Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “It does, you dear, generous girl! I’m a trifle overwhelmed, that’s all my silence meant. You ought not to do this for me — —”

  “Why? Aren’t we to be as near each other as we can be until — I am ready — for something — closer?”

  “Yes.... Certainly.... I’ll arrange to work out certain things up here. As for models, if there is nothing suitable at Westgate village, you won’t mind my importing some, will you?”

  “No,” she said, becoming very serious and gravely interested, as befitted the fiancée of a painter of consequence. “You will do what is necessary, of course; because I — few girls — are accustomed in the beginning to the details of such a profession as yours; and I’m very ignorant, Duane, and I must learn how to second you — intelligently” — she blushed— “that is, if I’m to amount to anything as an artist’s wife.”

  “You dear!” he whispered.

  “No; I tell you I am totally ignorant. A studio is an awesome place to me. I merely know enough to keep out of it when you are using models. That is safest, isn’t it?”

  He said, intensely amused: “It might be safer not to give pink teas while I am working from the nude.”

  “Duane! Do you think me a perfect ninny? Anyway, you’re not always painting Venus and Ariadne and horrid Ledas, are you?”

  “Not always!” he managed to assure her; and her pretty, confused laughter mingled with his unembarrassed mirth as the motor-car swung up to carry him and his traps to the station.

  They said good-bye; her dark eyes became very tragic; her lips threatened to escape control.

  Kathleen turned away, manoeuvring Scott out of earshot, who knowing nothing of any situation between Duane and his sister, protested mildly, but forgot when Kathleen led him to an orange-underwing moth asleep on the stone coping of the terrace.

  And when the unfortunate Catocala had been safely bottled and they stood examining it in the library, Scott’s rapidly diminishing conceit found utterance:

  “I say, Kathleen, it’s all very well for me to collect these fascinating things, but any ass can do that. One can’t make a particular name for one’s self by doing what a lot of cleverer men have already done, and what a lot of idle idiots are imitating.”

  She raised her violet eyes, astonished:

  “Do you want to make a name for yourself?”

  “Yes,” he said, reddening.

  “Why not? I’m a nobody. I’m worse; I’m an amateur! You ought to hear what Duane has to say about amateurs!”

  “But, Scott, you don’t have to be anything in particular except what you are — —”

  “What am I?” he demanded.

  “Why — yourself.”

  “And what’s that?” He grew redder. “I’ll tell you, Kathleen. I’m merely a painfully wealthy young man. Don’t laugh; this is becoming deadly serious to me. By my own exertions I’ve never done one bally thing either useful or spectacular. I’m not distinguished by anything except an unfair share of wealth. I’m not eminent, let alone pre-eminent, even in that sordid class; there are richer men, plenty of them — some even who have made their own fortunes and have not been hatched out in a suffocating plethora of affluence like the larva of the Carnifex tumble-bug — —”

  “Scott!”

  “And I!” he ended savagely. “Why, I’m not even pre-eminent as far as my position in the social puddle is concerned; there are sets that wouldn’t endure me; there’s at least one club into which I couldn’t possibly wriggle; there are drawing-rooms where I wouldn’t be tolerated, because I’ve nothing on earth to recommend me or to distinguish me from Algernon FitzNoodle and Montmorency de Sansgallette except an inflated income! What have I to offer anybody worth while for entertaining me? What have I to offer you, Kathleen, in exchange for yourself?”

  He was becoming boyishly dramatic with sweeping gestures which amazed her; but she was conscious that it was all sincere and very real to him.

  “Scott, dear,” she began sweetly, uncertain how to take it all; “kindness, loyalty, and decent breeding are all that a woman cares for in a man — —”

  “You are entitled to more; you are entitled to a man of distinction, of attainment, of achievement — —”

  “Few women ask for that, Scott; few care for it; fewer still understand it — —”

  “You would. I’ve got a cheek to ask you to marry me — me! — before I wear any tag to identify me except the dollar mark — —”

  “Oh, hush, Scott! You are talking utter nonsense; don’t you know it?”

