swimming in a cool current; a thrilling sound stole out, and with it floated the pine perfume, exhaling in the sunshine. He heard the dreamy harmony above, looked up; then, troubled, somber, moved by he knew not what, he knelt once more in the shadow beside her — close beside her.

  She did not stir. Their destiny was close upon them. It came in the guise of love.

  He bent nearer. “I love you,” he said. “I loved you from the first. And shall forever. You knew it long ago.”

  She did not move.

  “You knew I loved you?”

  “Yes, I knew it.”

  The emotion in her voice, in every delicate contour of her face, pleaded for mercy. He gave her none, and she bent her head in silence, clasped hands tightening.

  And when at last he had had his say, the burning words still rang in her ears through the silence. A curious faintness stole upon her, coming stealthily like a hateful thing. She strove to put it from her, to listen, to remember and understand the words he had spoken, but the dull confusion grew with the sound of the pines.

  “Will you love me? Will you try to love me?”

  “I love you,” she said; “I have loved you so many, many years; I — I am Rosamund—”

  She bowed her head and covered her face with both hands.

  “Rosamund! Rosamund!” he breathed, enraptured.

  She dropped her hands with a little cry; the frightened sweetness of her eyes held back his out, stretched arms. “Do not touch me,” she whispered; “you will not touch me, will you? — not yet — not now. Wait till I understand!” She pressed her hands to her eyes, then again let them fall, staring straight at him. “I loved you so!” she whispered. “Why did you wait?”

  “Rosamund! Rosamund!” he cried sorrowfully, “what are you saying? I do not understand; I can understand nothing save that I worship you. May I not touch you? — touch your hand, Rosamund? I love you so.”

  “And I love you. I beg you not to touch me — not yet. There is something — some reason why—”

  “Tell me, sweetheart.”

  “Do you not know?”

  “By Heaven, I do not!” he said, troubled and amazed.

  She cast one desperate, unhappy glance at him, then rose to her full height, gazing out over the hazy valleys to where the mountains began, piled up like dim sun-tipped clouds in the north.

  The hill wind stirred her hair and fluttered the white ribbons at waist and shoulder. The golden-rod swayed in the sunshine. Below, amid yellow treetops, the roofs and chimneys of the village glimmered.

  “Dear, do you not understand?” she said. “How can I make you understand that I love you — too late?”

  “Give yourself to me, Rosamund; let me touch you — let me take you—”

  “Will you love me always?”

  “In life, in death, which cannot part us. Will you marry me, Rosamund?”

  She looked straight into his eyes. “Dear, do you not understand? Have you forgotten? I died three years ago to-day.”

  The unearthly sweetness of her white face startled him. A terrible light broke in on him; his heart stood still.

  In his dull brain words were sounding — his own words, written years ago: “When God takes the mind and leaves the body alive, there grows in it, sometimes, a beauty almost supernatural.”

  He had seen it in his practice. A thrill of fright penetrated him, piercing every vein with its chill. He strove to speak; his lips seemed frozen; he stood there before her, a ghastly smile stamped on his face, and in his heart, terror.

  “What do you mean, Rosamund?” he said at last.

  “That I am dead, dear. Did you not understand that? I — I thought you knew it — when you first saw me at the cemetery, after all those years since childhood.... Did you not know it?” she asked wistfully. “I must wait for my bridal.”

  Misery whitened his face as he raised his head and looked out across the sunlit world. Something had smeared and marred the fair earth; the sun grew gray as he stared.

  Stupefied by the crash, the ruins of life around him, he stood mute, erect, facing the west.

  She whispered, “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” he said; “we will wed later. You have been ill, dear; but it is all right now — and will always be — God help us! Love is stronger than all — stronger than death.”

  “I know it is stronger than death,” she said, looking out dreamily over the misty valley.

  He followed her gaze, calmly, serenely reviewing all that he must renounce, the happiness of wedlock, children — all that a man desires.

  Suddenly instinct stirred, awaking man’s only friend — hope. A lifetime for the battle! — for a cure! Hopeless? He laughed in his excitement.

  Despair? — when the cure lay almost within his grasp! — the work he had given his life to! A month more in the laboratory — two months — three — perhaps a year. What of it? It must surely come — how could he fail when the work of his life meant all in life for her?

  The light of exaltation slowly faded from his face; ominous, foreboding thoughts crept in; fear laid a shaky hand on his head which fell heavily forward on his breast.

  Science and man’s cunning and the wisdom of the world!

  “O God,” he groaned, “for Him who cured by laying on His hands!”

  Now that he had learned her name, and that her father was alive, he stood mutely beside her, staring steadily at the chimneys and stately dormered roof almost hidden behind the crimson maple foliage across the valley — her home.

  She had seated herself once more upon the moss, hands clasped upon one knee, looking out into the west with dreamy eyes.

  “I shall not be long,” he said gently. “Will you wait here for me? I will bring your father with me.”

