Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Wh — what?” she asked faintly.

  “Intelligent interest in me.”

  “Do you mean,” she said slowly, “that you think I underestimate you?”

  “Not as I am. I don’t amount to much; but I might if you cared.”

  “Cared for you?”

  “No, confound it! Cared for what I could be.”

  “I — I don’t think I understand. What could you be?”

  “A man, for one thing. I’m a thing that dances. A fashionable portrait painter for another. The combination is horrible.”

  “You are a successful painter.”

  “Am I? Geraldine, in all the small talk you and I have indulged in since my return from abroad, have you ever asked me one sincere, intelligent, affectionate question about my work?”

  “I — yes — but I don’t know anything about — —”

  He laughed, and it hurt her.

  “Don’t you understand,” she said, “that ordinary people are very shy about talking art to a professional — —”

  “I don’t want you to talk art. Any little thing with blue eyes and blond curls can do it. I wanted you to see what I do, say what you think, like it or damn it — only do something about it! You’ve never been to my studio except to stand with the perfumed crowd and talk commonplaces in front of a picture.”

  “I can’t go alone.”

  “Can’t you?” he asked, looking closely at her in the dusk, so close that she could see every mocking feature.

  “Yes,” she said in a low, surprised voice, “I could go alone — anywhere — with you.... I didn’t realise it before, Duane.”

  “You never tried. You once mistook an impulse of genuine passion for the sort of thing I’ve done since. You made a terrific fuss about being kissed when I saw, as soon as I saw you, that I wanted to win you, if you’d let me. Since then you’ve chosen the key-note of our relations, not I, and you don’t like my interpretation of my part.”

  For a while she sat silent, preoccupied with this totally new revelation of a man about whom she supposed she had long ago made up her mind.

  “I’m glad we’ve had this talk,” she said at last.

  “I am, too. I haven’t asked you to fall in love with me; I haven’t asked for your confidence. I’ve asked you to take an intelligent, affectionate interest in what I might become, and perhaps you and I won’t be so lonely if you do.”

  He struck a match in the darkness and lighted a cigarette. Close inshore Scott Seagrave’s electric torch flashed. They heard the velvety scraping of the canoe, the rattle and thump as he flung it, bottom upward, on the sandy point.

  “Hello, you people! Where are you?” — sweeping the wood’s edge with his flash-light— “oh, there you are. Isn’t this glorious? Did you ever see such a sight as those big fellows jumping?”

  “Meanwhile,” said his sister, rising, “our guests are doubtless yelling with hunger. What time is it, Duane? Half-past eight? Please hurry, Scott; we’ve got to get back and dress in five minutes!”

  “I can do it easily,” announced her brother, going ahead to light the path. And all the way home he discussed aloud upon the stripping, hatching, breeding, care, and diseases of trout, never looking back, and quite confident that they were listening attentively to his woodland lecture.

  “Duane,” she said, lowering her voice, “do you think all our misunderstandings are ended?”

  “Certainly,” he replied gaily. “Don’t you?”

  “But how am I going to make everybody think you are not frivolous?”

  “I am frivolous. There’s lots of froth to me — on top. You know that sort of foam you see on grass-stems in the fields. Hidden away inside is a very clever and busy little creature. He uses the froth to protect himself.”

  “Are you going to froth?”

  “Yes — until — —”

  “Until what?”

  “You — —”

  “Go on.”

  “Shall I say it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, unless you and I find each other intellectually satisfactory.”

  “You said only a man — in love with a woman — could find her interesting in that way.”

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “Nothing.... Only I’m afraid you’ll have to froth, then,” she said, laughing. “I haven’t any intention of falling in love with you, Duane, and you’ll find me stupid if I don’t. Do you know that what you intimate is very horrid?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes, it is. Besides, it’s a sort of threat — —”

  “A threat?”

  “Certainly. You threaten to — you know perfectly well what you threaten to do unless I immediately consider the possibility of our — caring for each other — sentimentally.”

