Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “You have heard from your family and from Celia, so what news I write may be no news. Yet I know how it is with soldiers; they never tire of such repetitions.

  “Your father is slowly recovering. But he will never sit his saddle again, dear. Don’t expect it; the war is over as far as he is concerned. But never have my eyes beheld such happiness, such gratitude, such adoration as I see in his eyes when your letters come. I think the burden of his conversation is you. I never hear him speak of anything else. Your father walks now; and by the time you are here he will be able to drive on Fifth Avenue and in the new Central Park. But he is not the man who left this city at the head of his regiment. His hair and moustache are white as snow; there are a thousand tiny wrinkles on his hands and features. All that heavy colour is gone; only a slight flush remains on his thin face. He is very handsome, Phil. Once, never dreaming of what was true, I thought he resembled you. Do you recollect my saying so once? Even you would recognise the likeness now. He is absorbed, wrapped up in you. . . . I can see, now, that he always has been. How blind we are! How blind!

  “Celia, the darling, has not changed one particle. She is the prettiest thing you ever saw, cheerful, clever, courageous, self-possessed, devoted to Stephen, whose leave has been extended and who plays the role of a pale and interesting invalid hero with placid satisfaction to himself, adored and hovered over by Paige and Marye and all their girl friends. But when poor little Camilla, in her deep mourning, appears at the door, he clears out the others with a tyranny characteristic of young men; and I’m somewhat sorry for his mother and sisters. But it’s the inevitable; and Camilla is the sweetest thing.

  “Celia hears often from Curt, Poor Major Lent! It seems too hard that Camilla should be left so utterly alone in the world. The Major died as he would have wished to die, Curt writes. It was at that terrible Stone Bridge — where God was merciful to me when your squadron galloped across.

  “He was found, seated against a tree, stone dead, one hand stiffened over the Mexican war medal at his throat. Curt says his face was calm, almost smiling. Camilla has his sword and medals.

  “Did you know that your friend John Casson was dead? I was with him; I did not know he was a friend of yours. He displayed the same patience, the same desire not to be troublesome that so many badly wounded do.

  “Letty asked me to say that a zouave of the 5th Regiment, a Mr. Cortlandt, was also killed. So many, many people I knew or had heard of have been killed or have died of disease since the war began. One sees a great many people wearing mourning in the city — crape is so common, on sword-hilts, on arms, veils, gowns, bonnets.

  “Letty made the loveliest bride you or I ever beheld. Usually brides do not look their best, but Letty was the most charming, radiant, bewildering creature — and so absurdly young — as though suddenly she had dropped a few years and was again beginning that girlhood which I sometimes thought she had never had.

  “Dr. Benton is a darling. He looks twenty years younger and wears a monocle! They are back from their honeymoon, and are planning to offer their services to the great central hospital at Philadelphia.

  “Dear, your letter breaking the news to me that Marye Mead was burned when the cavalry burned Edmund Ruffin’s house was no news to me. I saw it on fire. But, Philip, there was a fiercer flame consuming me than ever swept that house. I thank God it Is quenched for ever and that my heart and soul, refreshed, made new, bear no scars now of that infernal conflagration.

  “I sit here at my window and see below me the folds of the dear flag stirring; in my ears, often, is the noise of drums from the dusty avenue where new regiments are passing on into the unknown — no longer the unknown to us — but the saddest of all truths.

  “Sometimes Celia comes from the still, leafy seclusion of Fort Greene Place, to love me, caress me, gently jeer at me for the hint of melancholy in my gaze, shaming me for a love-sick thing that droops and pines in the absence of all that animates her soul and body with the desire to live.

  “She is only partly right; I am very tired, Phil. Not that I am ill. I am well, now. It only needs you. She knows it; I have always known it. Your love, and loving you, is all that life means to me.

  “I see them all here — Celia fussing with my trousseau, gowns, stockings, slippers, hovering over them with Paigie and Marye in murmurous and intimate rapture. They lead me about to shops and in busy thoroughfares; and I see and understand, and I hear my own voice as at an infinite distance, and I am happy in the same indefinite way. But, try as I may, I cannot fix my thoughts on what I am about, on the pretty garments piled around me, on the necessary arrangements to be made, on the future — our future! I cannot even think clearly about that. All that my mind seems able to contain is my love for you, the knowledge that you are coming, that I am to see you, touch you.

  “I try to realise that I am to be your wife; the heavenly reality seems vaguely impossible. Yet every moment I am schooling myself to the belief, telling myself that it is to be, repeating the divine words again and again. And all I am capable of understanding is that I love you, and that the world stands still, waiting for you as I wait; and that without you nothing is real, and I move in a world of phantoms.

  “I have been to the mirror to look at myself. To be certain, I also asked Celia. She says that you will not be disappointed.

  “She sat here searching the morning paper for news of her husband’s regiment, but found none. What women endure for men no man that ever lives can understand.

