Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “I should say,” he admitted, “that you are.”

  “You see,” she continued, with a pretty, confidential nod, “I can talk to you because you are the vicomte’s American nephew, and I have heard all about you and your lovely sister, and it is all right — isn’t it?”

  “It is,” said Marche, fervently.

  “Of course. Now I shall tell you why I did not go to the Château and meet your sister and the others. Perhaps you will not comprehend. Shall I tell you?”

  “I’ll try to comprehend,” said Marche, laughing.

  “Well, then, would you believe it? I — Lorraine de Nesville — have outgrown my clothes, monsieur, and my beautiful new gowns are coming from Paris this week, and then—”

  “Then!” repeated Marche.

  “Then you shall see,” said Lorraine, gravely.

  Jack, bewildered, fascinated, stood leaning on his gun, watching every movement of the lithe figure before him.

  “Until your gowns arrive, I shall not see you again?” he asked.

  She looked up quickly.

  “Do you wish to?”

  “Very much!” he blurted out, and then, aware of the undue fervor he had shown, repeated: “Very much — if you don’t mind,” in a subdued but anxious voice.

  Again she raised her eyes to his, doubtfully, perhaps a little wistfully.

  “It wouldn’t be right, would it — until you are presented?”

  He was silent.

  “Still,” she said, looking up into the sky, “I often come to the river below, usually after luncheon.”

  “I wonder if there are any gudgeon there?” he said; “I could bring a rod—”

  “Oh, but are you coming? Is that right? I think there are fish there,” she added, innocently, “and I usually come after luncheon.”

  “And when your gowns arrive from Paris—”

  “Then! Then you shall see! Oh! I shall be a very different person; I shall be timid and silent and stupid and awkward, and I shall answer, ‘Oui, monsieur;’ ‘Non, monsieur,’ and you will behold in me the jeune fille of the romances.”

  “Don’t!” he protested.

  “I shall!” she cried, shaking out her scarlet skirts full breadth. “Good-by!”

  In a second she had gone, straight away through the forest, leaving in his ears the music of her voice, on his finger-tips the touch of her warm hand.

  He stood, leaning on his gun — a minute, an hour? — he did not know.

  Presently earthly sounds began to come back to drown the delicious voice in his ears; he heard the little river Lisse, flowing, flowing under green branches; he heard a throstle singing in the summer wind; he heard, far in the deeper forest, something passing — patter, patter, patter — over the dead leaves.

  CHAPTER II

  TELEGRAMS FOR TWO

  Jack Marche tucked his gun under his arm and turned away along the overgrown wood-road that stretched from the De Nesville forests to the more open woods of Morteyn.

  He walked slowly, puffing his pipe, pondering over his encounter with the châtelaine of the Château de Nesville. He thought, too, of the old Vicomte de Morteyn and his gentle wife, of the little house-party of which he and his sister Dorothy made two, of Sir Thorald and Lady Hesketh, their youthful and totally irresponsible chaperons on the journey from Paris to Morteyn.

  “They’re lunching on the Lisse,” he thought. “I’ll not get a bite if Ricky is there.”

  When Madame de Morteyn wrote to Sir Thorald and Lady Hesketh on the first of July, she asked them to chaperon her two nieces and some other pretty girls in the American colony whom they might wish to bring, for a month, to Morteyn.

  “The devil!” said Sir Thorald when he read the letter; “am I to pick out the girls, Molly?”

  “Betty and I will select the men,” said Lady Hesketh, sweetly; “you may do as you please.”

  He did. He suggested a great many, and wrote a list for his wife. That prudent young woman carefully crossed out every name, saying, “Thorald! I am ashamed of you!” and substituted another list. She had chosen, besides Dorothy Marche and Betty Castlemaine, the two nieces in question, Barbara Lisle and her inseparable little German friend, Alixe von Elster; also the latter’s brother, Rickerl, or Ricky, as he was called in diplomatic circles. She closed the list with Cecil Page, because she knew that Betty Castlemaine, Madame de Morteyn’s younger niece, looked kindly, at times, upon this blond giant.

  And so it happened that the whole party invaded three first-class compartments of an east-bound train at the Gare de l’Est, and twenty-two hours later were trooping up the terrace steps of the Château Morteyn, here in the forests and fragrant meadows of Lorraine.

