Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Yes, I do,” he said sincerely; “and I scarcely understand why Mr. Cardross has called me into consultation if this is the way he can do things.”

  “That is generous of you. Father will be very proud and happy when I tell him.”

  They were leaning over the rail of a stone bridge together; the clear stream below wound through thickets of mangrove, bamboo, and flowering vines all a-flutter with butterflies; a school of fish stemmed the current with winnowing fins; myriads of brown and gold dragon-flies darted overhead.

  “It’s fairyland — the only proper setting for you after all,” he said.

  Resting one elbow on the stone parapet, her cheek in the hollow of her hand, she watched the smile brightening in his face, but responded only faintly to it.

  “Some day,” she said, “when we have blown the froth and sparkle from our scarcely tasted cup of acquaintance, you will talk to me of serious things sometimes — will you not?”

  “Why — yes,” he said, surprised.

  “I mean — as you would to a man. You will find me capable of understanding you. You once said to me, in a boat, that no two normal people of opposite sex can meet without experiencing more or less wholesome interest in one another. Didn’t you say that? Very well, then; I now admit my normal interest in you — untinged by sentiment. Don’t disappoint me.”

  He said whimsically: “I’m not intellectual; I don’t know very much about anything except my profession.”

  “Then talk to me about it. Goodness! Don’t I deserve it? Is a girl to violate precept and instinct on an ill-considered impulse only to find the man in the case was not worth it? And how do you know what else I violated — merely to be kind. I must have been mad to do it!”

  He flushed up so vividly that she winced, then added quickly: “I didn’t mean that, Mr. Hamil; I knew you were worth it when I did it.”

  “The worst of it is that I am not,” he said. “I’m like everybody who has been through college and chooses a profession for love of it. I do know something about that profession; outside of it, the least I can say for myself is that I care about everything that goes on in this very jolly world. Curiosity has led me about by the nose. The result is a series of acquired smatterings.”

  She regarded him intently with that clear gaze he found so refreshing — a direct, fearless scrutiny which straightened her eyebrows to a fascinating level and always made him think of a pagan marble, with delicately chiselled, upcurled lips, and white brow youthfully grave.

  “Did you study abroad?”

  “Yes — not long enough.”

  She seemed rather astonished at this. Amused, he rested both elbows on the parapet, looking at her from between the strong, lean hands that framed his face.

  “It was droll — the way I managed to scurry like a jack-rabbit through school and college on nothing a year. I was obliged to hurry post-graduate courses and Europe and such agreeable things. Otherwise I would probably be more interesting to you—”

  “You are sufficiently interesting,” she said, flushing up at his wilful misinterpretation.

  And, as he laughed easily:

  “The horrid thing about it is that you are interesting and you know it. All I asked of you was to be seriously interesting to me — occasionally; and instead you are rude—”

  “Rude!”

  “Yes, you are! — pretending that I was disappointed in you because you hadn’t dawdled around Europe for years in the wake of an education. You are, apparently, just about the average sort of man one meets — yet I kicked over several conventions for the sake of exchanging a few premature words with you, knowing all the while I was to meet you later. It certainly was not for your beaux yeux; I am not sentimental!” she added fiercely. “And it was not because you are a celebrity — you are not one yet, you know. Something in you certainly appealed to something reckless in me; yet I did not really feel very sinful when I let you speak to me; and, even in the boat, I admit frankly that I enjoyed every word that we spoke — though I didn’t appear to, did I?”

  “No, you didn’t,” he said.

  She smiled, watching him, chin on hand.

  “I wonder how you’ll like this place,” she mused. “It’s gay — in a way. There are things to do every moment if you let people rob you of your time — dances, carnivals, races, gambling, suppers. There’s the Fortnightly Club, and various charities too, and dinners and teas and all sorts of things to do outdoors on land and on water. Are you fond of shooting?”

  “Very. I can do that pretty well.”

