Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  At first Strelsa found the young fellow fascinating. He had been everywhere and had seen everything; his mind was kaleidoscopic; his thought shifted, flashed, jerked, leaped like erratic lightning from one subject to another — from Japanese aeroplanes to a scheme for filling in the East River; from a plan to reconcile church and state in France to an idea for indefinitely prolonging human life. He had written several books about all kinds of things. Nobody read them.

  The first time he spoke to her of love was on a magnificent star-set night off Martinique; and she coolly reminded him of the gossip connecting him with a pretty woman in Reno. She could not have done it a month ago.

  He denied it so pleasantly, so frankly, that, astonished, she could scarcely choose but believe him.

  After that he made ardent, headlong love to her at every opportunity, with a flighty recklessness which began by amusing her. At first, also, she found wholesome laughter a good defence; but there was an under-current of intelligent, relentless vigour in his attack which presently sobered her. And she vaguely realised that he was a man who knew what he wanted. A talk with Molly Wycherly sobered her still more; and she avoided him as politely as she could. But, being her host, it was impossible to keep clear of him. Besides there was about him a certain unwholesome fascination, even for her. No matter how bad a man’s record may be, few women doubt their ability to make it a better one.

  “You little goose,” said Molly Wycherly, “everybody knows the kind of man he is. Could anything be more brazen than his attentions to you while Mary Ledwith is in Reno?”

  “He says that her being there has nothing to do with him.”

  “Then he lies,” said Molly, shrugging her shoulders.

  “He doesn’t speak as though he were trying to deceive anybody, Molly. He is perfectly frank to me. I can’t believe that scandal. Besides he is quite open and manly about his unsavoury reputation; makes no excuses; simply says that there’s good in every man, and that there is always one woman in the world who can bring it out — —”

  “Oh, mushy! What an out-of-date whine! He’s bad all through I tell you — —”

  “No man is!” insisted Strelsa.

  “What?”

  “No man is. The great masters of fiction always ascribe at least one virtue to their most infamous creations — —”

  “Oh, Strelsa, you talk like a pan of fudge! I tell you that Langly Sprowl is no good at all. I hope you won’t have to marry him to find out.”

  “I don’t intend to.... How inconsistent you are, Molly. You — and everybody else — believe him to be the most magnificent match in — —”

  “If position and wealth is all you care for, yes. I didn’t suppose you’d come to that.”

  Strelsa said candidly: “I care for both — I don’t know how much.”

  “As much as that?”

  “No; not enough to marry him. And if he is what you say, it’s hopeless of course.... I don’t think he is. Be decent, Molly; everybody is very horrid about him, and — and that is always a matter of sympathetic interest to a generous woman. When the whole world condemns a man it makes him interesting!”

  “That’s a piffling and emotional thing to say! He may be attractive in an uncanny way, because he’s agreeable to look at, amusing, and very dangerous — a perfectly cold-blooded, and I think, slightly unbalanced social marauder. And that’s the fact about Langly Sprowl. And I wish we were on land, the Yulan and her owner in — well, in the Erie Basin, perhaps.”

  Whether or not Strelsa believed these things, there still remained in her that curious sense of fascination in Sprowl’s presence, partly arising, no doubt, from an instinctive sympathy for a young man so universally damned; partly, because she thought that perhaps he really was damned. Therefore, deep in her heart she felt that he must be dangerous; and there is, in that one belief, every element of unwholesome fascination. And a mind fatigued is no longer wholesome.

  Then, too, there was always Sir Charles Mallison to turn to for a refreshing moral bath. Safety of soul lay in his vicinity; she felt confidence in the world wherever he traversed it. With him she relaxed and rested; there was repose for her in his silences; strength for her when he spoke; and a serene comradeship which no hint of sentiment had ever vexed.

  Perhaps only a few people realised how thoroughly a single winter was equipping Strelsa for the part she seemed destined to play in that narrow world with which she was already identified; and few realised how fast she was learning. Laxity of precept, easy morals, looseness of thought, idle and good-natured acquiescence in social conditions where all standards seemed alike, all ideals merely a matter of personal taste — this was the atmosphere into which she had stepped from two years of Western solitude after a nightmare of violence, cruelty, and depravity unutterable. And naturally it seemed heavenly to her; and each revelation inconsistent with her own fastidious instincts left her less and less surprised, less and less uneasy. And after a while she began to assimilate all that she saw and heard.