  Madame de Morteyn kissed all the girls on both cheeks, and the old vicomte embraced his nieces, Betty Castlemaine and Dorothy Marche, and threatened to kiss the others, including Molly Hesketh. He desisted, he assured them, only because he feared Sir Thorald might feel bound to follow his example; to which Lady Hesketh replied that she didn’t care and smiled at the vicomte.

  The days had flown very swiftly for all: Jack Marche taught Barbara Lisle to fish for gudgeon; Betty Castlemaine tormented Cecil Page to his infinitely miserable delight; Ricky von Elster made tender eyes at Dorothy Marche and rowed her up and down the Lisse; and his sister Alixe read sentimental verses under the beech-trees and sighed for the sweet mysteries that young German girls sigh for — heart-friendships, lovers, Ewigkeit — God knows what! — something or other that turns the heart to tears until everything slops over and the very heavens sob.

  They were happy enough together in the Château and out-of-doors. Little incidents occurred that might as well not have occurred, but apparently no scars were left nor any incurable pang. True, Molly Hesketh made eyes at Ricky von Elster; but she reproved him bitterly when he kissed her hand in the orangery one evening; true also that Sir Thorald whispered airy nothings into the shell-like ear of Alixe von Elster until that German maiden could not have repeated her German alphabet. But, except for the chaperons, the unmarried people did well enough, as unmarried people usually do when let alone.

  So, on that cloudless day of July, 1870, Rickerl von Elster sat in the green row-boat and tugged at the oars while Sir Thorald smoked a cigar placidly and Lady Hesketh trailed her pointed fingers over the surface of the water.

  “Ricky, my son,” said Sir Thorald, “you probably gallop better than you row. Who ever heard of an Uhlan in a boat? Molly, take his oars away.”

  “Ricky shall row me if he wishes,” replied Molly Hesketh; “and you do, don’t you, Ricky? Thorald will set you on shore if you want.”

  “I have no confidence in Uhlan officers,” said her spouse, darkly.

  Rickerl looked pleased; perspiration stood on his blond eyebrows and his broad face glowed.

  “As an officer of cavalry in the Prussian army,” he said, “and as an attaché of the German Embassy in Paris, I suggest that we return to first principles and rejoin our base of supplies.”

  “He’s thirsty,” said Molly, gravely. “The base of supplies, so long cut loose from, is there under the willows, and I see six feet two of Cecil Page carrying a case of bottles.”

  “Row, Ricky!” urged Sir Thorald; “they will leave nothing for Uhlan foragers!”

  The boat rubbed its nose against the mossy bank; Lady Hesketh placed her fair hands in Ricky’s chubby ones and sprang to the shore.

  “Cecil Page,” she said, “I am thirsty. Where are the others?”

  Betty and Dorothy looked out from their seat in the tall grass.

  “Charles brought the hamper; there it is,” said Cecil.

  Barbara Lisle and sentimental little Alixe von Elster strolled up and looked lovingly upon the sandwiches.

  Cecil Page stood and sulked, until Dorothy took pity and made room on the moss beside her.

  “Can’t you have a little mercy, Betty?” she whispered; “Cecil moons like a wounded elephant.”

  So Betty smiled at him and a
sked for more salad, and Cecil brought it and basked in her smiles.

  “Where is Jack Marche?” asked Molly Hesketh. “Dorothy, your brother went into the chase with a gun, and where is he?”

  “What does he want to shoot in July? It’s too late for rooks,” said Sir Thorald, pouring out champagne-cup for Barbara Lisle.

  “I don’t know where Jack went,” said Dorothy. “He heard one of the keepers complain of the hawks, so, I suppose, he took a gun. I wonder why that strange Lorraine de Nesville doesn’t come to call. I am simply dying to see her.”

  “I saw her once,” observed Sir Thorald.

  “You generally do,” added his wife.

  “What?”

  “See what others don’t.”

  Sir Thorald, a trifle disconcerted, applied himself to caviare and, later, to a bottle of Moselle.

  “She’s a beauty, they say—” began Ricky, and might have continued had he not caught the danger-signal in Molly Hesketh’s black eyes.