  “So can I. We’ll go with my father and Gray. Gray is my brother; you’ll meet him at luncheon. What time is it?”

  He looked at his watch. “Eleven — a little after.”

  “We’re missing the bathing. Everybody splashes about the pool or the ocean at this hour. Then everybody sits on the veranda of The Breakers and drinks things and gossips until luncheon. Rather intellectual, isn’t it?”

  “Sufficiently,” he replied lazily.

  She leaned over the parapet, standing on the tips of her white shoes and looked down at the school of fish. Presently she pointed to a snake swimming against the current.

  “A moccasin?” he asked.

  “No, only a water snake. They call everything moccasins down here, but real moccasins are not very common.”

  “And rattlesnakes?”

  “Scarcer still. You hear stories, but—” She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course when we are quail shooting it’s well to look where you step, but there are more snakes in the latitude of Saint Augustine than there are here. When father and I are shooting we never think anything about them. I’m more afraid of those horrid wood-ticks. Listen; shall we go camping?”

  “But I have work on hand,” he said dejectedly.

  “That is part of your work. Father said so. Anyway I know he means to camp with you somewhere in the hammock, and if Gray goes I go too.”

  “Calypso,” he said, “do you know what I’ve been hearing about you? I’ve heard that you are the most assiduously run-after girl at Palm Beach. And if you are, what on earth will the legions of the adoring say when you take to the jungle?”

  “Who said that about me?” she asked, smiling adorably.

  “Is it true?”

  “I am — liked. Who said it?”

  “You don’t mean to say,” he continued perversely, “that I have monopolised the reigning beauty of Palm Beach for an entire morning.”

  “Yes, you have and it is high time you understood it. Who said this to you?”

  “Well — I gathered the fact—”

  “Who?”

  “My aunt — Miss Palliser.”

  “Do you know,” said Shiela Cardross slowly, “that Miss Palliser has been exceedingly nice to me? But her friend, Miss Suydam, is not very civil.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” he said.

  “I could tell you that it mattered nothing,” she said, looking straight at him; “and that would be an untruth. I know that many people disregard such things — many are indifferent to the opinion of others, or say they are. I never have been; I want everybody to like me — even people I have not the slightest interest in — people I do not even know — I want them all to like me. For I must tell you, Mr. Hamil, that when anybody dislikes me, and I know it, I am just as unhappy about it as though I cared for them.”

  “It’s absurd for anybody not to like you!” he said.

  “Well, do you know it really is absurd — if they only knew how willing I am to like everybody.... I was inclined to like Miss Suydam.”

  Hamil remained silent.

  The girl added: “One does not absolutely disregard the displeasure of such people.”

  “They didn’t some years ago when there were no shops on Fifth Avenue and gentlemen wore side-whiskers,” said Hamil, smiling.

  Shiela Cardross shrugged. “I’m sorry; I was inclined to like her. She misses more than I do because we are a jolly and amusing family. It’s curious h
ow much energy is wasted disliking people. Who is Miss Suydam?”

  “She’s a sort of a relative. I have always known her. I’m sorry she was rude. She is sometimes.”

  They said no more about her or about his aunt; and presently they moved on again, luncheon being imminent.

  “You will like my sister, Mrs. Carrick,” said Shiela tranquilly. “You know her husband, Acton, don’t you? He’s at Miami fishing.”

  “Oh, yes; I’ve met him at the club. He’s very agreeable.”

  “He is jolly. And Jessie — Mrs. Carrick — is the best fun in the world. And you are sure to like my little sister Cecile; every man adores her, and you’ll do it, too — yes, I mean sentimentally — until she laughs you out of it.”

  “Like yourself, Calypso, I’m not inclined to sentiment,” he said.

