Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “On the rocks beyond.”

  “Picnicking?”

  “Yes.”

  “How charming!” he said; “as though one couldn’t see enough country out of one’s windows every minute in the year. But you can’t tell where sentiment will crop up; some people don’t object to chasing ants off the dishes and fishing sticks out of the milk. I do.... It’s rather fortunate I found you alone: saves a frigid reception and cruel comments after I’m gone.... After I’m gone, Virginia.”

  He seated himself where the sunlight fell agreeably and looked off over the valley. A shrunken river ran below — a mere thread of life through its own stony skeleton — a mockery of what it once had been before the white-hided things on two legs had cut the forests from the hills and killed its cool mossy sources in their channels. The crushers of pulp and the sawyers of logs had done their dirty work thoroughly; their acids and their sawdust poisoned and choked; their devastation turned the tree-clothed hill flanks to arid lumps of sand and rock.

  He said aloud, “to think of these trees being turned into newspapers!”

  He looked up at her whimsically.

  “The least I can do is to help grow them again. As a phosphate I might amount to something — if I’m carefully spaded in.” And in a lower voice just escaping mockery: “How are you, Virginia?”

  “I am perfectly well.”

  “Are you well enough to sit down and talk to me for half an hour?”

  She made no reply.

  “Don’t be dignified; there is nothing more inartistic, except a woman who is trying to be brave on an inadequate income.”

  She did not move or look at him.

  “Virginia — dear?”

  “What?”

  “Do you remember that day we met in the surf; and you said something insolent to me, and bent over, laying your palms flat on the water, looking at me over your shoulder?”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew what you were doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is part of the consequences. That’s what life is, nothing but a game of consequences. I knew what I was doing; you admit you were responsible for yourself; and nothing but consequences have resulted ever since. Sit down and be reasonable and friendly; won’t you?”

  “I cannot stay here.”

  “Try,” he said, smiling, and made room for her on the sun-crisped moss. A little later she seated herself with an absent-minded air and gazed out across the valley. A leaf or two, prematurely yellow, drifted from the birches.

  “It reminds me,” he said thoughtfully, “of that exquisite poem on Autumn:

  “‘The autumn leaves are falling, They’re falling everywhere; They’re falling in the atmosphere, They’re falling in the air—’

  — and I don’t remember any more, dear.”

  “Did you wish to say anything to me besides nonsense?” she asked, flushing.

  “Did you expect anything else from me?”

  “I had no reason to.”

  “Oh; I thought you might have been prepared for a little wickedness.”

  She turned her eyes, more green than blue, on him.

  “I was not unprepared.”

  “Nor I,” he said gaily; “don’t let’s disappoint each other. You know our theory is that the old families are decadent; and I think we ought to try to prove any theory we advance — in the interests of psychology. Don’t you?”

  “I think we have proved it.”

  He laughed, and passing his arm around her drew her head so that it rested against his face.

  “That is particularly dishonourable,” she said in an odd voice.

  “Because I’m married?”

  “Yes; and because I know it.”

  “That’s true; you didn’t know it when we were at Palm Beach. That was tamer than this. I think now we can very easily prove our theory.” And he kissed her, still laughing. But when he did it again, she turned her face against his shoulder.

  “Courage,” he said; “we ought to be able to prove this theory of ours — you and I together—”

  She was crying.

  “If you’re feeling guilty on Shiela’s account, you needn’t,” he said. “Didn’t you know she can scarcely endure me?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Well, then—”

  “No — no — no! Louis — I care too much—”

  “For yourself?”

  “N-no.”

  “For me? For Shiela? For public opinion?”

  “No.”

  “For what?”

  “I — I think it must be for — for — just for being — decent.”

  He inspected her with lively interest.

  “Hello,” he said coolly, “you’re disproving our theory!”

  She turned her face away from him, touching her eyes with her handkerchief.

  “Or,” he added ironically, “is there another man?”

  “No,” she said without resentment; and there was a certain quality in her voice new to him — a curious sweetness that he had never before perceived.

  “Tell me,” he said quietly, “have you really suffered?”

  “Suffered? Yes.”

  “You really cared for me?”

  “I do still.”

  A flicker of the old malice lighted his face.

  “But you won’t let me kiss you? Why?”

  She looked up into his eyes. “I feel as powerless with you as I was before. You could always have had your will. Once I would not have blamed you. Now it would be cowardly — because — I have forgiven myself—”

  “I won’t disturb your vows,” he said seriously.

  “Then — I think you had better go.”

  “I am going.... I only wanted to see you again.... May I ask you something, dear?”

  “Ask it,” she said.

  “Then — you are going to get over this, aren’t you?”

  “Not as long as you live, Louis.”

  “Oh!... And suppose I were not living?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’d recover, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, you’d never have any other temptation—”

  She turned scarlet.

  “That is wicked!”

  “It certainly is,” he said with great gravity; “and I must come to the scarcely flattering conclusion that there is in me a source of hideous depravity, the unseen emanations of which, like those of the classic upas-tree, are purest poison to a woman morally constituted as you are.”