  “She is perfectly cheerful about it all. And, oh, such a rebel!

  She read aloud to me with amused malice the order from the War

  Department which does away with regimental bands and substitutes a

  brigade band.

  “I sca’cely blame them,’ she observed; ‘I’d be ve’y glad myse’f to hear less of Yankee Doodle and the Star-spangled Banner. When they let President Davis alone, and when Curt comes home, I’ve got some ve’y pretty songs fo’ him to learn to appreciate.’

  “She’s down stairs now, seated at the piano, singing very softly to herself some gaily impudent rebel song or other. I know it’s a rebel song by the way she sings it.

  “And, as I sit here, alone, thinking of how I love you — far away I hear the ‘old line’s bugle’ — the quaint, quick rhythm of the fifes and drums; and it stirs depths in me where my very soul lies listening — and the tears spring to my eyes. And I try to understand why every separate silver star in the flag is mine to hold, mine to rescue and replace, mine to adore. And I try to understand why all of it is part of the adoration of you, and of God who gave you to me — Philip — Philip — my lover, my country, my God — worshipped and adored of men!”

  [Illustration: “Philip — Philip — my lover, my country, my

  God — worshipped and adored of men!”]

  THE END

  THE COMMON LAW

  This romantic novel, published in 1911, deals with a common dilemma in early twentieth century fiction – the choice between marriage and a ‘common law’ affair. Chambers turned to romantic fiction of this sort to supplement his income from painting and the result was lucrative, the popularity of his romances of ordinary women earning him the title ‘the Shopgirl Scheherazade’ and ‘the Boudoir Balzac’.

  The narrative concerns Valerie West, a young woman that turns to modelling to support herself and falls in love with her artist employer. The novel was a bestseller in its day and was adapted for the screen several times.

  Cover of the first edition

  An illustration from the first edition

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

&n
bsp; CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  A still from the 1931 film adaptation, starring Joel McCrea and Constance Bennett

  TO CHARLES DANA GIBSON

  A FRIEND OF MANY YEARS

  CHAPTER I

  There was a long, brisk, decisive ring at the door. He continued working. After an interval the bell rang again, briefly, as though the light touch on the electric button had lost its assurance.

  “Somebody’s confidence has departed,” he thought to himself, busy with a lead-weighted string and a stick of soft charcoal wrapped in silver foil. For a few moments he continued working, not inclined to trouble himself to answer the door, but the hesitating timidity of a third appeal amused him, and he walked out into the hallway and opened the door. In the dim light a departing figure turned from the stairway:

  “Do you wish a model?” she asked in an unsteady voice.

  “No,” he said, vexed.

  “Then — I beg your pardon for disturbing you—”

  “Who gave you my name?” he demanded.

  “Why — nobody—”

  “Who sent you to me? Didn’t anybody send you?”

  “No.”

  “But how did you get in?”

  “I — walked in.”

  There was a scarcely perceptible pause; then she turned away in the dim light of the corridor.

  “You know,” he said, “models are not supposed to come here unless sent for. It isn’t done in this building.” He pointed to a black and white sign on his door which bore the words: “No Admittance.”

  “I am very sorry. I didn’t understand—”

  “Oh, it’s all right; only, I don’t see how you got up here at all.

  Didn’t the elevator boy question you? It’s his business.”

  “I didn’t come up on the elevator.”

  “You didn’t walk up!”

  “Yes.”

  “Twelve stories!”

  “Both elevators happened to be in service. Besides, I was not quite certain that models were expected to use the elevators.”

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed, “you must have wanted an engagement pretty badly.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He stared: “I suppose you do, still,”

  “If you would care to try me.”

  “I’ll take your name and address, anyhow. Twelve flights! For the love of — oh, come in anyway and rest.”

  It was dusky in the private hallway through which he preceded her, but there was light enough in the great studio. Through the vast sheets of glass fleecy clouds showed blue sky between. The morning was clearing.

  He went over to an ornate Louis XV table, picked up a note book, motioned her to be seated, dropped into a chair himself, and began to sharpen a pencil. As yet he had scarcely glanced at her, and now, while he leisurely shaved the cedar and scraped the lead to a point, he absent-mindedly and good-humouredly admonished her:

  “You models have your own guild, your club, your regular routine, and it would make it much easier for us if you’d all register and quietly wait until we send for you.

  [Illustration: “There was a long, brisk, decisive ring at the door.”]

  “You see we painters know what we want and we know where to apply for it. But if you all go wandering over studio buildings in search of engagements, we won’t have any leisure to employ you because it will take all our time to answer the bell. And it will end by our not answering it at all. And that’s why it is fit and proper for good little models to remain chez eux.”

  He had achieved a point to his pencil. Now he opened his model book, looked up at her with his absent smile, and remained looking.

  “Aren’t you going to remove your veil?”