  “You can’t help it with Cecile. Wait! Then there are others to lunch with us — Marjorie Staines — very popular with men, and Stephanie Anan — you studied with her uncle, Winslow Anan, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, indeed!” he exclaimed warmly, “but how did you—”

  “Oh, I knew it; I know lots about you, you see.... Then there is Phil Gatewood — a perfectly splendid fellow, and Alex Anan — a dear boy, ready to adore any girl who looks sideways at him.... I don’t remember who else is to lunch with us, except my brother Gray. Look, Mr. Hamil! They’ve actually sat down to luncheon without waiting for us! What horrid incivility! Could your watch have been wrong? — or have we been too deeply absorbed?”

  “I can speak for one of us,” he said, as they came out upon the lawn in full view of the table which was spread under the most beautiful live-oaks he had ever seen.

  Everybody was very friendly. Gray Cardross, a nice-looking boy who wore spectacles, collected butterflies, and did not look like a “speed-mad cub,” took Hamil to the house, whither Shiela had already retired for an ante-prandial toilet; but there is no dust in that part of the world, and his preparations were quickly made.

  “Awfully glad you came,” repeated young Cardross with all the excessive cordiality of the young and unspoiled. “Father has been checking off the days on the calendar since your letter saying you were coming by way of Nassau. The Governor is dying to begin operations on that jungle yonder. When we camp I’m going — and probably Shiela is — she began clamoring to go two weeks ago. We all had an idea that you were a rather feeble old gentleman — like Mr. Anan — until Shiela brought us the picture they published of you in the paper two weeks ago; and she said immediately that if you were young enough to camp she was old enough to go too. She’s a good shot, Mr. Hamil, and she won’t interfere with your professional duties—”

  “I should think not!” said Hamil cordially; “but — as for my camping — there’s really almost nothing left for me to do except to familiarise myself with the character of your wilderness. Your father tells me he has the surveys and contour maps all ready. As a matter of fact I really could begin the office work at once—”

  “For Heaven’s sake don’t do that! and don’t say it!” exclaimed the young fellow in dismay. “Father and Shiela and I are counting on this trip. There’s a butterfly or two I want to get at Ruffle Lake. Don’t you think it extremely necessary that you go over the entire territory? — become thoroughly saturated with the atmosphere and—”

  “Malaria?” suggested Hamil, laughing. “Of course, seriously, it will be simply fine. And perhaps it is the best thing to do for a while. Please don’t mistake me; I want to do it; I — I’ve never before had a vacation like this. It’s like a trip into paradise from the sordid horror of Broadway. Only,” he added slowly as they left the house and started toward the luncheon party under the live-oaks, “I should like to have your father know that I am ready to give him every moment of my time.”

  “That’s what he wants — and so do I,” said young Cardross.... “Hello! Here’s Shiela back before us! I’d like to sit near enough to talk to you, but Shiela is between us. I’ll tell you after luncheon what we propose to do on this trip.”

  A white servant seated Hamil on Mrs. Cardross’s right; and for a while that languid but friendly lady drawled amiable trivialities to him, propounding the tritest questions with an air of pleased profundity, replying to his observations with harmlessly complacent platitudes — a good woman, every inch of her — one who had never known an unkindly act or word in the circle of her own family — one who had always been accustomed to honor, deference, and affection — of whom nothing more had ever been demanded than the affections of a good wife and a good mother.

  Being very, very stout, and elaborately upholstered, a shady hammock couch suited her best; and as she was eternally dieting and was too stout to sit comfortably, she never remained very long at table.

  Gray escorted her houseward in the midst of the festivities. She nodded a gracious apology to all, entered her wheel-chair, and was rolled heavily away for her daily siesta.

  Everybody appeared to be friendly to him, even cordial. Mrs. Acton Carrick talked to him in her pretty, decisive, animated manner, a feminine reflection of her father’s characteristic energy and frankness.

  Her younger sister, Cecile, possessed a drawl like her mother’s. Petite, distractingly pretty, Hamil recognised immediately her attraction — experienced it, amused himself by yielding to it as he exchanged conventionally preliminary observations with her across the table.