  “Lorraine de Nesville,” said Lady Hesketh, “is only a child of seventeen. Her father makes balloons.”

  “Not the little, red, squeaky kind,” added Sir Thorald; “Molly, he is an amateur aeronaut.”

  “He’d much better take care of Lorraine. The poor child runs wild all over the country. They say she rides like a witch on a broom—”

  “Astride?” cried Sir Thorald.

  “For shame!” said his wife; “I — I — upon my word, I have heard that she has done that, too. Ricky! what do you mean by yawning?”

  Ricky had been listening, mouth open. He shut it hurriedly and grew pink to the roots of his colourless hair.

  Betty Castlemaine looked at Cecil, and Dorothy Marche laughed.

  “What of it?” she said; “there is nobody here who would dare to!”

  “Oh, shocking!” said little Alixe, and tried to look as though she meant it.

  At that moment Sir Thorald caught sight of Jack Marche, strolling up through the trees, gun tucked under his left arm.

  “No luncheon, no salad, no champagne-cup, no cigarette!” he called; “all gone! all gone! Molly’s smoked my last—”

  “Jack Marche, where have you been?” demanded Molly Hesketh. “No, you needn’t dodge my accusing finger! Barbara, look at him!”

  “It’s a pretty finger — if Sir Thorald will permit me to say so,” said Jack, laughing and setting his gun up against a tree. “Dorrie, didn’t you save any salad? Ricky, you devouring scourge, there’s not a bit of caviare! I’m hungry — Oh, thanks, Betty, you did think of the prodigal, didn’t you?”

  “It was Cecil,” she said, slyly; “I was saving it for him. What did you shoot, Jack?”

  “Now you people listen and I’ll tell you what I didn’t shoot.”

  “A poor little hawk?” asked Betty.

  “No — a poor little wolf!”

  In the midst of cries of astonishment and exclamations Sir Thorald arose, waving a napkin.

  “I knew it!” he said— “I knew I saw a wolf in the woods day before yesterday, but I didn’t dare tell Molly; she never believes me.”

  “And you deliberately chose to expose us to the danger of being eaten alive?” said Lady Hesketh, in an awful voice. “Ricky, I’m going to get into that boat at once; Dorothy — Betty Castlemaine — bring Alixe and Barbara Lisle. We are going to embark at once.”

  “Ricky and his boat-load of beauty,” laughed Sir Thorald. “Really, Molly, I hesitated to tell you because — I was afraid—”

  “What, you horrid thing? — afraid he’d bite me?”

  “Afraid you’d bite the wolf, my dear,” he whispered so that nobody but she heard it; “I say, Ricky, we ought to have a wolf drive! What do you think?”

  The subject started, all chimed in with enthusiasm except Alixe von Elster, who sat with big, soulful eyes fixed on Sir Thorald and trembled for that bad young man’s precious skin.

  “We have two weeks to stay yet,” said Cecil, glancing involuntarily at Betty Castlemaine; “we can get up a drive in a week.”

  “You are not going, Cecil,” said Betty, in a low voice, partly to practise controlling him, partly to see him blush.

  Lady Hesketh, however, took enough interest in the sport to insist, and Jack Marche promised to see the head-keeper at once.

  “I think I see him now,” said Sir Thorald— “no, it’s Bosquet’s boy from the post-office. Those are telegrams he’s got.”

  The little postman’s son came trotting across the meadow, waving two blue envelopes.

  “Monsieur le Capitaine Rickerl von Elster and Monsieur Jack Marche — two telegrams this instant from Paris, messieurs! I salute you.” And he took off his peaked cap, adding, as he saw the others, “Messieurs, mesdames,” and nodded his curly, blond head and smiled.

  “Don’t apologize — read your telegrams!” said Lady Hesketh; “dear me! dear me! if they take you two away and leave Thorald, I shall — I shall yawn!”

  Ricky’s broad face changed as he read his despatch; and Molly Hesketh, shamelessly peeping over his shoulder, exclaimed, “It’s cipher! How stupid! Can you understand it, Ricky?”

  Yes, Rickerl von Elster understood it well enough. He paled a little, thrust the crumpled telegram into his pocket, and looked vaguely at the circle of faces. After a moment he said, standing very straight, “I must leave to-morrow morning.”

