“There are sixteen volumes about this disease,” she said. “There must be such a disease!”
“There is,” he said. “I have it badly. But I never had it before I first saw you in the Park!”
“Mr. Carden — this is the wildest absurdity—”
“I know it. Wildness is a symptom. I’m mad as a hatter. I’ve got every separate symptom, and I wish it was infectious and contagious and catching and fatal!”
She made an effort to turn the pages to the chapter entitled “Manias and Illusions,” but he laid his hand across the book and his clear eyes defied her.
“Mr. Carden—”
Her smooth hand trembled under his, then, suddenly nerveless, relaxed. With an effort she lifted her head; their eyes met, spellbound.
“You have every symptom,” he said unsteadily— “every one! What have you to say?”
Her fascinated eyes held his.
“What have you to say?” he repeated under his breath— “you, with every symptom, and your heavenly radiant beauty to confirm them — that splendid youthful loveliness which blinds and stuns me as I look — as I speak — as I tell you that I love you. That is my malady; that is the beginning and the end of it; love!”
She sat speechless, immovable, as one under enchantment.
“All my life,” he said, “I have spent in painting shadows. But the shadows were those dim celestial shapes cast by your presence in the world. You tell me that the world is better for my work; that I have offered my people beauty and a sort of truth, which they had never dreamed of until I revealed it? Yet what inspired me was the shadow only, for I had never seen the substance; I had never believed I should ever see the living source of the shadows which inspired me. And now I see; now I have seen with my own eyes. Now the confession of faith is no longer a blind creed, born of instinct. You live! You are you! What I believed from necessity I find proved in fact. The occult no longer can sway one who has seen. And you, who, without your knowledge or mine, have always been the one and only source of any good in me or in my work — why is it strange that I loved you at first sight? — that I worshiped you at first breath? — I, who, like him who raises his altar to ‘the unknown god,’ raised my altar to truth and beauty? And a miracle has answered me.”
She rose, the beautiful dazed eyes meeting his, both hands clasping the ninth volume of Lamour’s great monograph to her breast as though to protect it from him — from him who was threatening her, enthralling her, thrilling her with his magic voice, his enchanted youth, the masterful mystery of his eyes. What was he saying to her? What was this mounting intoxication sweeping her senses — this delicious menace threatening her very will? What did he want with her? What was he asking? What was he doing now — with both her hands in his, and her gaze deeply lost in his — and the ninth volume of Lamour on the floor between them, sprawling there, abandoned, waving its helpless, discredited leaves in air — discredited, abandoned, obsolete as her own specialty — her life’s work! He had taken that, too — taken her life’s work from her. And in return she was holding nothing! — nothing except a young man’s hands — strong, muscular hands which, after all, were holding her own imprisoned. So she had nothing in exchange for the ninth volume of Lamour; and her life’s work had been annihilated by a smile; and she was very much alone in the world — very isolated and very youthful.
After a while she emerged from the chaos of attempted reflection and listened to what he was saying. He spoke very quietly, very distinctly, not sparing himself, laying bare every deception without involving anybody except himself.
He told her the entire history of his case, excluding Mr. Keen in person; he told her about his aunt, about his birthday, about his determination to let the legacy go. Then in a very manly way he told her that he had never before loved a woman; and fell silent, her hands a dead weight in his.
She was surprised that she could experience no resentment. A curious inertia crept over her. She was tired of expectancy, tired of effort, weary of the burden of decision. Life and its problems overweighted her. Her eyes wandered to his broad young shoulders, then were raised to his face.
“What shall we do?” she asked innocently.
Unresisting, she suffered him to explain. His explanation was not elaborate; he only touched his lips to her hands and straightened up, a trifle pale.
After a moment they walked together to the door and he took his hat and gloves from the rack.
“Will you come to-morrow morning?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Come early. I am quite certain of how matters are with me. Everything has gone out of my life — everything I once cared for — all the familiar things. So come early, for I am quite alone without you.”
