Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Askance I had seen Elsin and O’Neil, a graceful pair of figures in the frolic, and now I sought her, leaving Rosamund to Sir Henry, but that villain O’Neil had her to wine, and amid all that thirsty throng and noise of laughter I missed her in the tumult, and then lost her for two hours. I must admit those two hours sped with the gay partners that fortune sent me — and one there was whose fingers were shyly eloquent, a black-eyed beauty from Westchester, with a fresh savor of free winds and grassy hillsides clinging to her, and a certain lovely awkwardness which claims an arm to steady very often. Lord! I had her twice to ices and to wine, and we laughed and laughed at nothing, and might have been merrier, but her mother seized her with scant ceremony, and a strange young gentleman breathed hard and glared at me as I recovered dignity, which made me mad enough to follow him half across the hall ere I reflected that my business here permitted me no quarrel of my own seeking.

  Robbed of my Westchester shepherdess, swallowing my disgust, I sauntered forward, finding Elsin Grey with Lady Coleville, seated together by the wall. What they had been whispering there together I knew not, but I pushed through the attendant circle of beaus and gallants who were waiting there their turns, and presented myself before them.

  “I am danced to rags and ribbons, Carus,” said Elsin Grey— “and no thanks to you for the pleasure, you who begged me for a dance or two; and I offered twenty, silly that I was to so invite affront!”

  She was smiling when she spoke, but Lady Coleville’s white teeth were in her fan’s edge, and she looked at me with eyes made bright through disappointment.

  “You are conducting like a silly boy,” she said, “with those hoydens from Westchester, and every little baggage that dimples at your stare. Lord! Carus, I thought you grown to manhood!”

  “Is there a harm in dancing at a ball, madam?” I asked, laughing.

  “Fie! You are deceitful, too. Elsin, be chary of your favors. Dance with any man but him. He’ll be wearing two watches to-morrow, and his hair piled up like a floating island!”

  She smiled, but her eyes were not overgay. And presently she turned on Elsin with a grave shake of her head:

  “You disappoint me, both of you,” she said. “Elsin, I never dreamed that you — —”

  Their fans flew up, their heads dipped, then Elsin rose and asked indulgence, taking my arm, one hand lying in Lady Coleville’s hand.

  “Do you and Sir Peter talk over it together,” she said, with a lingering wistfulness in her voice. “I shall dance with Carus, whether he will or no, and then we’ll walk and talk. You may tell Sir Peter, if you so desire.”

  “All?” asked Lady Coleville, retaining Elsin’s hand.

  “All, madam, for it concerns all.”

  Sir Henry Clinton came to wait on Lady Coleville, and so we left them, slowly moving out through the brilliant sea of silks and laces, her arm resting close in mine, her fair head bent in silent meditation.

  Around us swelled the incessant tumult of the ball, music and the blended harmony of many voices, rustle and whisper of skirt and silk, and the swish! swish! of feet across the vast waxed floor.

  “Shall we dance?” I asked pleasantly.

  She looked up, then out across the ocean of glitter and restless color.

  “Now I am in two minds,” she said— “to dance until there’s no breath left and but a wisp of rags to cover me, or to sip a syllabub with you and rest, or go gaze at the heavens the while you court me — —”

  “That’s three minds already,” I said, laughing.

  “Well, sir, which are you for?”

  “And you, Elsin?”

  “No, sir, you shall choose.”

  “Then, if it lies with me, I choose the stars and courtship,” I said politely.

  “I wonder,” she said, “why you choose it — with a maid so pliable. Is not half the sport in the odds against you — the pretty combat for supremacy, the resisting fingers, and the defense, face covered? Is not the sport to overcome all these, nor halt short of the reluctant lips, still fluttering in voiceless protest?”

  “Where did you hear all that?” I asked, piqued yet laughing.

  “Rosamund Barry read me my first lesson — and, after all, though warned, I let you have your way with me there in the chaise. Oh, I am an apt pupil, Carus, with Captain Butler in full control of my mind and you of my body.”

  “Have you seen him yet?” I asked.