  “Recalled? Confound your ambassador, Ricky!” said Sir Thorald. “Recalled to Paris in midsummer! Well, I’m—”

  “Not to Paris,” said Rickerl, with a curious catch in his voice— “to Berlin. I join my regiment at once.”

  Jack Marche, who had been studying his telegram with puzzled eyes, held it out to Sir Thorald.

  “Can’t make head or tail of it; can you?” he demanded.

  Sir Thorald took it and read aloud: “New York Herald offers you your own price and all expenses. Cable, if accepted.”

  “‘Cable, if accepted,’” repeated Betty Castlemaine; “accept what?”

  “Exactly! What?” said Jack. “Do they want a story? What do ‘expenses’ mean? I’m not going to Africa again if I know it.”

  “It sounds as though the Herald wanted you for some expedition; it sounds as if everybody knew about the expedition, except you. Nobody ever hears any news at Morteyn,” said Molly Hesketh, dejectedly. “Are you going, Jack?”

  “Going? Where?”

  “Does your telegram throw any light on Jack’s, Ricky?” asked Sir Thorald.

  But Rickerl von Elster turned away without answering.

  CHAPTER III

  SUMMER THUNDER

  When the old vicomte was well enough to entertain anybody at all, which was not very often, he did it skilfully. So when he filled the Château with young people and told them to amuse themselves and not bother him, the house-party was necessarily a success.

  He himself sat all day in the sunshine, studying the week’s Paris newspapers with dim, kindly eyes, or played interminable chess games with his wife on the flower terrace.

  She was sixty; he had passed threescore and ten. They never strayed far from each other. It had always been so from the first, and the first was when Helen Bruce, of New York City, married Georges Vicomte de Morteyn. That was long ago.

  The chess-table stood on the terrace in the shadow of the flower-crowned parapets; the old vicomte sat opposite his wife, one hand touching the black knight, one foot propped up on a pile of cushions. He pushed the knight slowly from square to square and twisted his white imperial with stiff fingers.

  “Helen,” he asked, mildly, “are you bored?”

  “No, dear.”

  Madame de Morteyn smiled at her husband and lifted a pawn in her thin, blue-veined hand; but the vicomte had not finished, and she replaced the pawn and leaned back in her chair, moving the two little coffee-cups aside so that she could see what her husband was doing with the knight.

  From the lawn below came the chatter and laughter of girls. On the edge of the lawn the little ri
ver Lisse glided noiselessly towards the beech woods, whose depths, saturated with sunshine, rang with the mellow notes of nesting thrushes.

  The middle of July had found the leaves as fresh and tender as when they opened in May, the willow’s silver green cooled the richer verdure of beach and sycamore; the round poplar leaves, pale yellow and orange in the sunlight, hung brilliant as lighted lanterns where the sun burned through.

  “Helen?”

  “Dear?”

  “I am not at all certain what to do with my queen’s knight. May I have another cup of coffee?”

  Madame de Morteyn poured the coffee from the little silver coffee-pot.

  “It is hot; be careful, dear.”

  The vicomte sipped his coffee, looking at her with faded eyes. She knew what he was going to say; it was always the same, and her answer was always the same. And always, as at that first breakfast — their wedding-breakfast — her pale cheeks bloomed again with a subtle colour, the ghost of roses long dead.

  “Helen, are you thinking of that morning?”

  “Yes, Georges.”

  “Of our wedding-breakfast — here — at this same table?”

  “Yes, Georges.”

  The vicomte set his cup back in the saucer and, trembling, poured a pale, golden liquid from a decanter into two tiny glasses.

  “A glass of wine? — I have the honour, my dear—”

  The colour touched her cheeks as their glasses met; the still air tinkled with the melody of crystal touching crystal; a golden drop fell from the brimming glasses. The young people on the lawn below were very noisy.

  She placed her empty glass on the table; the delicate glow in her cheeks faded as skies fade at twilight. He, with grave head leaning on his hand, looked vaguely at the chess-board, and saw, mirrored on every onyx square, the eyes of his wife.

  “Will you have the journals, dear?” she asked presently. She handed him the Gaulois, and he thanked her and opened it, peering closely at the black print.