“And I without you, Rosalind.”
“That is only right,” she said simply. “I shall cast no more shadows for you. . . . Are you going? . . . Oh, I know it is best that you should go, but—”
He halted. She laid both hands in his.
“We both have it,” she faltered— “every symptom. And — you will come early, won’t you?”
THE END
THE FIGHTING CHANCE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. ACQUAINTANCE
CHAPTER II IMPRUDENCE
CHAPTER III SHOTOVER
CHAPTER IV THE SEASON OPENS
CHAPTER V A WINNING LOSER
CHAPTER VI MODUS VIVENDI
CHAPTER VII PERSUASION
CHAPTER VIII CONFIDENCES
CHAPTER IX CONFESSIONS
CHAPTER X THE SEAMY SIDE
CHAPTER XI THE CALL OF THE RAIN
CHAPTER XII THE ASKING PRICE
CHAPTER XIII THE SELLING PRICE
CHAPTER XIV THE BARGAIN
CHAPTER XV THE ENEMY LISTENS
DEDICATED
TO MY FATHER
CHAPTER I. ACQUAINTANCE
The speed of the train slackened; a broad tidal river flashed into sight below the trestle, spreading away on either hand through yellowing level meadows. And now, above the roaring undertone of the cars, from far ahead floated back the treble bell-notes of the locomotive; there came a gritting vibration of brakes; slowly, more slowly the cars glided to a creaking standstill beside a sun-scorched platform gay with the bright flutter of sunshades and summer gowns.
“Shotover! Shotover!” rang the far cry along the cars; and an absent-minded young man in the Pullman pocketed the uncut magazine he had been dreaming over and, picking up gun case and valise, followed a line of fellow-passengers to the open air, where one by one they were engulfed and lost to view amid the gay confusion on the platform.
The absent-minded young man, however, did not seem to know exactly where he was bound for. He stood hesitating, leisurely inspecting the flashing ranks of vehicles — depot wagons, omnibusses, and motor cars already eddying around a dusty gravel drive centred by the conventional railroad flower bed and fountain.
Sunshine blazed on foliage plants arranged geometrically, on scarlet stars composed of geraniums, on thickets of tall flame-tinted cannas. And around this triumph of landscape gardening, phaeton, Tilbury, Mercedes, and Toledo backed, circled, tooted; gaily gowned women, whips aslant, horses dancing, greeted expected guests; laughing young men climbed into dog-carts and took the reins from nimble grooms; young girls, extravagantly veiled, made room in comfortable touring-cars for feminine guests whose extravagant veils were yet to be unpacked; slim young men in leather trappings, caps adorned with elaborate masks or goggles, manipulated rakish steering-gears; preoccupied machinists were fussing with valve and radiator or were cranking up; and, through the jolly tumult, the melancholy bell of the locomotive sounded, and the long train moved out through the September sunshine amid clouds of snowy steam.
And all this time the young man, gun case in one hand, suit case in the other, looked about him in his good-humoured, leisurely manner for anybody or any vehicle which might be waiting for him. His amiable inspection presently brought a bustling bag
gage-master within range of vision; and he spoke to this official, mentioning his host’s name.
“Lookin’ for Mr. Ferrall?” repeated the baggage-master, spinning a trunk dexterously into rank with its fellows. “Say, one of Mr. Ferrall’s men was here just now — there he is, over there uncrating that there bird-dog!”
The young man’s eyes followed the direction indicated by the grimy thumb; a red-faced groom in familiar livery was kneeling beside a dog’s travelling crate, attempting to unlock it, while behind the bars an excited white setter whined and thrust forth first one silky paw then the other.
The young man watched the scene for a moment, then:
“Are you one of Mr. Ferrall’s men?” he asked in his agreeable voice.
The groom looked up, then stood up:
“Yis, Sorr.”
“Take these; I’m Mr. Siward — for Shotover House. I dare say you have room for me and the dog, too.”