  “But what do you care if you don’t care?”

  “I — don’t. All the same it’s horrid and — and unfair. Suppose I was frothy and behaved — —”

  “Misbehaved?”

  “Yes. Just because you wouldn’t agree to take a sentimental interest in me?”

  “I would agree! I’ll agree now!”

  “Suppose you wouldn’t?”

  “I can’t imagine — —”

  “Oh, Duane, be honest! And I’ll tell you flatly — if you do misbehave. Just because I don’t particularly desire to rush into your arms — —”

  “But I haven’t threatened to.”

  Unconsciously she laid her hand on his arm again, slipping it a little way under.

  “You’re just as you were years ago — just the dearest of playmates. We’re not too old to play, are we?”

  “I can’t with you; it’s too dangerous.”

  “What nonsense! Yes, you can. You like me for my intelligence in spite of what you say about men and women — —”

  “I wouldn’t care for your intelligence if I were not in — —”

  “Duane, stop, please!”

  “In danger,” he continued blandly, “of proving my proposition.”

  “You are insufferable. I am as intelligent as you.”

  “I know it, but it wouldn’t attract me unless — —”

  “It ought to,” she said hastily. “And, Duane, I’m going to make you take me into account. I’m going to exercise a man’s privilege with you by — by saying frankly — several things — —”

  “What things?”

  The amused mockery in his voice gave her courage.

  “For one thing, I’m going to tell you that people — gossip — that there are — are — —”

  “Rumours?” he asked in pretended anxiety.

  “Yes.... About you and — of course they are silly and contemptible; but what’s the use of being attentive enough to a woman — careless enough to give colour to them?”

  After an interval he said: “Perhaps you’ll tell me who beside myself these rumours concern?”

  “You know, don’t you?”

  “There might be several,” he said coolly. “Who is it?”

  For a moment a tiny flash of anger made her cheeks hot. Then she said:

  “You know perfectly well it’s Rosalie. I think we have become good enough comrades for me to use a man’s privilege — —”

  “Men wouldn’t permit themselves that sort of privilege,” he said, laughing.

  “Aren’t men frank with their friends?” she demanded hotly.

  “About as frank as women.”

  “I thought—” She hesitated, tingling with the old desire to hurt him, flick him in the raw, make him wince in his exasperating complacency. Then, “I’ve said it anyhow. I’m trying to show an interest in you — as you asked me to do — —”

  He turned in the darkness, caught her hand:

  “You dear little thing,” he whispered, laughing.

  CHAPTER VI. ADRIFT

  During the week the guests at Roya-Neh were left very much to their own devices. Nobody was asked to do anything; there were several good enough horses at their dis
posal, two motor cars, a power-boat, canoes, rods, and tennis courts and golf links. The chances are they wanted sea-bathing. Inland guests usually do.

  Scott Seagrave, however, concerned himself little about his guests. All day long he moused about his new estate, field-glasses dangling, cap on the back of his head, pockets bulging with untidy odds and ends until the increasing carelessness of his attire and manners moved Kathleen Severn to protest.

  “I don’t know what is the matter with you, Scott,” she said. “You were always such a fastidious boy — even dandified. Doesn’t anybody ever cut your hair? Doesn’t somebody keep your clothes in order?”

  “Yes, but I tear ’em again,” he replied, carefully examining a small dark-red newt which he held in the palm of one hand. “I say, Kathleen, look at this little creature. I was messing about under the ledges along Hurryon Brook, and found this amphibious gentleman occupying the ground-floor apartment of a flat stone.”

  Kathleen craned her dainty neck over the shoulder of his ragged shooting coat.

  “He’s red enough to be poisonous, isn’t he? Oh, do be careful!”

  “It’s only a young newt. Take him in your hand; he’s cool and clammy and rather agreeable.”

  “Scott, I won’t touch him!”