  He made a large and rather grandiose gesture:

  “Around me lies opportunity, Kathleen — every stone; every brook — —”

  The mischievous laughter of his listener checked him. She said: “I’m sorry; only it made me think of

  ‘Sermons in stones,

  Books in the running brooks,’

  and the indignant gentleman who said: ‘What damn nonsense! It’s “sermons in books, stones in the running brooks!”’ Do go on, Scott, dear, I don’t mean to be frivolous; it is fine of you to wish for fame — —”

  “It isn’t fame alone, although I wouldn’t mind it if I deserved it. It’s that I want to do just one thing that amounts to something. I wish you’d give me an idea, Kathleen, something useful in — say in entomology.”

  Together they walked back to the terrace. Duane had gone; Geraldine sat sideways on the parapet, her brown eyes fixed on the road along which her lover had departed.

  “Geraldine,” said Kathleen, who very seldom relapsed into the vernacular, “this brother of yours desires to perform some startling stunt in entomology and be awarded Carnegie medals.”

  “That’s about it,” said Scott, undaunted. “Some wise guy put it all over the Boll-weevil, and saved a few billions for the cotton growers; another gentleman full of scientific thinks studied out the San José scale; others have got in good licks at mosquitoes and house-flies. I’d like to tackle something of that sort.”

  “Rose-beetles,” said his sister briefly. In her voice was a suspicion of tears, and she kept her head turned from them.

  “Nobody could ever get rid of Rose-beetles,” said Kathleen. “But it would be exciting, wouldn’t it, Scott? Think of saving our roses and peonies and irises every year!”

  “I am thinking of it,” said Scott gravely.

  A few moments later he disappeared around the corner of the house, returning presently, pockets bulging with bottles and boxes, a field-microscope in one hand, and several volumes on Coleoptera in the other.

  “They’re gone,” he said without further explanation.

  “Who are gone?” inquired Kathleen.

  “The Rose-beetles. They deposit their eggs in the soil. The larvæ ought to be out by now. I’m going to begin this very minute, Kathleen.” And he descended the terrace steps, entered the garden, and, seating himself under a rose-tree, spread out his paraphernalia and began a delicate and cautious burrowing process in the sun-dried soil.

  “Fame is hidden under humble things,” observed Geraldine with a resolute effort at lightness. “That excellent brother of mine may yet discover it in the garden dirt.”

  “Dirt breeds roses,” said Kathleen. “Oh, look, dear, how earnest he is about it. What a boy he is, after all! So serious and intent, and so touchingly confident!”

  Geraldine nodded listlessly, considering her brother’s evolutions with his trowel and weeder where he lay flat on his stomach, absorbed in his investigations.

  “Why does he get so grubby?” she said. “All his coat-pockets are permanently out of shape. The other day I was looking through them, at his request, to find one of my own handkerchiefs which he had taken, and oh, horrors! a caterpillar, forgotten, had spun a big cocoon in one of them!”

  She shuddered, but in Kathleen’s laughter there was a tremor of tenderness born of that shy pride which arises from possession. For it was now too late, if it had not always been too late, for any criticism of this boy of hers. Perfect he
had always been, wondrous to her, as a child, for the glimpses of the man developing in him; perfect, wonderful, adorable now for the glimpses of the child which she caught so constantly through the man’s character now forming day by day under her loyal eyes. Everything masculine in him she loved or pardoned proudly — even his egotism, his slapdash self-confidence, his bullying of her, his domination, his exacting demands. But this new humility — this sudden humble doubt that he might not be worthy of her, filled her heart with delicious laughter and a delight almost childish.

  So she watched him from the parapet, chin cupped in both palms, bright hair blowing, one shoulder almost hidden under the drooping scarlet nasturtiums pendant from the carved stone urn above; a fair, sweet, youthful creature, young as her guiltless heart, sweet as her conscience, fair as the current of her stainless life.