  “I will wait for you. But you must come before the new moon. Will you? I must go when the new moon lies in the west.”

  “Go, dearest? Where?”

  “I may not tell you,” she sighed, “but you will know very soon — very soon now. And there will be no more sorrow, I think,” she added timidly.

  “There will be no more sorrow,” he repeated quietly.

  “For the former things are passing away,” she said.

  He broke a heavy spray of golden-rod and laid it across her knees; she held out a blossom to him — a blind gentian, blue as her eyes. He kissed it.

  “Be with me when the new moon comes,” she whispered. “It will be so sweet. I will teach you how divine is death, if you will come.”

  “You shall teach me the sweetness of life,” he said tremulously.

  “Yes — life. I did not know you called it by its truest name.”

  So he went away, trudging sturdily down the lane, gun glistening on his shoulder.

  Where the lane joins the sh
adowy village street his dog skulked up to him, sniffing at his heels.

  A mill whistle was sounding; through the red rays of the setting sun people were passing. Along the row of village shops loungers followed him with vacant eyes. He saw nothing, heard nothing, though a kindly voice called after him, and a young girl smiled at him on her short journey through the world.

  The landlord of the Wildwood Inn sat sunning himself in the red evening glow.

  “Well, doctor,” he said, “you look tired to death. Eh? What’s that you say?”

  The young man repeated his question in a low voice. The landlord shook his head.

  “No, sir. The big house on the hill is empty — been empty these three years. No, sir, there ain’t no family there now. The old gentleman moved away three years ago.”

  “You are mistaken,” said the doctor; “his daughter tells me he lives there.”

  “His — his daughter?” repeated the landlord. “Why, doctor, she’s dead.” He turned to his wife, who sat sewing by the open window: “Ain’t it three years, Marthy?”

  “Three years to-day,” said the woman, biting off her thread. “She’s buried in the family vault over the hill. She was a right pretty little thing, too.”

  “Turned nineteen,” mused the landlord, folding his newspaper reflectively.

  The great gray house on the hill was closed, windows and doors boarded over, lawn, shrubbery, and hedges tangled with weeds. A few scarlet poppies glimmered above the brown grass. Save for these, and clumps of tall wild phlox, there were no blossoms among the weeds.

  His dog, which had sneaked after him, cowered as he turned northward across the fields. Swifter and swifter he strode; and as he stumbled on, the long sunset clouds faded, the golden light in the west died out, leaving a calm, clear sky tinged with faintest green.

  Pines hid the west as he crept toward the hill where she awaited him. As he climbed through dusky purple grasses, higher, higher, he saw the new moon’s crescent tipping above the hills; and he crushed back the deathly fright that clutched at him and staggered on.

  “Rosamund!”

  The pines answered him.

  “Rosamund!”

  The pines replied, answering together. Then the wind died away, and there was no answer when he called.

  East and south the darkening thickets, swaying, grew still. He saw the slim silver birches glimmering like the ghosts of young trees dead; he saw on the moss at his feet a broken stalk of golden-rod.

  The new moon had drawn a veil across her face; sky and earth were very still.

  While the moon lasted he lay, eyes open, listening, his face pillowed on the moss. It was long after sunrise when his dog came to him; later still when men came.

  And at first they thought he was asleep.

  CHAPTER VI

  EX CURIA

  AND now, at his attorney’s request, and before his report was made, they decided to run through the documents in the case once more, reviewing everything from the very beginning. So young Courtlandt, his attorney, lighted a cigar and unwrapped the pink tape from the bundle of papers.

  There was enough daylight left to read by, for wall and ceiling still bore the faded imprint of the red winter sunset. Edgerton sat before the fire, his well-shaped head buried in his hands; Courtlandt, lounging on a sofa by the window, unfolded the first paper, puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, and presently began to read without inflection or apparent interest:

  Paris, December 24, 1902.

  John Edgerton, Esq.

  Sir: My client, Michael Innis, is seriously ill, and I am writing you on his behalf and at his urgent solicitation.

  It would appear that, during the panic of 1884, my client came to your father’s assistance, at a time when your father’s financial ruin, involving also, I believe, the ruin of many of his friends, was apparently only a question of hours.

  It would also appear that, upon your father’s death, you wrote Mr. Innis, voluntarily assuming your father’s unpaid obligations. (Copy of your letter herewith inclosed.)

  It further appears that Mr. Innis, accepting the assurance of your personal gratitude, generously offered to wait for the sums due him, permitting you to pay at your own convenience. (Copy of Mr. Innis’s letter inclosed herewith.)

  In the conclusion of this last letter (No. 2 on file) Mr. Innis mentions his lifelong respect for your father and his family, humorously drawing the social distinction between the late Winthrop Edgerton, Esq., and Michael Innis, the Tammany contractor; and rather wistfully contrasting the future prospects of Mr. Edgerton’s son, yourself, and the chances of the child of Michael Innis.