  “Yes, you will!” He caught her by the arm; “I’m going to teach you not to be afraid of things outdoors. This lizard-like thing is perfectly harmless. Hold out your hand!”

  “Oh, Scott, don’t make me — —”

  “Yes, I will. I thought you and I were going to be in thorough accord and sympathy and everything else.”

  “Yes, but you mustn’t bully me.”

  “I’m not. I merely want you to get over your absurd fear of live things, so that you and I can really enjoy ourselves. You said you would, Kathleen.”

  “Can’t we be in perfect sympathy and roam about and — and everything, unless I touch such things?”

  He said reproachfully, balancing the little creature on his palm: “The fun is in being perfectly confident and fearless. You have no idea how I like all these things. You said you were going to like ‘em, too.”

  “I do — rather.”

  “Then take this one and pet it.”

  She glanced at the boy beside her, realising how completely their former relations were changing.

  Long ago she had given all her heart to the Seagrave children — all the unspent passion in her had become an unswerving devotion to them. And now, a woman still young, the devotion remained, but time was modifying it in a manner sometimes disquieting. She tried not to remember that now, in Scott, she had a man to deal with, and tried in vain; and dealt with him weakly, and he was beginning to do with her as he pleased.

  “You do like to bully me, don’t you?” she said.

  “I only want you to like to do what I like to do.”

  She stood silent a moment, then, with a shudder, held out her hand, fingers rigid and wide apart.

  “Oh!” she protested, as he placed the small dark-red amphibian on the palm, where it crinkled up and lowered its head.

  “That’s the idea!” he said, delighted. “Here, I’ll take it now. Some day you’ll be able to handle snakes if you’ll only have patience.”

  “But I don’t want to.” She stood holding out the contaminated hand for a moment, then dropped on her knees and scrubbed it vigorously in the brook.

  “You see,” said Scott, squatting cheerfully beside her, “you and I don’t yet begin to realise the pleasure that there is in these woods and streams — hidden and waiting for us to discover it. I wouldn’t bother with any other woman, but you’ve always liked what I like, and its half the fun in having you see these things. Look here, Kathleen, I’m keeping a book of field notes.” He extracted from his stuffed pockets a small leather-covered book, fished out a stylograph, and wrote the date while she watched over his shoulder.

  “Discovered what seems to be a small dark-red newt under a stone near Hurryon Brook. Couldn’t make it bite me, so let Kathleen hold it. Query: Is it a land or water lizard, a salamander, or a newt; and what does it feed on and where does it deposit its eggs?”

  Kathleen’s violet eyes wandered to the written page opposite.

  “Did you really see an otter, Scott?”

  “Yes, I did!” he exclaimed. “Out in the Gray Water, swimming like a dog. That was yesterday afternoon. It’s a scarce creature here. I’ll tell you what, Kathleen; we’ll take our luncheon and go out and spend the day watching for it.”

  “No,” she said, drying her hands on her handkerchief, “I can’t spend every minute of the day with you. Ask some other woman.”

  “What other woman?” She was gazing out at the sunlit ripples. A little unquiet thrill leaped through her veins, but she went on carelessly:

  “Take some pretty woman out with you. There are several here — —”

  “Pretty woman,” he repeated. “Do you think that’s the only reason I want you to come?”

  “Only reason? What a silly thing to say, Scott. I am not a pretty woman to you — in that sense — —”

  “You are the prettiest I ever saw,” he said, looking at her; and again the unquiet thrill ran like lightning through her veins. But she only laughed carelessly and said:

  “Oh, of course, Geraldine and I expect our big brother to say such things.”

  “It has nothing to do with Geraldine or with brothers,” he said doggedly. She strove to laugh, caught his gaze, and, discountenanced, turned toward the stream.

  “We can cross on the stepping stones,” she suggested. And after a moment: “Are you coming?”

  “See here, Kathleen,” he said, “you’re not acting squarely with me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No, you’re not. I’m a man, and you know it.”