  And beside her, seated sideways, brown eyes brooding, sat a young girl, delicately lovely, already harassed, already perplexed, already bruised and wearied by her first skirmishes with life; not yet fully understanding what threatened, what lay before — alas! what lay behind her — even to the fifth generation.

  They were to motor to Lenox after luncheon. Before that — and leaving Scott absorbed in his grubbing, and Kathleen absorbed in watching him — Geraldine wandered back into the library and took down a book — a book which had both beguiled and horrified the solitude of her self-imprisonment. It was called “Simpson on Heredity.”

  There were some very hideous illustrated pages in that book; she turned to them with a fearful fascination which had never left her since she first read them. They dealt with the transmission of certain tendencies through successive generations.

  That the volume was an old one and amusingly out of date she did not realise, as her brown eyes widened over terrifying paragraphs and the soft tendrils of her glossy hair almost bristled.

  She had asked Kathleen about it, and Kathleen had asked Dr. Bailey, who became very irritated and told Geraldine that anybody except a physician who ever read medical works was a fool. Desperation gave her courage to ask him one more question; his well-meant reply silenced her. But she had the book under her pillow. It is better to answer such questions when the young ask them.

  And over it all she pondered and pored, and used a dictionary and shuddered, frightening herself into a morbid condition until, desperately scared, she even thought of going to Duane about it; but could not find the hardihood to do it or the vocabulary necessary.

  Now Duane was gone; and the book lay there between her knees, all its technical vagueness menacing her with unknown terrors; and she felt that she could endure it alone no longer.

  She wrote him:

  “You have not been gone an hour, and already I need you. I wish to ask you about something that is troubling me; I’ve asked Kathleen and she doesn’t know; and Dr. Bailey was horrid to me, and I tried to find out from Scott whether he knew, but he wasn’t much interested. So, Duane, who else is there for me to ask except you? And I don’t exactly know whether I may speak about such matters to you, but I’m rather frightened, and densely ignorant.

  “It is this, dear; in a medical book which I read, it says that hereditary taints are transmissible; that sometimes they may skip the second generation but only to appear surely in the third. But it also says that the taint is very likely to appear in every generation.

  “Duane, is this true? It has worried me sick since I read it. Because, my darling, if it is so, is it not another reason for our not marrying?

  “Do you understand? I can and will eradicate what is threatening me, but if I marry you — you do understand, don’t you? Isn’t it all right for me to ask you whether, if we should have children, this thing would menace them? Oh, Duane — Duane! Have I any right to marry? Children come — God knows how, for nobody ever told me exactly, and I’m a fool about such things — but I summoned up courage to ask Dr. Bailey if there was any way to tell before I married whether I would have any, and he said I would if I had any notion of my duty and any pretence to self-respect. And I don’t know what he means and I’m bewildered and miserable and afraid to marry you even when I myself become perfectly well. And that is what worries me, Duane, and I have nobody in the world to ask about it except you. Could you please tell me how I might learn what I ought to know concerning these things without betraying my own vital interest in them to whomever I ask? You see, Kathleen is as innocent as I.

  “Please tell me all you can, Duane, for I am most unhappy.”

  “The house is very still and full of sunlight and cut flowers. Scott is meditating great deeds, lying flat in the dirt. Kathleen sits watching him from the parapet. And I am here in the library, with that ghastly book at my elbow, pouring out all my doubts and fears to the only man in the world — whom God bless and protect wherever he may be — Oh, Duane, Duane, how I love you!”

  She hurriedly directed and sealed the letter and placed it in the box for outgoing mail; then, unquiet and apprehensive regarding what she had ventured to write, she began a restless tour of the house, upstairs and down, wandering aimlessly through sunny corridors, opening doors for a brief survey of chambers in which only the shadow-patterns of leaves moved on sunlit walls; still rooms tenanted only by the carefully dusted furniture which seemed to stand there watching attentively for another guest.