  “Oh — I beg your pardon!” Slender gloved fingers flew up, were nervously busy a moment. She removed her veil and sat as though awaiting his comment. None came.

  After a moment’s pause she said: “Did you wish — my name and address?”

  He nodded, still looking intently at her.

  “Miss West,” she said, calmly. He wrote it down.

  “Is that all? Just ‘Miss West’?”

  “Valerie West — if that is custom — necessary.”

  He wrote “Valerie West”; and, as she gave it to him, he noted her address.

  “Head and shoulders?” he asked, quietly.

  “Yes,” very confidently.

  “Figure?”

  “Yes,” — less confidently.

  “Draped or undraped?”

  When he looked up again, for an instant he thought her skin even whiter than it had been; perhaps not, for, except the vivid lips and a carnation tint in the cheeks, the snowy beauty of her face and neck had already preoccupied him.

  “Do you pose undraped?” he repeated, interested.

  “I — expect to do — what is — required of — models.”

  “Sensible,” he commented, noting the detail in his book. “Now, Miss

  West, for whom have you recently posed?”

  And, as she made no reply, he looked up amiably, balancing his pencil in his hand and repeating the question.

  “Is it necessary to — tell you?”

  “Not at all. One usually asks that question, probably because you models are always so everlastingly anxious to tell us — particularly when the men for whom you have posed are more famous than the poor devil who offers you an engagement.”

  There was something very good humoured in his smile, and she strove to smile, too, but her calmness was now all forced, and her heart was beating very fast, and her black-gloved fingers were closing and doubling till the hands that rested on the arms of the gilded antique chair lay tightly clenched.

  He was leisurely writing in his note book under her name:

  “Height, medium; eyes, a dark brown; hair, thick, lustrous, and brown; head, unusually beautiful; throat and neck, perfect—”

  He stopped writing and lifted his eyes:

  “How much of your time is taken ahead, I wonder?”

  “What?”

  “How many engagements have you? Is your time all cut up — as I fancy it is?”

  “N-no.”

  “Could you give me what time I might require?”

  “I think so.”

  “What I mean, Miss West, is this: suppose that your figure is what I have an idea it is; could you give me a lot of time ahead?”

  She remained silent so long that he had started to write, “probably unreliable,” under his notes; but, as his pencil began to move, her lips unclosed with, a low, breathless sound that became a ghost of a voice:

  “I will do what you require of me. I meant to answer.”

  “Do you mean that you are in a position to make a time contract with me? — provided you prove to be what I need?”

  She nodded uncertainly.

  “I’m beginning the ceiling, lunettes, and panels for the Byzantine Theatre,” he added, sternly stroking his short mustache, “and under those circumstances I suppose you know what a contract between us means.”

  She nodded again, but in her eyes was bewilderment, and in her heart, fear.

  “Yes,” she managed to say, “I think I understand.”

  “Very well. I merely want to say that a model threw me down hard in the very middle of the Bimmington’s ball-room. Max Schindler put on a show, and she put for the spot-light. She’d better stay put,” he added grimly: “she’ll never have another chance in your guild.”

  Then the frown vanished, and the exceedingly engaging smile glimmered in his eyes:

  “You wouldn’t do such a thing as that to me,” he added; “would you,

  Miss West?”

  “Oh, no,” she replied, not clearly comprehending the enormity of the

  Schindler recruit’s behaviour.

  “And you’ll stand by me if our engagement goes through?”

  “Yes, I — will try to.”

  “Good busine
ss! Now, if you really are what I have an idea you are, I’ll know pretty quick whether I can use you for the Byzantine job.” He rose, walked over to a pair of closed folding doors and opened them. “You can undress in there,” he said. “I think you will find everything you need.”

  For a second she sat rigid, her black-gloved hands doubled, her eyes fastened on him as though fascinated. He had already turned and sauntered over to one of several easels where he picked up the lump of charcoal in its silver foil.

  The colour began to come back into her face — swifter, more swiftly: the vast blank window with its amber curtains stared at her; she lifted her tragic gaze and saw the sheet of glass above swimming in crystal light. Through it clouds were dissolving in the bluest of skies; against it a spiderweb of pendant cords drooped from the high ceiling; and she saw the looming mystery of huge canvases beside which stepladders rose surmounted by little crow’s-nests where the graceful oval of palettes curved, tinted with scraped brilliancy.

  “What a dreamer you are!” he called across the studio to her. “The light is fine, now. Hadn’t we better take advantage of it?”

  She managed to find her footing; contrived to rise, to move with apparent self-possession toward the folding doors.

  “Better hurry,” he said, pleasantly. “If you’re what I need we might start things now. I am all ready for the sort of figure I expect you have.”

  She stepped inside the room and became desperately busy for a moment trying to close the doors; but either her hands had suddenly become powerless or they shook too much; and when he turned, almost impatiently, from his easel to see what all that rattling meant, she shrank hastily aside into the room beyond, keeping out of his view.