Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  His heightened color and excitement, his nervous impetuosity, were not characteristic of this quiet and rather indifferent young countryman of mine.

  I looked at him keenly but pleasantly.

  “You are going to load my revolver, and go over to Paradise and take that balloon from these bandits?” I asked, smiling.

  “An order is all right, but it is the more formal when backed by a bullet,” he said.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you were preparing to go over into that hornet’s nest alone?”

  He shrugged his shoulders with a reckless laugh.

  “Give me my revolver,” I said, coldly.

  His face fell. “Let me take it, Mr. Scarlett,” he pleaded; but I refused, and made him hand me the weapon. 350

  “Now,” I said, sternly, “I want to know what the devil you mean by attempting suicide? Do you suppose that those ruffians care a straw for you and your order? Kelly, what’s the matter with you? Is life as unattractive as all that?”

  His flushed and sullen face darkened.

  “If you want to risk your life,” I said, “you have plenty of chances in your profession. Did you ever hear of an aged aëronaut? Kelly, go back to America and break your neck like a gentleman.”

  He darted a menacing glance at me, but there was nothing of irony in my sober visage.

  “You appear here,” I said, “after the others have sailed from Lorient. Why? To do Speed this generous favor? Yes — and to do yourself the pleasure of ending an embittered life under the eyes of the woman who ruined you.”

  The boy flinched as though I had struck him in the face. For a moment I expected a blow; his hands clinched convulsively, and he focussed me with blazing eyes.

  “Don’t,” I said, quietly. “I am trying to be your friend; I am trying to save you from yourself, Kelly. Don’t throw away your life — as I have done. Life is a good thing, Kelly, a good thing. Can we not be friends though I tell you the truth?”

  The color throbbed and throbbed in his face. There was a chair near him; he groped for it, and sat down heavily.

  “Life is a good thing,” I said again, “but, Kelly, truth is better. And I must tell you the — well, something of the truth — as much as you need know ... now. My friend, she is not worth it.”

  “Do you think that makes any difference?” he said, harshly. “Let me alone, Scarlett. I know!... I know, I tell you!” 351

  “Do you mean to tell me that you know she deliberately betrayed you?” I demanded.

  “Yes, I know it — I tell you I know it!”

  “And ... you love her?”

  “Yes.” He dropped his haggard face on his arms a moment, then sat bolt upright. “Truth is better than life,” he said, slowly. “I lied to you and to myself when I came back. I did come to get Speed’s balloon, but I came ... for her sake,... to be near her,... to see her once more before I—”

  “Yes, I understand, Kelly.”

  He winced and leaned wearily back.

  “You are right,” he said; “I wanted to end it,... I am tired.”

  I sat thinking for a moment; the light in the room faded to a glimmer on the panes.

  “Kelly,” I said, “there remains another way to risk your neck, and, I think, a nobler way. There is in this house a woman who is running a terrible risk — a German spy whose operations have been discovered. This woman believes that she has in her pay the communist leader of the revolt, a man called Buckhurst. She is in error. And she must leave this house to-night.”

  Eyre’s face had paled. He bent forward, clasped hands between his knees, eyes fastened on me.

  “There will be trouble here to-night — or, in all probability, within the next twenty-four hours. I expect to see Buckhurst a prisoner. And when that happens it will go hard with Mademoiselle Elven, for he will turn on her to save himself.... And you know what that means;... a blank wall, Kelly, and a firing-squad. There is but one sex for spies.”

  A deadly fear was stamped on his bloodless face. I saw it, tense and quivering, in the gray light of the window. 352

  “She must leave to-night, Kelly. She must try to cross into Spain. Will you help her?”

  He nodded, striving to say “yes.”

  “You know your own risk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her company is death for you both if you are taken.”

  He stood up very straight. In what strange forms comes happiness to man!