  Duane had left his pipe in his bedroom. She was silly over it, even to the point of retiring into her room, shredding some cigarettes, filling the rather rank bowl, and trying her best to smoke it. But such devotion was beyond her physical powers; she rinsed her mouth, furious at being defeated in her pious intentions, and, making an attractive parcel of the pipe, seized the occasion to write him another letter.

  “There is in my heart,” she wrote, “no room for anything except you; no desire except for you; no hope, no interest that is not yours. You praise my beauty; you endow me with what you might wish I really possessed; and oh, I really am so humble at your feet, if you only knew it! So dazed by your goodness to me, so grateful, so happy that you have chosen me (I just jumped up to look at myself in the mirror; I am pretty, Duane, I’ve a stunning colour just now and there is a certain charm about me — even I can see it in what you call the upcurled corners of my mouth, and in my figure and hands) — and I am so happy that it is true — that you find me beautiful, that you care for my beauty.... It is so with a man, I believe; and a girl wishes to have him love her beauty, too.

  “But, Duane, I don’t think the average girl cares very much about that in a man. Of course you are exceedingly nice to look at, and I notice it sometimes, but not nearly as often as you notice what you think is externally attractive about me.

  “In my heart, I don’t believe it really matters much to a girl what a man looks like; anyway, it matters very little after she once knows him.

  “Of course women do notice handsome men — or what we consider handsome — which is, I believe, not at all what men care for; because men usually seem to have a desire to kick the man whom women find good-looking. I know several men who feel that way about Jack Dysart. I think you do, for one.

  “Poor Jack Dysart! To-day’s papers are saying such horridly unpleasant things about the rich men with whom he was rather closely associated in business affairs several years ago. I read, but I do not entirely comprehend.

  “The New York papers seem unusually gloomy this summer; nothing but predictions of hard times coming, and how many corporations the attorney-general is going to proceed against, and wicked people who loot metropolitan railways, and why the district-attorney doesn’t do his duty — which you say he does — oh, dear; I expect that Scott and Kathleen and I will have to take in boarders this winter; but if nobody has any money, nobody can pay board, so everybody will be ruined and I don’t very much care, for I could teach school, only who is to pay my salary if there’s no money to pay it with? Oh, dear! what nonsense I am writing — only to keep on writing, because it seems to bring you a little nearer — my own — my Duane — m
y comrade — the same, same little boy who ran away from his nurse and came into our garden to fight my brother and — fall in love with his sister! Oh, Fate! Oh, Destiny! Oh, Duane Mallett!

  “Here is a curious phenomenon. Listen:

  “Away from you I have a woman’s courage to tell you how I long for you, how my heart and my arms ache for you. But when I am with you I’m less of a woman and more of a girl — a girl not yet accustomed to some things — always guarded, always a little reticent, always instinctively recoiling from the contact I really like, always a little on the defensive against your lips, in spite of myself — against your arms — where, somehow, I cannot seem to stay long at a time — will not endure it — cannot, somehow.

  “Yet, here, away from you, I so long for your embrace, and cannot imagine it too long, too close, too tender to satisfy my need of you.

  “And this is my second letter to you within the hour — one hour after your departure.

  “Oh, Duane, I do truly miss you so! I go about humming that air you found so quaint:

  “‘Lisetto quittée la plaine,

  Moi perdi bonheur à moi —

  Yeux à moi semblent fontaine

  Depuis moi pas miré toi!’

  and there’s a tear in every note of it, and I’m the most lonely girl on the face of the earth to-day.

  “Geraldine Qui Pleure.”

  “P.S. — Voici votre pipe, Monsieur!”

  CHAPTER XIV. THE PROPHETS

  August in town found an unusual number of New York men at the clubs, at the restaurants, at the summer theatres. Men who very seldom shoved their noses inside the metropolitan oven during the summer baking were now to be met everywhere and anywhere within the financial district and without. The sky-perched and magnificent down-town “clubs” were full of men who under normal circumstances would have remained at Newport, Lenox, Bar Harbor, or who at least would have spent the greater portion of the summer on their yachts or their Long Island estates.