Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  But she continued moving along among the bushes, pinching back here, snipping, trimming, clipping there; and after a while she had wandered quite beyond speaking distance; and, at leisurely intervals she straightened up and turned to look back across the roses at him — quiet, unsmiling gaze in exchange for his unchanging eyes, which never left her.

  She was at the farther edge of the rose garden now where a boy knelt, weeding; and Selwyn saw her speak to him and give him her basket and shears; and saw the boy start away toward the house, leaving her leaning idly above the sun-dial, elbows on the weather-beaten stone, studying the carved figures of the dial. And every line and contour and curve of her figure — even the lowered head, now resting between both hands — summoned him.

  She heard his step, but did not move; and when he leaned above the dial, resting on his elbows, beside her, she laid her finger on the shadow of the dial.

  “Time,” she said, “is trying to frighten me. It pretends to be nearly five o’clock; do you believe it?”

  “Time is running very fast with me,” he said.

  “With me, too; I don’t wish it to; I don’t care for third speed forward all the time.”

  He was bending closer above the stone dial, striving to decipher the inscription on it:

  “Under blue skies

  My shadow lies.

  Under gray skies

  My shadow dies.

  “If over me

  Two Lovers leaning

  Would solve my Mystery

  And read my Meaning,

  — Or clear, or overcast the Skies —

  The Answer always lies within their Eyes.

  Look long! Look long! For there, and there alone

  Time solves the Riddle graven on this Stone!”

  Elbows almost touching they leaned at ease, idly reading the almost obliterated lines engraved there.

  “I never understood it,” she observed, lightly scornful. “What occult meaning has a sun-dial for the spooney? I’m sure I don’t want to read riddles in a strange gentleman’s optics.”

  “The verses,” he explained, “are evidently addressed to the spooney, so why should you resent them?”

  “I don’t. . . . I can be spoons, too, for that matter; I mean I could once.”

  “But you’re past spooning now,” he concluded.

  “Am I? I rather resent your saying it — your calmly excluding me from anything I might choose to do,” she said. “If I cared — if I chose — if I really wanted to—”

  “You could still spoon? Impossible! At your age? Nonsense!”

  “It isn’t at all impossible. Wait until there’s a moon, and a canoe, and a nice boy who is young enough to be frightened easily!”

  “And I,” he retorted, “am too old to be frightened; so there’s no moon, no canoe, no pretty girl, no spooning for me. Is that it, Eileen?”

  “Oh, Gladys and Sheila will attend to you, Captain Selwyn.”

  “Why Gladys Orchil? Why Sheila Minster? And why not Eileen Erroll?”

  “Spoon? With you!”

  “You are quite right,” he said, smiling; “it would be poor sport.”

  There had been no change in his amused eyes, in his voice; yet, sensitive to the imperceptible, the girl looked up quickly. He laughed and straightened up; and presently his eyes grew absent and his sun-burned hand sought his moustache.

  “Have you misunderstood me?” she asked in a low voice.

  “How, child?”

  “I don’t know. . . . Shall we walk a little?”

  When they came to the stone fish-pond she seated herself for a moment on a marble bench, then, curiously restless, rose again; and again they moved forward at hazard, past the spouting fountain, which was a driven well, out of which a crystal column of water rose, geyser-like, dazzling in the westering sun rays.

  “Nina tells me that this water rises in the Connecticut hills,” he said, “and flows as a subterranean sheet under the Sound, spouting up here on Long Island when you drive a well.”

  She looked at the column of flashing water, nodding silent assent.

  They moved on, the girl curiously reserved, non-communicative, head slightly lowered; the man vague-eyed, thoughtful, pacing slowly at her side. Behind them their long shadows trailed across the brilliant grass.

  Traversing the grove which encircled the newly clipped lawn, now fragrant with sun-crisped grass-tips left in the wake of the mower, he glanced up at the pretty mermaid mother cuddling her tiny offspring against her throat. Across her face a bar of pink sunlight fell, making its contour exquisite.

  “Plunkitt tells me that they really laugh at each other in the moonlight,” he said.

  She glanced up; then away from him:

  “You seem to be enamoured of the moonlight,” she said.

  “I like to prowl in it.”

  “Alone?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And — at other times?”

  He laughed: “Oh, I’m past that, as you reminded me a moment ago.”

  “Then you did misunderstand me!”

  “Why, no—”

  “Yes, you did! But I supposed you knew.”

  “Knew what, Eileen?” “What I meant.”

  “You meant that I am hors de concours.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “But I am, child. I was, long ago.”

  She looked up: “Do you really think that, Captain Selwyn? If you do — I am glad.”

  He laughed outright. “You are glad that I’m safely past the spooning age?” he inquired, moving forward.

  She halted: “Yes. Because I’m quite sure of you if you are; I mean that I can always keep you for myself. Can’t I?”

  She was smiling and her eyes were clear and fearless, but there was a wild-rose tint on her cheeks which deepened a little as he turned short in his tracks, gazing straight at her.

  “You wish to keep me — for yourself?” he repeated, laughing.

  “Yes, Captain Selwyn.”