  XXI

  LIKE HER ANCESTORS

  A sense of insecurity, of impending trouble, seemed to weigh upon us all that evening — a physical depression, which the sea-wind brought with its flying scud, wetting the window-panes like fine rain.

  At intervals from across the moors came the deadened rolling of insurgent drums, and in the sky a ruddy reflection of a fire brightened and waned as the fog thickened or blew inland — an ominous sign of disorder, possibly even a reflection from that unseen war raging somewhere beyond the obscured horizon.

  It may have been this indefinable foreboding that drew our little company into a temporary intimacy; it may have been the immense loneliness of the sea, thundering in thickening darkness, that stilled our voices to whispers.

  Eyre, ill at ease, walked from window to window, looking at the luminous tints on the ragged edges of the clouds; Sylvia, over her heavy embroidery, lifted her head gravely at moments, to glance after him when he halted listless, preoccupied, staring at Speed and Jacqueline, who were drawing pictures of Arthur and his knights by the lamp-lit table.

  I leaned in the embrasure of the southern window, gazing at my lighted lanterns, which dangled from the halyards at Saint-Yssel. The soldier Rolland had so far kept his word — three red lamps glimmered through a driving mist; the white lanterns hung above, faintly shining.

  Full in the firelight of the room sat the young Countess, lost in reverie, hands clasping the gilt arms of her chair. At her feet dozed Ange Pitou.

  The dignity of a parvenu cat admitted for the first time to unknown luxury is a lesson. I said this to the young Countess, who smiled dreamily, watching the play of color over the drift-wood fire. A ship’s plank was burning there, tufted with golden-green flames. Presently a blaze of purest carmine threw a deeper light into the room.

  “I wonder,” she said, “what people sailed in that ship — and when? Did they perish on this coast when their ship perished? A drift-wood fire is beautiful, but a little sad, too.” She looked up pensively over her shoulder. “Will you bring a chair to the fire?” she asked. “We are burning part of a great ship — for our pleasure, monsieur. Tell me what ship it was; tell me a story to amuse me — not a melancholy one, if you please.”

  I drew a chair to the blaze; the drift-wood burned gold and violet, with scarcely a whisper of its velvet flames.

  “I am afraid my story is not going to be very cheerful,” I said, “and I am also afraid that I must ask you to listen to it.”

  She met my eyes with composure, leaned a little toward me, and waited.

  And so, sitting there in the tinted glare, I told her of the death of Delmont and of Tavernier, and of Buckhurst’s share in the miserable work.

  I spoke in a whisper scarcely louder than the rustle of the flames, watching the horror growing in her face.

  I told her that the money she had intrusted to them for the Red Cross was in my possession, and would be forwarded at the first chance; that I hoped to bring Buckhurst to justice that very night.

  “Madame, I am paining you,” I said; “but I am going to cause you even greater unhappiness.”

  “Tell me what is necessary,” she said, forming the words with tightened lips.

  “Then I must tell you that it is necessary for Mademoiselle Elven to leave Trécourt to-night.”

  She looked at me as though she had not heard.

  “It is absolutely necessary,” I repeated. “She must go secretly. She must leave her effects; she must go in peasant’s dress, on foot.”

  “Why?”

/>   “It is better that I do not tell you, madame.”

  “Tell me. It is my right to know.”

  “Not now; later, if you insist.”

  The young Countess passed one hand over her eyes as though dazed.

  “Does Sylvia know this?” she asked, in a shocked voice.

  “Not yet.”

  “And you are going to tell her?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “This is dreadful,” she muttered.... “If I did not know you,... if I did not trust you so perfectly,... trust you with all my heart!... Oh, are you certain she must go? It frightens me; it is so strange! I have grown fond of her.... And now you say that she must go. I cannot understand — I cannot.”

  “No, you cannot understand,” I repeated, gently; “but she can. It is a serious matter for Mademoiselle Elven; it could not easily be more serious. It is even perhaps a question of life or death, madame.”