The groom opened his mouth to speak, but Siward took the crate key from his fingers, knelt, and tried the lock. It resisted. From the depths of the crate a beseeching paw fell upon his cuff.
“Certainly, old fellow,” he said soothingly, “I know how you feel about it; I know you’re in a hurry — and we’ll have you out in a second — steady, boy! — something’s jammed, you see! Only one moment now! There you are!”
The dog attempted to bolt as the crate door opened, but the young man caught him by the leather collar and the groom snapped on a leash.
“Beg pardon, Sorr,” began the groom, carried almost off his feet by the frantic circling of the dog— “beg pardon, Sorr, but I’ll be afther seem’ if anny of Mr. Ferrall’s men drove over for you—”
“Oh! Are you not one of Mr. Ferrall’s men?”
“Yis, Sorr, but I hadn’t anny orders to meet anny wan—”
“Haven’t you anything here to drive me in?”
“Yis, Sorr — I’ll look to see—”
The raw groom, much embarrassed, and keeping his feet with difficulty against the plunging dog, turned toward the gravel drive where now only a steam motor and a depot-wagon remained. As they looked the motor steamed out, honking hoarsely; the depot-wagon followed, leaving the circle at the end of the station empty of vehicles.
“Didn’t Mr. Ferrall expect me?” asked Siward.
“Aw, yis, Sorr; but the gintlemen for Shotover House does ginerally allways coom by Black Fells, Sorr—”
“Oh, Lord!” said the young man, “I remember now. I should have gone on to Black Fells Crossing; Mr. Ferrall wrote me!” Then, amused: “I suppose you have only a baggage-wagon here?”
“No, Sorr — a phayton” — he hesitated.
“Well? Isn’t a phaeton all right?”
“Yis, Sorr — if th’ yoong lady says so — beg pardon, Sorr, Miss Landis is driving.”
“Oh — h! I see.... Is Miss Landis a guest at Shotover House?”
“Yis, Sorr. An’ if ye would joost ask her — the phayton do be coming now, Sorr!”
The phaeton was coming; the horse, a showy animal, executed side-steps; blue ribbons fluttered from the glittering head-stall; a young girl in white was driving.
Siward advanced to the platform’s edge as the phaeton drew up; the young lady looked inquiringly at the groom, at the dog, and leisurely at him.
So he took off his hat, naming himself in that well-bred and agreeable manner characteristic of men of his sort, — and even his smile appeared to be part and parcel of a conventional ensemble so harmonious as to remain inconspicuous.
“You should have gone on to Black Fells Crossing,” observed Miss Landis, coolly controlling the nervous horse. “Didn’t you know it?”
He said he remembered now that such were the directions given him.
The girl glanced at him incuriously, and with more curiosity at the dog. “Is that the Sagamore pup, Flynn?” she asked.
“It is, Miss.”
“Can’t you take him on the rumble with you?” And, to Siward: “There is room for your gun and suit case.”
“And for me?” he asked, smiling.
“I think so. Be careful of that Sagamore pup, Flynn. Hold him between your knees. Are you ready, Mr. Siward?”
So he climbed in; the groom hoisted the dog to the rumble and sprang up behind; the horse danced and misbehaved, making a spectacle of himself and an agreeable picture of his driver; then the pretty little phaeton swung northward out of the gravel drive and went whirling along a road all misty with puffs of yellow dust which the afternoon sun turned to floating golden powder.
“Did you send my telegram, Flynn?” she asked without turning her head.
“I did, Miss.”
It being the most important telegram she had ever sent in all her life, Miss Landis became preoccupied, — quite oblivious to extraneous details, including Siward, until the horse began acting badly again. Her slightly disdainful and perfect control of the reins interested the young man. He might have said something civil and conventional about that, but did not make the effort to invade a reserve which appeared to embarrass nobody.
A stacatto note from the dog, prolonged infinitely in hysterical crescendo, demanded comment from somebody.
“What is the matter with him, Flynn?” she asked.
Siward said: “You should let him run, Miss Landis.”