  “Until you marry. Is that it, Eileen?”

  “Yes, until I marry.”

  “And then we’ll let each other go; is that it?”

  “Yes. But I think I told you that I would never marry. Didn’t I?”

  “Oh! Then ours is to be a lifelong and anti-sentimental contract!”

  “Yes, unless you marry.”

  “I promise not to,” he said, “unless you do.”

  “I promise not to,” she said gaily, “unless you do.”

  “There remains,” he observed, “but one way for you and I ever to marry anybody. And as I’m hors de concours, even that hope is ended.”

  She flushed; her lips parted, but she checked what she had meant to say, and they walked forward together in silence for a while until she had made up her mind what to say and how to express it:

  “Captain Selwyn, there are two things that you do which seem to me unfair. You still have, at times, that far-away, absent expression which excludes me; and when I venture to break the silence, you have a way of answering, ‘Yes, child,’ and ‘No, child’ — as though you were inattentive, and I had not yet become an adult. That is my first complaint! . . . What are you laughing at? It is true; and it confuses and hurts me; because I know I am intelligent enough and old enough to — to be treated as a woman! — a woman attractive enough to be reckoned with! But I never seem to be wholly so to you.”

  The laugh died out as she ended; for a moment they stood there, confronting one another.

  “Do you imagine,” he said in a low voice, “that I do not know all that?”

  “I don’t know whether you do. For all your friendship — for all your liking and your kindness to me — somehow — I — I don’t seem to stand with you as other women do; I don’t seem to stand their chances.”

  “What chances?”

  “The — the consideration; you don’t call any other woman ‘child,’ do you? You don’t constantly remind other women of the difference in your ages, do you? You don’
t feel with other women that you are — as you please to call it — hors de concours — out of the running. And somehow, with me, it humiliates. Because even if I — if I am the sort of a girl who never means to marry, you — your attitude seems to take away the possibility of my changing my mind; it dictates to me, giving me no choice, no liberty, no personal freedom in the matter. . . . It’s as though you considered me somehow utterly out of the question — radically unthinkable as a woman. And you assume to take for granted that I also regard you as — as hors de concours. . . . Those are my grievances, Captain Selwyn. . . . And I don’t regard you so. And I — and it troubles me to be excluded — to be found wanting, inadequate in anything that a woman should be. I know that you and I have no desire to marry each other — but — but please don’t make the reason for it either your age or my physical immaturity or intellectual inexperience.”

  Another of those weather-stained seats of Georgia marble stood embedded under the trees near where she had halted; and she seated herself, outwardly composed, and inwardly a little frightened at what she had said.

  As for Selwyn, he remained where he had been standing on the lawn’s velvet edge; and, raising her eyes again, her heart misgave her that she had wantonly strained a friendship which had been all but perfect; and now he was moving across the path toward her — a curious look in his face which she could not interpret. She looked up as he approached and stretched out her hand:

  “Forgive me, Captain Selwyn,” she said. “I am a child — a spoiled one; and I have proved it to you. Will you sit here beside me and tell me very gently what a fool I am to risk straining the friendship dearest to me in the whole world? And will you fix my penance?”

  “You have fixed it yourself,” he said.

  “How?”

  “By the challenge of your womanhood.”

  “I did not challenge—”

  “No; you defended. You are right. The girl I cared for — the girl who was there with me on Brier Water — so many, many centuries ago — the girl who, years ago, leaned there beside me on the sun-dial — has become a memory.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked faintly.

  “Shall I tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will not be unhappy if I tell you?”

  “N-no.”

  “Have you any idea what I am going to say, Eileen?”

  She looked up quickly, frightened at the tremor in his voice:

  “Don’t — don’t say it, Captain Selwyn!”

  “Will you listen — as a penance?”

  “I — no, I cannot—”

  He said quietly: “I was afraid you could not listen. You see, Eileen, that, after all, a man does know when he is done for—”

  “Captain Selwyn!” She turned and caught his hands in both of hers, her eyes bright with tears: “Is that the penalty for what I said? Did you think I invited this—”

  “Invited! No, child,” he said gently. “I was fool enough to believe in myself; that is all. I have always been on the edge of loving you. Only in dreams did I ever dare set foot across that frontier. Now I have dared. I love you. That is all; and it must not distress you.”

  “But it does not,” she said; “I have always loved you — dearly, dearly. . . . Not in that way. . . . I don’t know how. . . . Must it be in that way, Captain Selwyn? Can we not go on in the other way — that dear way which I — I have — almost spoiled? Must we be like other people — must sentiment turn it all to commonplace? . . . Listen to me; I do love you; it is perfectly easy and simple to say it. But it is not emotional, it is not sentimental. Can’t you see that in little things — in my ways with you? I — if I were sentimental about you I would call you Ph — by your first name, I suppose. But I can’t; I’ve tried to — and it’s very, very hard — and makes me self-conscious. It is an effort, you see — and so would it be for me to think of you sentimentally. Oh, I couldn’t! I couldn’t! — you, so much of a man, so strong and generous and experienced and clever — so perfectly the embodiment of everything I care for in a man! I love you dearly; but — you saw! I could — could not bring myself to touch even your hair — even in pure mischief. . . . And — sentiment chills me; I — there are times when it would be unendurable — I could not use an endearing term — nor suffer a — a caress. . . . So you see — don’t you? And won’t you take me for what I am? — and as I am? — a girl — still young, devoted to you with all her soul — happy with you, believing implicitly in you, deeply, deeply sensible of your goodness and sweetness and loyalty to her. I am not a woman; I was a fool to say so. But you — you are so overwhelmingly a man that if it were in me to love — in that way — it would be you! . . . Do you understand me? Or have I lost a friend? Will you forgive my foolish boast? Can you still keep me first in your heart — as you are in mine? And pardon in me all that I am not? Can you do these things because I ask you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  CHAPTER IX