  “No; he has not appeared to claim his dance. A gallant pair of courtiers I have found in you and him — —”

  “Couple our names no more!” I said so hotly that she stopped, looking at me in astonishment.

  “Have you quarreled?” she asked.

  I did not answer. We had descended the barrack-stairs and were entering the parade. Dark figures in pairs moved vaguely in the light of the battle-lanthorns set. We met O’Neil and Rosamund, who stood star-gazing on the grass, and later Sir Henry, pacing the sod alone, who, when he saw me, motioned me to stop, and drew a paper from his breast.

  “Sir Peter and Lady Coleville’s pass for Westchester, which he desired and I forgot. Will you be good enough to hand it to him, Mr. Renault? There is a council called to-night — it is close to two o’clock, and I must go.”

  He took a courtly leave of us, then wandered away, head bent, pacing the parade as though he kept account of each slow step.

  “Yonder comes Knyphausen, too, and Birch,” I said, as the German General emerged from the casemates, followed by Birch and a raft of officers, spurs clanking.

  We stood watching the Hessians as they passed in the lamp’s rays, officers smooth-shaven and powdered, wearing blue and yellow, and their long boots; soldiers with black queues in eelskin, tiny mustaches turned up at the waxed ends, and long black, buttoned spatter-dashes strapped at instep and thigh.

  “Let us ascend to the parapets,” she said, looking up at the huge, dark silhouette above where the southeast bastion jutted seaward.

  A sentry brought his piece to support as we went by him, ascending the inclined artillery road, whence we presently came out upon the ramparts, with the vast sweep of star-set firmament above, and below us the city’s twinkling lights on one side, and upon the other two great rivers at their trysting with the midnight ocean.

  There were no lights at sea, none on the Hudson, and on the East River only the sad signal-spark smoldering above the Jersey.

  Elsin had found a seat low on a gun-carriage, and, moving a little, made place for me.

  “Look at that darkness,” she said— “that infinite void under which an ocean wallows. It is like hell, I think. Do you understand how I fear the ocean?”

  “Do you fear it, child?”

  “Aye,” she said, musing; “it took father and mother and brother. You knew that?”

  “Lady Coleville says there is always hope that they may be alive — cast on that far continent — —”

  “So the attorneys say — because there is a legal limit — and I am the Honorable Elsin Grey. Ah, Carus, I know that the sea has them fast. No port shall that tall ship enter save the last of all — the Port of Missing Ships. Heigho! Sir Frederick is kind — in his own fashion.... I would I had a mother.... There is a loneliness that I feel ... at times....”

  A vague gesture, and she lifted her head, with a tremor of her shoulders, as though shaking off care as a young girl drops a scarf of lace to her waist.

  Presently she turned quietly to me:

  “I have told Lady Coleville,” she said.

  “Told her what, child?”

  “Of my promise to Captain Butler. I have not yet told everything — even to you.”

  Roused from my calm sympathy I swung around, alert, tingling with interest and curiosity.

  “I gave her leave to inform Sir Peter,” she added. “They were too unhappy about you and me, Carus. Now they will understand there is no chance.”

  And when Sir Peter had asked me if Walter Butler was married, I had admitted it. Here was the matter already at a
head, or close to it. Sudden uneasiness came upon me, as I began to understand how closely the affront touched Sir Peter. What would he do?

  “What is it called, and by what name, Carus, when a man whose touch one can not suffer so dominates one’s thoughts — as he does mine?”

  “It is not love,” I said gloomily.

  “He swears it is. Do you believe there may lie something compelling in his eyes that charm and sadden — almost terrify, holding one pitiful yet reluctant?”

  “I do not know. I do not understand the logic of women’s minds, nor how they reason, nor why they love. I have seen delicacy mate with coarseness, wit with stupidity, humanity with brutality, religion with the skeptic, aye, goodness with evil. I, too, ask why? The answer ever is the same — because of love!”

  “Because of it, is reason; is it not?”

  “So women say.”

  “And men?”

  “Aye, they say the same; but with men it is another sentiment, I think, though love is what we call it.”

  “Why do men love, Carus?”