She nodded, smiling, inattentive, absorbed in her own affairs, still theorising concerning her telegram. She drove on for a while, and might have forgotten the dog entirely had he not once more lifted his voice in melancholy.
“You say he ought to run for a mile or two? Do you think he’ll bolt, Mr. Siward?”
“Is he a new dog?”
“Yes, fresh from the kennels; supposed to be house-and wagon-broken, steady to shot and wing—” She shrugged her pretty shoulders. “You see how he’s acting already!”
“Do you mind if I try him?” suggested Siward.
“You mean that you are going to let him run?”
“I think so.”
“And if he bolts?”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Yes, but please consider my chances, Mr. Siward. The dog doesn’t belong to me.”
“But he ought to run—”
“But suppose he runs away? He’s a horridly expensive creature — if you care to take the risk.”
“I’ll take the risk,” said Siward, smiling as she drew rein. “Now Flynn, give me the leash. Quiet! Quiet, puppy! Everything is coming your way; that’s the beauty of patience; great thing, patience!” He took the leader; the dog sprang from the rumble. “Now, my friend, look at me! No, don’t twist and squirm and scramble; look me square in the eye; so!... Now we know each ether and we respect each other — because you are going to be a good puppy... and obey... Down charge!”
The dog, trembling with eager comprehension, dropped like a shot, muzzle laid flat between his paws. Siward unleashed him, looked down at him for a second, stooped and caressed the silky head, then with a laugh swung himself into the phaeton beside the driver, who, pretty head turned, had been looking on intently.
“Your dog is yard-broken,” he said. “Look at him.”
“I see. Do you think he will follow us?”
“I think so.”
The horse started, Miss Landis looking back over her shoulder at the dog who lay motionless, crouched flat in the road.
Then Siward turned. “Come on, Sagamore!” he said gaily; and the dog sprang forward, circled about the moving phaeton, splitting the air with yelps of ecstasy, then tore ahead, mad with the delight of stretching cramped muscles amid the long rank grass and shrubbery of the roadside.
The girl watched him doubtfully; when he disappeared far away up the road she turned the blue inquiry of her eyes on Siward.
“He’ll be back,” said the young fellow, laughing; and presently the dog reappeared on a tearing gallop, white flag tossing, glorious in his new liberty, enchanted with the confidence this tall young man had reposed in him — this
adorable young man, this wonderful friend who had suddenly appeared to release him from an undignified and abominable situation in a crate.
“A good dog,” said Siward; and the girl looked around at him, partly because his voice was pleasant, partly because a vague memory was beginning to stir within her, coupling something unpleasant with the name of Siward.
She had been conscious of it when he first named himself, but, absorbed in the overwhelming importance of her telegram, had left the analysis of the matter for the future.
She thought again of her telegram, theorised a little, came to no conclusion except to let the matter rest for the present, and mentally turned to the next and far less important problem — the question of this rather attractive young man at her side, and why the name of Siward should be linked in her mind with anything disagreeable.
Tentatively following the elusive mental dews that might awaken something definite concerning her hazy impression of the man beside her, she spoke pleasantly, conventionally, touching idly any topic that might have a bearing; and, under a self-possession so detached as to give an impression of indifference, eyes, ears, and intelligence admitted that he was agreeable to look at, pleasant of voice, and difficult to reconcile with anything unpleasant.
Which gradually aroused her interest — the incongruous usually interesting girls of her age — for he had wit enough to amuse her, sufficient inconsequence to please her, and something listless, at times almost absent-minded, almost inattentive, that might have piqued her had it not inoculated her, as it always does any woman, with the nascent germ of curiosity. Besides, there was, in the hint of his momentary preoccupation, a certain charm.
They discussed shooting and the opening of the season; dogs and the training of dogs; and why some go gun-shy and why some ace blinkers. From sport and its justification, they became inconsequential; and she was beginning to enjoy the freshness of their chance acquaintance, his nice attitude toward things, his irrelevancy, his gaiety.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 279