Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Naughty! Naughty!” reflected Kerns, pensively assaulting the breakfast food. “Lovey must not worry; Dovey shall be found, and all will be joy and gingerbread. . . . If you throw that orange I’ll run screaming to the governors. Aren’t you ashamed — just because you’re in a love tantrum!”

  “One more word and you get it!”

  “May I sing as I trifle with this frugal fare, dear friend? My heart is so happy that I should love to warble a few wild notes—”

  He paused to watch his badgered victim dispose of a Martini.

  “I wonder,” he mused, “if you’d like me to tell you what a cocktail before breakfast does to the lining of your stomach? Would you?”

  “No. I suppose it’s what the laundress does to my linen. What do I care?”

  “Don’t be a short sport, Jack.”

  “Well, I don’t care for the game you put me up against. Do you know what has happened?”

  “I really don’t, dear friend. The Tracer of Lost Persons has not found her — has he?”

  “He says he has,” retorted Gatewood sullenly, pulling a crumpled telegram from his pocket and casting it upon the table. “I don’t want to see her; I’m not interested. I never saw but one girl in my life who interested me in the slightest; and she’s employed to help in this ridiculous search.”

  Kerns, meanwhile, had smoothed out the telegram and was intently perusing it:

  “John Gatewood, Lenox Club, Fifth Avenue:

  “Person probably discovered. Call here as soon as possible.

  W. KEEN.”

  “What do you make of that?” demanded Gatewood hoarsely.

  “Make of it? Why, it’s true enough, I fancy. Go and see, and if it’s she, be hers!”

  “I won’t! I don’t want to see any ideal! I don’t want to marry. Why do you try to make me marry somebody?”

  “Because it’s good for you, dear friend. Otherwise you’ll go to the doggy-dogs. You don’t realize how much worry you are to me.”

  “Confound it! Why don’t you marry? Why didn’t I ask you that when you put me up to all this foolishness? What right have you to—”

  “Tut, friend! I know there’s no woman alive fit to wed me and spend her life in stealing kisses from me. I have no ideal. You have an ideal.”

  “I haven’t!”

  “Oh, yes, dear friend, there’s a stub in your check book to prove it. You simply bet $5,000 that your ideal existed. You’ve won. Go and be her joy and sunshine.”

  “I’ll put an end to this whole business,” said Gatewood wrathfully, “and I’ll do it now!”

  “Bet you that you’re engaged within the week!” said Kerns with a placid smile.

  The other swung around savagely: “What will you bet, Tommy? You may have what odds you please. I’ll make you sit up for this.”

  “I’ll bet you,” answered Kerns, deliberately, “an entire silver dinner service against a saddle horse for the bride.”

  “That’s a fool bet!” snapped Gatewood. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, if you don’t care to—”

  “What do I want of a silver service? But, all right; I’ll bet you anything.”

  “She’ll want it,” replied Kerns significantly, booking the bet. “I may as well canter out to Tiffany’s this morning, I fancy. . . . Where are you going, Jack?”

  “To see Keen and confess what an ass I’ve been!” returned Gatewood sullenly, striding across the breakfast room to take his hat and gloves from the rack. And out he went, mad all over.

  On his way up the avenue he attempted to formulate the humiliating confession which already he shrank from. But it had to be done. He simply could not stand the prospect of being notified month after month that a lady would be on view somewhere. It was like going for a fitting; it was horrible. Besides, what use was it? Within a week or two an enormous and utterly inexplicable emptiness had yawned before him, revealing life as a hollow delusion. He no longer cared.

  Immersed in bitter reflection, he climbed the familiar stairway and sent his card to Mr. Keen, and in due time he was ushered into the presence of the Tracer of Lost Persons.

  “Mr. Keen,” he began, with a headlong desire to get it over and be done with it, “I may as well tell you how impossible it is for you, or anybody, to find that person I described—”

  Mr. Keen raised an expostulatory hand, smiling indulgence.

  “It is more than possible, Mr. Gatewood, more than probable; it is almost an accomplished fact. In other words, I think I may venture to congratulate you and say that she is found.”