  To this letter you replied (copy herewith), repeating in a manly fashion your assurance of gratitude, holding yourself at the service of Mr. Innis.

  Now, sir, if your assurances meant more than mere civility, you have an opportunity to erase the deep obligations that your father assumed.

  Mr. Innis is a man broken in mind and body. His fortune was invested, against my advice, in Madagascar Railways. To-day he could not realize a thousand dollars from the investment.

  For twenty years his one absorbing passion has been the education and fitting of his only child for a position in the world which he himself could never hope to attain. Wealth and education, linked with an agreeable personality, may go anywhere in this century. And his daughter has had the best that Europe can afford.

  Within a month all is changed. Sir, it is sad to see the stricken man lying here, watching his daughter.

  And now, knowing that impending dissolution is near, terror of the future for her has wrung an appeal from him to you — a strange appeal, Mr. Edgerton. Money alone is little; he asks more; he asks your protection for her — not the perfunctory protection of a guardian for a ward, but the guidance of a father, the companionship of a brother, the loyalty of a husband.

  The man is blinded by worship of his own child; your father’s son represents to him all that is noblest, most honorable, most desirable in the world.

  Sir, this is a strange request, an overdrawn draft upon your gratitude, I fear. Yet I write you as I am bidden. An answer should be returned by cable with as little delay as possible. He will live until he receives it. Marriage by proxy is legal. Special dispensation is certain.

  I am, sir, with great respect,

  Your very humble servant,

  WILLIAM CAMPBELL.

  Att’y and Counselor at Law,

  7 rue d’Issy.

  When Courtlandt finished reading he folded the letter, glancing across at Edgerton: “That was written two years ago to-day, you remember? — this foreclosure of his mortgage upon your gratitude!”

  “I remember,” said Edgerton.

  “From the gratitude of the conscientious, good Lord deliver us!” murmured Courtlandt, unfolding another paper. “This is a copy of the asinine cablegram you sent, without consulting me.” And he read:

  INNIS, 23 rue d’Abdul Hamid, Paris.

  I assume all responsibility for your daughter’s future. Utterly impossible for me to leave New York. If you believe marriage advisable, arrange for special dispensation and ceremony by proxy.

  JOHN EDGERTON.

  Courtlandt rose and walked over to the fire where Edgerton was sitting. His client raised his head, eyes a trifle dazed from the pressure of his fingers on the closed lids.

  “What the merry deuce did you send that cable for?” muttered Courtlandt under his breath.

  “I don’t know — a debt of gratitude — and he did not want it paid in money. I — an appeal like that had to be honored, you see. I was ashamed to haggle at the day of reckoning. A man cannot appraise his own gratitude.”

  “Such things cannot be asked of gratitude,” growled the attorney. “The business of the world is not run on impulse! What is gratitude?”

  “It is not gratitude if it asks that question,” returned Edgerton; “and I fear that after all it was not exactly gratitude. Gratitude gives; a debt of honor exacts. There is no profit in
following this line further, is there, Billy?”

  “No,” assented Courtlandt, “unless it’s going to help us disentangle the unfortunate affair.” He unfolded another paper. “It’s too dark to read,” he observed, leaning forward into the firelight. The red reflection of the coals played over his face and the black-edged notepaper he was scanning. And he read, slowly:

  January 3, 1903.

  Dear Mr. Edgerton: For your very gentle letter to me I beg to thank you; I deeply appreciate your delicacy at a time when kindness is most needed. Had you not written as you have, I should have found it difficult to discuss a situation which I am only just beginning to realize must be as embarrassing to you as it is to me.

  In the grief and distress which overwhelmed me when I was so suddenly summoned from the convent to find my father so ill, I did not, could not realize the step I was asked to take. All I knew was that he desired it, begged for it, and it meant to me nothing — this ceremony which made you my husband — nothing except a little happiness for the father I loved.

  He made the responses for you, I kneeling at his bedside, scarce able to speak in my grief. There were two brief ceremonies, the civil and religious. He died very quietly that night.

  Pray believe me that I understand how impossible it is for you to leave affairs of importance to come to Paris at this time. My aunt, who is with the Ursulines, has received me. It is very quiet, very peaceful; I have opportunity for meditation, and for studies which I left uncompleted. Mr. Campbell, whom you have so considerately retained for my legal guidance, is kind and tactful. He has, I believe, communicated with you in regard to the most generous provision you have made for me. Pray believe that I require very, very little. I regret the loss of my father’s fortune only because it should have perhaps compensated you a trifle for your kindness to my father in his last hours.

  I hesitate — I feel the greatest reluctance and delicacy in addressing you upon a matter that troubles me. It is this, Mr. Edgerton: if, through gratitude to my father for service done your father, you offered to become responsible for me, perhaps — I do not know — perhaps, as you have done me the honor of protecting me with your name, it is all that could be expected — and I hasten to assure you that I am content. Indeed, had I realized, had I even begun to comprehend what I was doing — Yet what could I do but obey him at such a time?