  She looked up as he laughed; but there was no mirth in her bewildered eyes.

  “There is something in you, Louis, which is fatal to the better side of me.”

  “The other Virginia couldn’t endure me, I know.”

  “My other self learned to love your better self.”

  “I have none—”

  “I have seen it revealed in—”

  “Oh, yes,” he laughed, “revealed in what you used to call one of my infernal flashes of chivalry.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, “in that.”

  He sat very still there in the afternoon sunshine, pondering; and sometimes his gaze searched the valley depths below, lost among the tree-tops; sometimes he studied the far horizon where the little blue hills stood up against the sky like little blue waves at sea. His hat was off; the cliff breeze played with his dark curly hair, lifting it at the temples, stirring the one obstinate strand that never lay quite flat on the crown of his head.

  Twice she looked around as though to interrupt his preoccupation, but he neither responded nor even seemed to be aware of her; and she sighed imperceptibly and followed his errant eyes with her own.

  At last:

  “Is there no way out of it for you, Louis? I am not thinking of myself,” she added simply.

  He turned fully around.

  “If there was a way out I’d take it and marry you.”

  “I did not ask for that; I was th
inking of you.”

  He was silent.

  “Besides,” she said, “I know that you do not love me.”

  “That is true only because I will not. I could.”

  She looked at him.

  “But,” he said calmly, “I mustn’t; because there is no way out for me — there’s no way out of anything for me — while I live — down here.”

  “Down — where?”

  “On this exotic planet called the earth, dear child,” he said with mocking gravity. “I’m a sort of moon-calf — a seed blown clear from Saturn’s surface, which fell here and sprouted into the thing you call Louis Malcourt.” And, his perverse gaiety in full possession of him again, he laughed, and his mirth was tinctured with the bitter-sweet of that humorous malice which jeered unkindly only at himself.

  “All to the bad, Virginia — all to the bow-wows — judging me from your narrow, earthly standard and the laws of your local divinity. That’s why I want to see the real One and ask Him how bad I really am. They’d tell me down here that I’ll never see Him. Zut! I’ll take that chance — not such a long shot either. Why, if I am no good, the risk is all the better; He is because of such as I! No need for Him where all the ba-bas are white as the driven snow, and all the little white doves keep their feathers clean and coo-coo hymns from dawn to sunset.... By the way, I never gave you anything, did I? — a Chinese god, for example?”

  She shook her head, bewildered at his inconsequences.

  “No, I never did. You’re not entitled to a gift of a Chinese god from me. But I’ve given eighteen of them to a number of — ah — friends. I had nineteen, but never had the — right to present that nineteenth god.”

  “What do you mean, Louis?”

  “Oh, those gilded idols are the deities of secrecy. Their commandment is, ‘Thou shalt not be found out.’ So I distributed them among those who worship them — that is, I have so directed my executors.... By the way, I made a new will.”

  He looked at her cheerfully, evidently very much pleased with himself.

  “And what do you think I’ve left to you?”

  “Louis, I don’t—”

  “Why, the bridle, saddle, crop, and spurs I wore that day when we rode to the ocean! Don’t you remember the day that you noticed me listening and asked me what I heard?”

  “Y-yes—”

  “And I told you I was listening to my father?”

  Again that same chilly tremor passed over her as it had then.

  The sun, over the Adirondack foot-hills, hung above bands of smouldering cloud. Presently it dipped into them, hanging triple-ringed, like Saturn on fire.

  “It’s time for you to go,” he said in an altered voice; and she turned to find him standing and ready to aid her.

  A little pale with the realisation that the end had come so soon, she rose and walked slowly back to where his horse stood munching leaves.

  “Well, Virginia — good-bye, little girl. You’ll be all right before long.”

  There was no humour left in his voice now; no mocking in his dark gaze.

  She raised her eyes to his in vague distress.

  “Where are the others?” he asked. “Oh, up on those rocks? Yes, I see the smoke of their fire.... Say good-bye to them for me — not now — some day.”

  She did not understand him; he hesitated, smiled, and took her in his arms.

  “Good-bye, dear,” he said.

  “Good-bye.”

  They kissed.

  After she was half-way to the top of the rocks he mounted his horse. She did not look back.

  “She’s a good little sport,” he said, smiling; and, gathering bridle, turned back into the forest. This time he neither sang nor whistled as he rode through the red splendour of the western sun. But he was very busy listening.

  There was plenty to hear, too; wood-thrushes were melodious in the late afternoon light; infant crows cawed from high nests unseen in the leafy tree-tops; the stream’s thin, silvery song threaded the forest quiet, accompanying him as he rode home.

  Home? Yes — if this silent house where he dismounted could be called that. The place was very still. Evidently the servants had taken advantage of their master’s and mistress’s absence to wander out into the woods. Some of the stablemen had the dogs out, too; there was nobody in sight to take his horse, so he led the animal to the stables and found there a lad to relieve him.