  “Why?” I laughed. “Men love — men love because they find it pleasant, I suppose — for variety, for family reasons.”

  “For nothing else?”

  “For a balm to that mad passion driving them.”

  “And — nothing nobler?”

  “There is a noble love, part chivalry, part desire, inspired by mind and body in sweetest unison.”

  “A mind that seeks its fellow?” she asked softly.

  “No, a mind that seeks its complement, as the body seeks. This union, I think, is really love. But I speak with no experience, Elsin. This only I know, that you are too young, too innocent to comprehend, and that the sentiment awakened in you by what you think is love, is not love. Child, forgive me what I say, but it rings false as the vows of that young man who importunes you.”

  “Is it worthy of you, Carus, to stab him so behind his back?”

  I leaned forward, my head in my hands.

  “Elsin, I have endured these four years, now, a thousand little stings which I could not resent. Forgetting this, at moments I blurt out a truth which, were matters otherwise with me, I might back with — what is looked for when a man repeats what may affront his listener. It is, in a way, unworthy, as you say, that I speak lightly to you of a man I can not meet with honor to myself. Yet, Elsin, were my duty first to you — first even to myself — this had been settled now — this matter touching you and Walter Butler — and also my ancient score with him, which is as yet unreckoned.”

  “What keeps you, then?” she said, and her voice rang a little.

  I looked at her; she sat there, proud head erect, searching me with scornful eyes.

  “A small vow I made,” said I carelessly.

  “And when are you released, sir?”

  “Soon, I hope.”

  “Then, Mr. Renault,” she said disdainfully, “I pray you swallow your dislike of Captain Butler until such time as you may explain your enmity to him.”

  The lash stung. I sat dazed, then wearied, while the tingling passed. Even the silence tired me, and when I could command my voice I said: “Shall we descend, madam? There is a chill in the sea-air.”

  “I do not feel it,” she answered, her voice not like her own.

  “Do you desire to stay here?”

  “No,” she said, springing up. “This silence of the stars wearies me.”

  She passed before me across the parapet and down the inclined way, I at her heels; and so into the dark parade, where I caught up with her.

  “Have I angered you without hope of pardon?” I asked.

  “You have spoiled it all for me — —”

  She bit her lip, suddenly silent. Sir Peter Coleville stood before us.

  “Lady Coleville awaits you,” he said very quietly, too quietly by far. “Carus, take her to my wife. Our coach is waiting.”

  We stared at him in apprehension. His face was serene, but colorless and hard as steel, as he turned and strode away; and we followed without a word, drawing closer together as we moved through a covered passage-way and out along Pearl Street, where Sir Peter’s coach stood, lamps shining, footman at the door.

  Lady Coleville was inside. I placed Elsin Grey, and, at a motion from Sir Peter, closed the door.

  “Home,” he said quietly. The footman leaped to the box, the whip snapped, and away rolled the coach, leaving Sir Peter and myself standing there in Pearl Street.

  “Your servant Dennis sought me out,” he said, “with word that Walter Butler had been busy sounding the panels in your room.”

  Speech froze on my lips.

  “Further,” continued Sir Peter calmly, “Lady Coleville has shared with me the confidence of Elsin Grey concerning her troth, clandestinely plighted to this gentleman whom you have told me is a married man.”

  I could not utter a sound. Moment after moment passed in silence. The half-hour struck, then three-quarters. At last from the watch-tower on the Fort the hour sounded.

  There was a rattle of wheels behind us; a coach clattered out of Beaver Street, swung around the railing of the Bowling Green, and drew up along the foot-path beside us; and Dr. Carmody leaped out, shaking hands with us both.

  “I found him at Fraunce’s Tavern, Sir Peter, bag and baggage. He appeared to be greatly taken aback when I delivered your cartel, protesting that something was wrong, that there could be no quarrel between you and him; but when I hinted at his villainy, he went white as ashes and stood there swaying like a stunned man. Gad! that hint about his wife took every ounce of blood from his face, Sir Peter.”

  “Has he a friend to care for him?” asked Sir Peter coldly.

  “Jessop of the Sappers volunteered. I found him in the tap-room. They should be on their way by this time, Sir Peter.”