  “In Heaven’s name, help her, then!” she said, scarcely controlling the alarm that brought a pitiful break in her voice.

  “I am trying to,” I said. “And now I must consult Mademoiselle Elven. Will you help me?”

  “What can I do?” she asked, piteously.

  “Stand by that window. Look, madame, can you see the lights on the semaphore?”

  “Yes.”

  “Count them aloud.”

  She counted the white lights for me, then the red ones.

  “Now,” I said, “if those lights change in number or color or position, come instantly to me. I shall be with Mademoiselle Elven in the little tea-room. But,” I added, “I do not expect any change in the lights; it is only a precaution.”

  I left her in the shadow of the curtains, and passed through the room to Sylvia’s side. She looked up quietly from her embroidery frame, then, dropping the tinted silks and needles on the cloth, rose and walked beside me past Eyre, who stood up as we came abreast of him.

  Sylvia paused. “Monsieur Eyre,” she said, “I have a question to ask you ... some day,” and passed on with a smile and a slight inclination of her head, leaving Eyre looking after her with heavy eyes.

  When we entered the little tea-room she passed on to the lounge and seated herself on the padded arm; I turned, closed the door, and walked straight toward her.

  She glanced up at me curiously; something in my face appeared to sober her, for the amused smile on her lips faded before I spoke.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I am sorry to tell you,” I said— “sorry from my heart. You are not very friendly to me, and that makes it harder for me to say what I have to say.”

  She was watching me intently out of her pretty, intelligent eyes.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, guardedly.

  “I mean that you cannot stay here,” I said. “And you know why.”

  The color flooded her face, and she stood up, confronting me, exasperated, defiant.

  “Will you explain this insult?” she asked, hotly.

  “Yes. You are a German spy,” I said, under my breath.

  There was no color in her face now — nothing but a glitter in her blue eyes and a glint from the small, white teeth biting her lower lip.

  “French troops will land here to-night or to-morrow,” I went on, calmly. “You will see how dangerous your situation is certain to become when Buckhurst is taken, and when it is understood what use you have made of the semaphore.”

  She winced, then straightened and bent her steady gaze on me. Her courage was admirable.

  “I thank you for telling me,” she said, simply. “Have I a chance to reach the Spanish frontier?”

  “I think you have,” I replied. “Kelly Eyre is going with you when—”

  “He? No, no, he must not! Does he know what I am?” she broke in, impetuously.

  “Yes, mademoiselle; and he knows what happens to spies.”

  “Did he offer to go?” she asked, incredulously.

  “Mademoiselle, he insists.”

  Her lip began to tremble. She turned toward the window, where the sea-fog flew past in the rising wind, and stared out across the immeasurable blackness of the ocean. 358

  Without turning her head she said: “Does he know that it may mean his death?”

  “He has suffered worse for your sake!” I said, bitterly.

  “What?” she flashed out, confronting me in an instant.

  “You must know that,” I said— “three years of hell — prison — utter ruin! Do you dare deny you have been ignorant of this?”

  For a space she stood there, struck speechless; then, “Call him!” she cried. “Call him, I tell you! Bring him here — I want him here — here before us both!” She sprang to the door, but I blocked her way.

  “I will not have Madame de Vassart know what you did to him!” I said. “If you want Kelly Eyre, I will call him.” And I stepped into the hallway.

  Eyre, passing the long stone corridor, looked up as I beckoned; and when he entered the tea-room, Sylvia, white as a ghost, met him face to face.

  “Monsieur,” she said, harshly, “why did you not come to that book-store?”

  He was silent. His face was answer enough — a terrible answer.

  “Monsieur Eyre, speak to me! Is it true? Did they — did you not know that I made an error — that I did go on Monday at the same hour?”

  His haggard face lighted up; she saw it, and caught his hands in hers.

  “Did you think I knew?” she stammered. “Did you think I could do that? They told me at the usine that you had gone away — I thought you had forgotten — that you did not care—”

  “Care!” he groaned, and bowed his head, crushing her hands over his face.