  Then he retraced his steps to the house and entered the deserted garden where pearl-tinted spikes of iris perfumed the air and great masses of peonies nodded along borders banked deep under the long wall. A few butterflies still flitted in the golden radiance, but already that solemn harbinger of sunset, the garden toad, had emerged from leafy obscurity into the gravel path, and hopped heavily forward as Malcourt passed by.

  The house — nothing can be as silent as an empty house — echoed his spurred tread from porch to stairway. He went up to the first landing, not knowing why, then roamed aimlessly through, wandering from room to room, idly, looking on familiar things as though they were strange — strange, but uninteresting.

  Upstairs and down, in, around, and about he drifted, quiet as a cat, avoiding only his wife’s bedroom. He had never entered it since their marriage; he did not care to do so now, though the door stood wide. And, indifferent, he turned without even a glance, and traversing the hall, descended the stairs to the library.

  For a while he sat there, legs crossed, drumming thoughtfully on his boot with his riding-crop; and after a while he dragged the chair forward and picked up a pen.

  “Why not?” he said aloud; “it will save railroad fare — and she’ll need it all.”

  So, to his lawyer in New York he wrote:

  “I won’t come to town after all. You have my letter and you know what I want done. Nobody is likely to dispute the matter, and it won’t require a will to make my wife carry out the essence of the thing.”

  And signed his name.

  When he had sealed and directed the letter he could find no stamp; so he left it on the table.

  “That’s the usual way they find such letters,” he said, smiling to himself as the thought struck him. “It certainly is hard to be original.... But then I’m not ambitious.”

  He found another sheet of paper and wrote to Hamil:

  “All the same you are wrong; I have always been your friend. My father comes first, as always; you second. There is no third.”

  This note, signed, sealed, and addressed, he left with the other.

  “Certainly I am not original in the least,” he said, beginning another note.

  “DOLLY DEAR:

  “You have made good. Continuez, chère énfant — and if you don’t know what that means your French lessons are in vain. Now the usual few words: don’t let any man who is not married to you lay the weight of his little finger on you! Don’t ignore convention unless there is a good reason — and then don’t! When you’re tired of behaving yourself go to sleep; and if you can’t sleep, sleep some more; and then some. Men are exactly like women until they differ from them; there is no real mystery about either outside of popular novels.

  “I am very, very glad that I have known you, Dolly. Don’t tint yourself, except for the footlights. There are other things, but I can’t think of them; and so,

  “LOUIS MALCOURT”

  This letter he sealed and laid with the others; it was the last. There was nothing more to do, except to open the table drawer and drop something into the side pocket of his coat.

  Malcourt had no favourite spots in the woods and fields around him; one trail resembled another; he cared as much for one patch of woods, one wild meadow, one tumbling brook as he did for the next — which was not very much.

  But there was one place where the sun-bronzed moss was deep and level; where, on the edge of a leafy ravine, the last rays of the sinking sun always lingered after all else lay in shadow.

  Here he sat down, thoughtfully; and for a little while remained in his listening attitude.
Then, smiling, he lay back, pillowing his head on his left arm; and drew something from the side pocket of his coat.

  The world had grown silent; across the ravine a deer among the trees watched him, motionless.

  Suddenly the deer leaped in an ecstasy of terror and went crashing away into obscurity. But Malcourt lay very, very still.

  His hat was off; the cliff breeze played with his dark curly hair, lifting it at the temples, stirring the one obstinate strand that never lay quite flat on the crown of his head.

  A moment later the sun set.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  HAMIL IS SILENT

  Late in the autumn his aunt wrote Hamil from Sapphire Springs:

  “There seems to be a favourable change in Shiela. Her aversion to people is certainly modified. Yesterday on my way to the hot springs I met her with her trained nurse, Miss Lester, face to face, and of course meant to pass on as usual, apparently without seeing her; but to my surprise she turned and spoke my name very quietly; and I said, as though we had parted the day before— ‘I hope you are better’; and she said, ‘I think I am’ — very slowly and precisely like a person who strives to speak correctly in a foreign tongue. Garry, dear, it was too pathetic; she is so changed — beautiful, even more beautiful than before; but the last childish softness has fled from the delicate and almost undecided features you remember, and her face has settled into a nobler mould. Do you recollect in the Munich Museum an antique marble, by some unknown Greek sculptor, called ‘Head of a Young Amazon’? You must recall it because you have spoken to me of its noble and almost immortal loveliness. Dear, it resembles Shiela as she is now — with that mysterious and almost imperceptible hint of sorrow in the tenderly youthful dignity of the features.

  “We exchanged only the words I have written you; she passed her way leaning on Miss Lester’s arm; I went for a mud bath as a precaution to our inherited enemy. If rheumatism gets me at last it will not be the fault of your aged and timorous aunt.

  “So that was all, yesterday. But to-day as I was standing on the leafy path above the bath-houses, listening to the chattering of some excited birds recently arrived from the North in the first batch of migrants, Miss Lester came up to me and said that Shiela would like to see me, and that the doctors said there was no harm in her talking to anybody if she desired to do so.