  Men, on first acquaintance, were usually very easily captivated, for she had not only all the general attraction of being young, feminine, and unusually ornamental, but she also possessed numberless individualities like a rapid fire of incarnations, which since she was sixteen had kept many a young man, good and true, madly guessing which was the real Cecile. And yet all the various and assorted Ceciles seemed equally desirable, susceptible, and eternally on the verge of being rounded up and captured; that was the worst of it; and no young man she had ever known had wholly relinquished hope. For even in the graceful act of side-stepping the smitten, the girl’s eyes and lips seemed unconsciously to unite in a gay little unspoken promise— “This serial story is to be continued in our next — perhaps.”

  As for the other people at the table Hamil began to distinguish one from another by degrees; the fair-haired Anans, sister and brother, who spoke of their celebrated uncle, Winslow Anan, and his predictions concerning Hamil as his legitimate successor; Marjorie Staines, willowy, active, fresh as a stem of white jasmine, and inconsequent as a very restless bird; Philip Gatewood, grave, thin, prematurely saddened by the responsibility of a vast inheritance, consumed by a desire for an artistic career, looking at the world with his owlish eyes through the prismatic colors of a set palette.

  There were others there whom as yet he had been unable to differentiate; smiling, well-mannered, affable people who chattered with more or less intimacy among themselves as though accustomed to meeting one another year after year in this winter rendezvous. And everywhere he felt the easy, informal friendliness and goodwill of these young people.

  “Are you being amused?” asked Shiela beside him. “My father’s orders, you know,” she added demurely.

  They stood up as Mrs. Carrick rose and left the table followed by the others; and he looked at Shiela expecting her to imitate her sister’s example. As she did not, he waited beside her, his cigarette unlighted.

  Presently she bent over the table, extended her arm, and lifted a small burning lamp of silver toward him; and, thanking her, he lighted his cigarette.

  “Siesta?” she asked.

  “No; I feel fairly normal.”

  “That’s abnormal in Florida. But if you really don’t feel sleepy — if you really don’t — we’ll get the Gracilis — our fastest motor-boat — and run down to the Beach Club and get father. Shall we — just you and I?”

  “And the engineer?”

  “I’ll run the Gracilis if you will steer,” she said quietly.

  “I’ll do whichever you wish, Calypso, steer or run things.”

>   She looked up with that quick smile which seemed to transfigure her into something a little more than mortal.

  “Why in the world have I ever been afraid of you?” she said. “Will you come? I think our galley is in commission.... Once I told you that Calypso was a land-nymph. But — time changes us all, you know — and as nobody reads the classics any longer nobody will perceive the anachronism.”

  “Except ourselves.”

  “Except ourselves, Ulysses; and we’ll forgive each other.” She took a step out from the shadow of the oaks’ foliage into the white sunlight and turned, looking back at him.

  And he followed, as did his heroic namesake in the golden noon of the age of fable.

  As they came in sight of the sea he halted.

  “That’s curious!” he exclaimed; “there is the Ariani again!”

  “The yacht you came on?”

  “Yes. I wonder if there’s been an accident. She cleared for Miami last night.”

  They stood looking at the white steamer for a moment.

  “I hope everything’s all right with the Ariani” he murmured; then turned to the girl beside him.

  “By the way I have a message for you from a man on board; I forgot to deliver it.”

  “A message for me?”

  “From a very ornamental young man who desired to be particularly remembered to Shiela Cardross until he could pay his respects in person. Can you guess?”

  For a moment she looked at him with a tremor of curiosity and amusement edging her lips.

  “Louis Malcourt,” he said, smiling; and turned again to the sea.

  A sudden, still, inward fright seized her; the curious soundless crash of her own senses followed — as though all within had given way.

  She had known many, many such moments; one was upon her now, the clutching terror of it seeming to stiffen the very soul within her.

  “I hope all’s well with the Ariani” he repeated under his breath, staring at the sea.

  Miss Cardross said nothing.