  Then she broke down, breathless with terror and grief. 359

  “I was not a spy then — truly I was not, Kelly. There was no harm in me — I only — only asked for the sketches because — because — I cared for you. I have them now; no soul save myself has ever seen them — even afterward, when I drifted into intrigue at the Embassy — when everybody knew that Bismarck meant to force war — everybody except the French people — I never showed those little sketches! They were — were mine! Kelly, they were all I had left when you went away — to a fortress! — and I did not know! — I did not know!”

  “Hush!” he groaned. “It is all right — it is all right now.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  “Yes, yes. Don’t cry — don’t be unhappy — now.”

  She raised her head and fumbled in her corsage with shaking fingers, and drew from her bosom a packet of papers.

  “Here are the sketches,” she sobbed; “they have cost you dear! Now leave me — hate me! Let them come and take me — I do not want to live any more. Oh, what punishment on earth!”

  Her suffering was unendurable to the man who had suffered through her; he turned on me, quivering in every limb.

  “We must start,” he said, hoarsely. “Give me your revolver.”

  I drew it from my hip-pocket and passed it to him.

  “Scarlett,” he began, “if we don’t reach—”

  A quick rapping at the door silenced him; the young Countess stood in the hallway, bright-eyed, but composed, asking for me.

  “The red and the white lights are gone,” she said. “There are four green lights on the tower and four blue lights on the halyards.”

  I turned to Eyre. “This is interesting,” I said, grimly. “I set signals for the Fer-de-Lance to land in force. Somebody has changed them. You had better get ready to go.”

  Sylvia had shrunk away from Eyre. The Countess looked at her blankly, then at me.

  “Madame,” I said, “there is little enough of happiness in the world — so little that when it comes it should be welcomed, even by those who may not share in it.”

  And I bent nearer and whispered the truth.

  Then I went to Sylvia, who stood there tremulous, pallid.

  “You serve your country at a greater risk than do the soldiers of
your King,” I said. “There is no courage like that which discounts a sordid, unhonored death. You have my respect, mademoiselle.”

  “Sylvia!” murmured the young Countess, incredulously; “you a spy? — here — under my roof?”

  Sylvia unconsciously stretched out one hand toward her.

  Eyre stepped to her side, with an angry glance at Madame de Vassart.

  “I — I love you, madame,” whispered Sylvia. “I only place my own country first. Can you forgive me?”

  The Countess stood as though stunned; Eyre passed her slowly, supporting Sylvia to the door.

  “Madame,” I said, “will you speak to her? Your countries, not your hearts, are at war. She did her duty.”

  “A spy!” repeated the Countess, in a dull voice. “A spy! And she brings this — this shame on me!”

  Sylvia turned, standing unsteadily. For a long time they looked at each other in silence, their eyes wet with tears. Then Eyre lifted Sylvia’s hand and kissed it, and led her away, closing the door behind. 361

  The Countess still stood in the centre of the room, transfixed, rigid, staring through her tears at the closed door. With a deep-drawn breath she straightened her shoulders; her head drooped; she covered her face with clasped hands.

  Standing there, did she remember those who, one by one, had betrayed her? Those who first whispered to her that love of country was a narrow creed; those who taught her to abhor violence, and then failed at the test — Bazard, firing to kill, going down to death under the merciless lance of an Uhlan; Buckhurst, guilty of every crime that attracted him; and now Sylvia, her friend, false to the salt she had eaten, false to the roof above her, false, utterly false to all save the land of her nativity.

  And she, Éline de Trécourt, a soldier’s daughter and a Frenchwoman, had been used as a shield by those who were striking her own mother-land — the country she once had denied; the country whose frontiers she knew not in her zeal for limitless brotherhood; the blackened, wasted country she had seen at Strasbourg; the land for which the cuirassiers of Morsbronn had died!