  “Now, how can she be found, when there isn’t—”

  “Mr. Gatewood, the magician will always wave his magic wand for you and show you his miracles for the price of admission. But for that price he does not show you how he works his miracles,” said Keen, laughing.

  “But I ought to tell you,” persisted Gatewood, “that it is utterly impossible you should find the person I wished to discover, because she—”

  “I can only prove that you are wrong,” smiled Keen, rising from his easy chair.

  “Mr. Keen,” said the young man earnestly, “I have been more or less of a chump at times. One of those times was when I came here on this errand. All I desire, now, is to let the matter rest as it is. I am satisfied, and you have lost nothing. Nor have you found anything or anybody. You think you have, but you haven’t. I do not wish you to continue the search, or to send me any further reports. I want to forget the whole miserable matter — to be free — to feel myself freed from any obligations to that irritating person I asked you to find.”

  The Tracer regarded him very gravely.

  “Is that your wish, Mr. Gatewood? I can scarcely credit it.”

  “It is. I’ve been a fool; I simply want to stop being one if anybody will permit it.”

  “And you decline to attempt to identify the very beautiful person we have discovered to be the individual for whom you asked us to search?”

  “I do. She may be beautiful; but I know well enough she can’t compare with — some one.”

  “I am sorry,” said Keen thoughtfully. “We take so much pride in these matters. When one of my agents discovered where this person was, I was rather — happy; for I have taken a peculiar personal interest in your case. However—”

  “Mr. Keen,” said Gatewood, “if you could understand how ashamed and mortified I am at my own conduct—”

  Keen gazed pensively out of the window. “I also am sorry; Miss Southerland was to have received a handsome bonus for her discovery—”

  “Miss S-S-S-S-outherland!”

  “Exactly; without quite so many S’s,” said Keen, smiling.

  “Did she discover that — that person?” exclaimed the young man, startled.

  “She thinks she has. I am not sure she is correct; but I am absolutely certain that Miss Southerland could eventually discover the person you were in search of. It seems a little hard on her — just on the eve of success — to lose. But that can’t be helped now.”

  Gatewood, more excited and uncomfortable than he had ever been in all his life, watched Keen intently.

  “Too bad, too bad,” muttered the Tracer to himself. “The child needs the encouragement. It meant a thousand dollars to her—” He shrugged his shoulders, looked up, and, as though rather surprised to see Gatewood still there, smiled an impersonal smile and offered his hand in adieu. Gatewood winced.

  “Could I — I see Miss Southerland?” he asked.

  “I am afraid not. She is at this moment following my instructions to — but that cannot interest you now—”

  “Yes, it does! — if you don’t mind. Where is she? I — I’ll take a look at the person she discovered; I will, really.”

  “Why, it’s only this: I suspected that you might identify a person whom I had reason to believe was to be found every morning riding in the Park. So Miss Southerland has been riding there every day. Yesterday she came here, greatly excited—”

  “Yes �
�� yes — go on!”

  Keen gazed dreamily at the sunny window. “She thought she had found your — er — the person. So I said you would meet her on the bridle path, near — but that’s of no interest now—”

  “Near where?” demanded Gatewood, suppressing inexplicable excitement. And as Keen said nothing: “I’ll go; I want to go, I really do! Can’t — can’t a fellow change his mind? Oh, I know you think I’m a lunatic, and there’s plenty of reason, too!”

  Keen studied him calmly. “Yes, plenty of reason, plenty of reason, Mr. Gatewood. But do you suppose you are the only one? I know another who was perfectly sane two weeks ago.”

  The young man waited impatiently; the Tracer paced the room, gray head bent, delicate, wrinkled hands clasped loosely behind his bent back.

  “You have horses at the Whip and Spur Club,” he said abruptly. “Suppose you ride out and see how close Miss Southerland has come to solving our problem.”

  Gatewood seized the offered hand and wrung it with a fervor out of all reason; and it is curious that the Tracer of Lost Persons did not appear to be astonished.