  “That will do. Carus will act for me,” said Sir Peter in a dull voice.

  He entered the coach; I followed, and Dr. Carmody followed me and closed the door. A heavy leather case lay beside me on the seat. I rested my throbbing head on both hands, sitting swaying there in silence as the coach dashed through Bowling Green again and sped clattering on its way up-town.

  CHAPTER VI

  A NIGHT AND A MORNING

  As our coach passed Crown Street I could no longer doubt whither we were bound. The shock of certainty aroused me from the stunned lethargy which had chained me to silence. At the same moment Sir Peter thrust his head from the window and called to his coachman:

  “Drive home first!” And to me, resuming his seat: “We had nigh forgotten the case of pistols, Carus.”

  The horses swung west into Maiden Lane, then south through Nassau Street, across Crown, Little Queen, and King Streets, swerving to the right around the City Hall, then sharp west again, stopping at our own gate with a clatter and clash of harness.

  Sir Peter leaped out lightly, and I followed, leaving Dr. Carmody, with his surgical case, to await our return.

  Under the door-lanthorn Sir Peter turned, and in a low voice asked me if I could remember where the pistol-case was laid.

  My mind was now clear and alert, my wits already busily at work. To prevent Sir Peter’s facing Walter Butler; to avoid Cunningham’s gallows; could the first be accomplished without failure in the second? Arrest might await me at any instant now, here in our own house, there at the Coq d’Or, or even on the very field of honor itself.

  “Where did you leave the pistol-case that day you practised in the garden?” I asked coolly.

  “’Twas you took it, Carus,” he said. “Were you not showing the pistols to Elsin Grey?”

  I dropped my head, pretending to think. He waited a moment, then drew out his latch-key and opened the door very softly. A single sconce-candle flared in the hall; he lifted it from the gilded socket and passed into the state drawing-room, holding the light above his head, and searching over table and cabinet for the inlaid case.

  Standing there in the hall I looked up the dark and shadowy stairway. There
was no light, no sound. In the drawing-room I heard Sir Peter moving about, opening locked cupboards, lacquered drawers, and crystal doors, the shifting light of his candle playing over wall and ceiling. Why he had not already found the case where I had placed it on the gilded French table I could not understand, and I stole to the door and looked in. The French table stood empty save for a vase of shadowy flowers; Sir Peter was on his knees, candle in hand, searching the endless lines of book-shelves in the library. A strange suspicion stole into my heart which set it drumming on my ribs. Had Elsin Grey removed the pistols? Had she wit enough to understand the matters threatening?

  I looked up at the stairs again, then mounted them noiselessly, and traversed the carpeted passage to her door. There was a faint light glimmering under the sill. I laid my face against the panels and whispered, “Elsin!”

  “Who is there?” A movement from within, a creak from the bed, a rustle of a garment, then silence. Listening there, ear to her door, I heard distinctly the steady breathing of some one also listening on the other side.

  “Elsin!”

  “Is it you, Carus?”

  She opened the door wide and stood there, candle in one hand, rubbing her eyes with the other, lace night-cap and flowing, beribboned robe stirring in the draft of air from the dark hallway. But under the loosened neck-cloth I caught a gleam of a metal button, and instantly I was aware of a pretense somewhere, for beneath the flowing polonaise of chintz, or Levete, which is a kind of gown and petticoat tied on the left hip with a sash of lace, she was fully dressed, aye, and shod for the street.

  Instinctively I glanced at the bed, made a quick step past her, and drew the damask curtain. The bed had not been slept in.

  “What are you thinking of, Carus?” she said hotly, springing to the curtain. There was a sharp sound of cloth tearing; she stumbled, caught my arm, and straightened up, red as fire, for the hem of her Levete was laid open to the knee, and displayed a foot-mantle, under which a tiny golden spur flashed on a lacquered boot-heel.

  “What does this mean?” I said sternly. “Whither do you ride at such an hour?”

  She was speechless.

  “Elsin! Elsin! If you had wit enough to hide Sir Peter’s pistols, render them to me now. Delay may mean my ruin.”