  “Of course you are, Scott.”

  “Then I wish you’d recognise it. What’s the use of mortifying me when I act — speak — behave as any man behaves who — who — is — fond of a — person.”

  “But I don’t mean to — to mortify you. What have I done?”

  He dug his hands into the pockets of his riding breeches, took two or three short turns along the bank, came back to where she was standing.

  “You probably don’t remember,” he said, “one night this spring when — when—” He stopped short. The vivid tint in her cheeks was his answer — a swift, disconcerting answer to an incomplete question, the remainder of which he himself had scarcely yet analysed.

  “Scott, dear,” she said steadily, in spite of her softly burning cheeks, “I will be quite honest with you if you wish. I do know what you’ve been trying to say. I am conscious that you are no longer the boy I could pet and love and caress without embarrassment to either of us. You are a man, but try to remember that I am several years older — —”

  “Does that matter!” he burst out.

  “Yes, dear, it does.... I care for you — and Geraldine — more than for anybody in the world. I understand your loyalty to me, Scott, and I — I love it. But don’t confuse it with any serious sentiment.”

  “I do care seriously.”

  “You make me very happy. Care for me very, very seriously; I want you to; I — I need it. But don’t mistake the kind of affection that we have for each other for anything deeper, will you?”

  “Don’t you want to care for me — that way?”

  “Not that way, Scott.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve told you. I am so much older — —”

  “Couldn’t you, all the same?”

  She was trembling inwardly. She leaned against a white birch-tree and passed one hand across her eyes and upward through the thick burnished hair.

  “No, I couldn’t,” she whispered.

  The boy walked to the edge of the brook. Past him hurried the sun-tipped ripples; under them, in irregular wedge formation, little ones ahead, big ones in the rear, lay a school of trout, wavering silhouettes of amber against the bottom sands
.

  One arm encircling the birch-tree, she looked after him in silence, waiting. And after a while he turned and came back to her:

  “I suppose you knew I fell in love with you that night when — when — you remember, don’t you?”

  She did not answer.

  “I don’t know how it happened,” he said: “something about you did it. I want to say that I’ve loved you ever since. It’s made me serious.... I haven’t bothered with girls since. You are the only woman who interests me. I think about you most of the time when I’m not doing something else,” he explained naïvely. “I know perfectly well I’m in love with you because I don’t dare touch you — and I’ve never thought of — of kissing you good-night as we used to before that night last spring.... You remember that we didn’t do it that night, don’t you?”

  Still no answer, and Kathleen’s delicate, blue-veined hands were clenched at her sides and her breath came irregularly.

  “That was the reason,” he said. “I don’t know how I’ve found courage to tell you. I’ve often been afraid you would laugh at me if I told you.... If it’s only our ages — you seem as young as I do....” He looked up, hopefully; but she made no response.

  The boy drew a long breath.

  “I love you, anyway,” he said. “And that’s how it is.”

  She neither spoke nor stirred.

  “I suppose,” he went on, “because I was such a beast of a boy, you can never forget it.”

  “You were the sweetest, the best—” Her voice broke; she swung about, moved away a few paces, stood still. When he halted behind her she turned.

  “Dearest,” she said tremulously, “let me give you what I can — love, as always — solicitude, companionship, deep sympathy in your pleasures, deep interest in your amusements.... Don’t ask for more; don’t think that you want more. Don’t try to change the loyalty and love you have always had for something you — neither of us understand — neither of us ought to desire — or even think of — —”

  “Why?”

  “Can’t you understand? Even if I were not too old in years, I dare not give up what I have of you and Geraldine for this new — for anything more hazardous.... Suppose it were so — that I could venture to think I cared for you that way? What might I put in peril? — Geraldine’s affection for me — perhaps her relations with you.... And the world is cynical, Scott, and you are wealthy even among very rich men, and I was your paid guardian — quite penniless — engaged to care for and instruct — —”