  “You’re rather impetuous — like your father,” he said slowly. “I knew him; so I’ve ventured to trust his son — even when I heard how aimlessly he was living his life. Mr. Gatewood! May I ask you something — as an old friend of your father?”

  The young man nodded, subdued, perplexed, scarcely understanding.

  “It’s only this: If you do find the woman you could love — in the Park — to-day — come back to me some day and let me tell you all those foolish, trite, tiresome things that I should have told a son of mine. I am so old that you will not take offense — you will not mind listening to me, or forgetting the dull, prosy things I say about the curse of idleness, and the habits of cynical thinking, and the perils of vacant-minded indulgence. You will forgive me — and you will forget me. That will be as it should be. Good-by.”

  Gatewood, sobered, surprised, descended the stairs and hailed a hansom.

  CHAPTER VI

  All the way to the Whip and Spur Club he sat buried in a reverie from which, at intervals, he started, aroused by the heavy, expectant beating of his own pulses. But what did he expect, in Heaven’s name? Not the discovery of a woman who had never existed. Yet his excitement and impatience grew as he watched the saddling of his horse; and when at length he rode out into the sunshine and cantered through the Park entrance, his sense of impending events and his expectancy amounted to a fever which colored his face attractively.

  He saw her almost immediately. Her horse was walking slowly in the dappled shadows of the new foliage; she, listless in her saddle, sometimes watching the throngs of riders passing, at moments turning to gaze into the woodland vistas where, over the thickets of flowering shrubbery, orioles and robins sped flashing on tinted wings from shadow to sun, from sun to shadow. But she looked up as he drew bridle and wheeled his mount beside her; and, “Oh!” she said, flushing in recognition.

  “I have missed you terribly,” he said quietly.

  It was dreamy weather, even for late spring: the scent of lilacs and mock-orange hung heavy as incense along the woods. Their voices unconsciously found the key to harmonize with it all.

  She said: “Well, I think I have succeeded. In a few moments she will be passing. I do not know her name; she rides a big roan. She is very beautiful, Mr. Gatewood.”

  He said: “I am perfectly certain we shall find her. I doubted it until now. But now I know.”

  “Oh-h, but I may be wrong,” she protested.

  “No; you cannot be.”

  She looked up at him.

  “You can have no idea how happy you make me,” he said unsteadily.

  “But — I — but I may be all wrong — dreadfully wrong!”

  “Y-es; you may be, but I shall not be. For do you know that I have already seen her in the Park?”

  “When?” she demanded incredulously, then turned in the saddle, repeating: “Where? Did she pass? How perfectly stupid of me! And was she the — the right one?”

  “She is the right one. . . . Don’t turn: I have seen her. Ride on: I want to say something — if I can.”

  “No, no,” she insisted. “I must know whether I was right—”

  “You are right — but you don’t know it yet. . . . Oh, very well, then; we’ll turn if you insist.” And he wheeled his mount as she did, riding at her bridle again.

  “How can you take it so coolly — so indifferently?” she said. “Where has that woman — where has she gone? . . . Never mind; she must turn and pass us sooner or later, for she lives uptown. What are you laughing at, Mr. Gatewood?” — in annoyed surprise.

  “I am laughing at myself. Oh, I’m so many kinds of a fool — you can’t think how many, and it’s no use!”

  She stared, astonished; he shook his head.

  “No, you don’t understand yet. But you will. Listen to me: this very beautiful lady you have discovered is nothing to me!”

  “Nothing — to you!” she faltered. Two pink spots of indignation burned in her cheeks. “How — how dare you say that! — after all that has been done — all that you have said. You said you loved her; you did say so — to me!”

  “I don’t love her now.”

  “But you did!” Tears of pure vexation started; she faced him, eye to eye, thoroughly incensed.

  “What sort of man are you?” she said under her breath. “Your friend Mr. Kerns is wrong. You are not worth saving from yourself.”

  “Kerns!” he repeated, angry and amazed. “What the deuce has Kerns to do with this affair?”