  A NOVICE

  Gerald came to Silverside two or three times during the early summer, arriving usually on Friday and remaining until the following Monday morning.

  All his youthful admiration and friendship for Selwyn had returned; that was plainly evident — and with it something less of callow self-sufficiency. He did not appear to be as cock-sure of himself and the world as he had been; there was less bumptiousness about him, less aggressive complacency. Somewhere and somehow somebody or something had come into collision with him; but who or what this had been he did not offer to confide in Selwyn; and the older man, dreading to disturb the existing accord between them, forbore to question him or invite, even indirectly, any confidence not offered.

  Selwyn had slowly become conscious of this change in Gerald. In the boy’s manner toward others there seemed to be hints of that seriousness which maturity or the first pressure of responsibility brings, even to the more thoughtless. Plainly enough some experience, not wholly agreeable, was teaching him the elements of consideration for others; he was less impulsive, more tolerant; yet, at times, Selwyn and Eileen also noticed that he became very restless toward the end of his visits at Silverside; as though something in the city awaited him — some duty, or responsibility not entirely pleasant.

  There was, too, something of soberness, amounting, at moments, to discontented listlessness — not solitary brooding; for at such moments he stuck to Selwyn, following him about and remaining rather close to him, as though the elder man’s mere presence was a comfort — even a protection.

  At such intervals Selwyn longed to invite the boy’s confidence, knowing that he had some phase of life to face for which his experience was evidently inadequate. But Gerald gave no sign of invitation; and Selwyn dared not speak lest he undo what time and his forbearance were slowly repairing.

  So their relations remained during the early summer; and everybody supposed that Gerald’s two weeks’ vacation would be spent there at Silverside. Apparently the boy himself thought so, too, for he made some plans ahead, and Austin sent down a very handsome new motor-boat for him.

  Then, at the last minute, a telegram arrived, saying that he had sailed for Newport on Neergard’s big yacht! And for two weeks no word was received from him at Silverside.

  Late in August, however, he wrote a rather colourless letter to Selwyn, saying that he was tired and would be down for the week-end.

  He came, thinner than usual, with the city pallor showing through traces of the sea tan. And it appeared that he was really tired; for he seemed inclined to lounge on the veranda, satisfied as long as Selwyn remained in sight. But, when Selwyn moved, he got up and followed.

  So subdued, so listless, so gentle in manner and speech had he become that somebody, in his temporary absence, wondered whether the boy were perfectly well — which voiced the general doubt hitherto unexpressed.

  But Austin laughed and said that the boy was merely finding himself; and everybody acquiesced, much relieved at the explanation, though to Selwyn the explanation was not
at all satisfactory.

  There was trouble somewhere, stress of doubt, pressure of apprehension, the gravity of immaturity half realising its own inexperience. And one day in September he wrote Gerald, asking him to bring Edgerton Lawn and come down to Silverside for the purpose of witnessing some experiments with the new smokeless explosive, Chaosite.

  Young Lawn came by the first train; Gerald wired that he would arrive the following morning.

  He did arrive, unusually pallid, almost haggard; and Selwyn, who met him at the station and drove him over from Wyossett, ventured at last to give the boy a chance.

  But Gerald remained utterly unresponsive — stolidly so — and the other instantly relinquished the hope of any confidence at that time — shifting the conversation at once to the object and reason of Gerald’s coming, and gaily expressing his belief that the time was very near at hand when Chaosite would figure heavily in the world’s list of commercially valuable explosives.

  It was early in August that Selwyn had come to the conclusion that his Chaosite was likely to prove a commercial success. And now, in September, his experiments had advanced so far that he had ventured to invite Austin, Gerald, Lansing, and Edgerton Lawn, of the Lawn Nitro-Powder Company, to witness a few tests at his cottage laboratory on Storm Head; but at the same time he informed them with characteristic modesty that he was not yet prepared to guarantee the explosive.

  About noon his guests arrived before the cottage in a solemn file, halted, and did not appear overanxious to enter the laboratory on Storm Head. Also they carefully cast away their cigars when they did enter, and seated themselves in a nervous circle in the largest room of the cottage. Here their eyes instantly became glued to a great bowl which was piled high with small rose-tinted cubes of some substance which resembled symmetrical and translucent crystals of pink quartz. That was Chaosite enough to blow the entire cliff into smithereens; and they were aware of it, and they eyed it with respect.