  She stared, then, realizing her indiscretion, bit her lip, and spurred forward. But he put his horse to a gallop, and they pounded along in silence. In a little while she drew bridle and looked around coldly, grave with displeasure.

  “Mr. Kerns came to us before you did. He said you would probably come, and he begged us to strain every effort in your behalf, because, he said, your happiness absolutely depended upon our finding for you the woman you were seeking. . . . And I tried — very hard — and now she’s found. You admit that — and now you say—”

  “I say that one of these balmy summer days I’ll assassinate Tommy Kerns!” broke in Gatewood. “What on earth possessed that prince of butters-in to go to Mr. Keen?”

  “To save you from yourself!” retorted the girl in a low, exasperated voice. “He did not say what threatened you; he is a good friend for a man to have. But we soon found out what you were — a man well born, well bred, full of brilliant possibility, who was slowly becoming an idle, cynical, self-centered egoist — a man who, lacking the lash of need or the spur of ambition, was degenerating through the sheer uselessness and inanity of his life. And, oh, the pity of it! For Mr. Keen and I have taken a — a curiously personal interest in you — in your case. I say, the pity of it!”

  Astounded, dumb under her stinging words, he rode beside her through the brilliant sunshine, wheeled mechanically as she turned her horse, and rode north again.

  “And now — now!” she said passionately, “you turn on the woman you loved! Oh, you are not worth it!”

  “You are quite right,” he said, turning very white under her scorn. “Almost all you have said is true enough, I fancy. I amount to nothing; I am idle, cynical, selfish. The emptiness of such a life requires a stimulant; even a fool abhors a vacuum. So I drink — not so very much yet — but more than I realize. And it is close enough to a habit to worry me. . . . Yes, almost all you say is true; Kerns knows it; I know it — now that you have told me. You see, he couldn’t tell me, because I should not have believed him. But I believe you — all you say, except one thing. And that is only a glimmer of decency left in me — not that I make any merit of it. No, it is merely instinctive. For I have not turned on the woman I loved.”

  Her face was pale as her level eyes met him:

  “You said she was nothing to you. . . . Look there! Do you see her? Do you see?”

  Her voice broke
nervously as he swung around to stare at a rider bearing down at a gallop — a woman on a big roan, tearing along through the spring sunshine, passing them with wind-flushed cheeks and dark, incurious eyes, while her powerful horse carried her on, away through the quivering light and shadow of the woodland vista.

  “Is that the person?”

  “Y-es,” she faltered. “Was I wrong?”

  “Quite wrong, Miss Southerland.”

  “But — but you said you had seen her here this morning!”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Did you speak to her before you met me?”

  “No — not before I met you.”

  “Then you have not spoken to her. Is she still here in the Park?”

  “Yes, she is still here.”

  The girl turned on him excitedly: “Do you mean to say that you will not speak to her?”

  “I had rather not—”

  “And your happiness depends on your speaking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it is cowardly not to speak.”

  “Oh, yes, it is cowardly. . . . If you wish me to speak to her I will. Shall I?”

  “Yes . . . Show her to me.”

  “And you think that such a man as I am has a right to speak of love to her?”

  “I — we believe it will be your salvation. Mr. Kerns says you must marry her to be happy. Mr. Keen told me yesterday that it only needed a word from the right woman to put you on your mettle. . . . And — and that is my opinion.”

  “Then in charity say that word!” he breathed, bending toward her. “Can’t you see? Can’t you understand? Don’t you know that from the moment I looked into your eyes I loved you?”

  “How — how dare you!” she stammered, crimsoning.

  “God knows,” he said wistfully. “I am a coward. I don’t know how I dared. Good-by. . . .”

  He walked his horse a little way, then launched him into a gallop, tearing on and on, sun, wind, trees swimming, whirling like a vision, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, save the leaden pounding of his pulse and the breathless, terrible tightening in his throat.

  When he cleared his eyes and looked around he was quite alone, his horse walking under the trees and breathing heavily.