  A few unworldly instincts remained in her — gratitude for and quick response to any kindness offered from anybody; an inclination to make friends with stray wanderers into her circle, and to cultivate the socially useless.

  Taking four o’clock tea alone with Mrs. Sprowl the afternoon of her return to town — an honour vouchsafed to few — Strelsa was relating, at that masterful woman’s request, her various exotic experiences. Mrs. Sprowl had commanded her attendance early. There were reasons. And now partly vexed, partly in unwilling admiration, the old lady sat smiling and all the while thinking to herself impatiently; “Baby! Fool! Little ninny! Imbecile!” while she listened, fat bejewelled hands folded, small green eyes shining in the expanse of powdered and painted fat.

  After a while she could endure it no longer, and she said with a wheeze of good-natured disdain:

  “It’s like a school-girl’s diary — all those rhapsodies over volcanoes, palm trees, and the colour of the Spanish Main. Never mind geography, child; tell me about the men!”

  “‘Never mind geography, child; tell me about the men!’”

  “Men?” repeated Strelsa, laughingly— “why there were shoals and shoals of them, of every description!”

  “I mean the one man?” insisted Mrs. Sprowl encouragingly.

  “Which, please?”

  “Nonsense! There was one, I suppose.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.... Your nephew, Langly, was exceedingly amiable — —”

  “He’s a plain beast,” said his aunt, bluntly. “I didn’t mean him.”

  “He was very civil to me,” insisted Strelsa, colouring.

  “Probably he didn’t have a chance to be otherwise. He’s a rotter, child. Ask anybody. I know perfectly well what he’s been up to. I’m sorry you went on the Yulan. He had no business to ask you — or any other nice girl — or anybody at all until that Reno scandal is officially made respectable. If it were not for his money—” She stopped a moment, adding cynically— “and if it were not for mine — certain people wouldn’t be tolerated anywhere, I suppose.... How did you like Sir Charles?”

  “Oh, he is charming!” she said warmly.

  “You like him?”

  “I almost adore him.”

  “Why not adore him entirely?”

  Strelsa laughed frankly: “He hasn’t asked me to, for one reason. Besides — —”

  “No doubt he’ll do it.”

  The girl shook her head, still smiling:

  “You don’t understand at all. There isn’t the slightest sentiment between us. He’s only thoroughly nice and agreeable, and he and I are most companionable. I hope nobody will be silly enough to hint anything of that sort to him. It would embarrass him dreadfully.”

  Mrs. Sprowl’s smile was blandly tolerant:

  “The man’s in love with you. Didn’t you know it?”

  “But you are mistaken, dear Mrs. Sprowl. If it were true I would know it, I think.”

  “Nonsense! He told me so.”<
br />
  “Oh,” said Strelsa in amazed consternation. She added: “If it is so I’d rather not speak of it, please.”

  Mrs. Sprowl eyed her with shifty but keen intelligence. “Little idiot,” she thought; but her smile remained bland and calmly patronising.

  For a second or two longer she studied the girl cautiously, trying to make up her mind whether there was really any character in Strelsa’s soft beauty — anything firmer than material fastidiousness; anything more real than a natural and dainty reticence. Mrs. Sprowl could ride rough-shod over such details. But she was too wise to ride if there was any chance of a check from higher sources.

  “If you married him it would be very gratifying to me,” she said pleasantly. “Come; let’s discuss the matter like sensible women. Shall we?”

  Many people would not have disregarded such a wish. Strelsa flushed and lifted her purple-gray eyes to meet the little green ones scanning her slyly.

  “I am sorry,” she said, “but I couldn’t discuss such a thing, you see. Don’t you see I can’t, dear Mrs. Sprowl?”

  “Pooh! Rubbish! Anybody can discuss anything,” rejoined the old lady with impersonal and boisterous informality. “I’m fond of you. Everybody knows it. I’m fond of Sir Charles. He’s a fine figure of a man. You match him in everything, except wealth. It’s an ideal marriage — —”

  “Please don’t! — I simply cannot — —”

  “Ideal,” repeated Mrs. Sprowl loudly— “an ideal marriage — —”

  “But when there is no love — —”

  “Plenty! Loads of it! He’s mad about you — crazy! — —”

  “I — meant — on my part — —”

  “Good God!” shouted the old lady, beating the air with pudgy hands— “isn’t it luck enough to have love on one side? What does the present generation want! I tell you it’s ideal, perfect. He’s a good man as men go, and a devilish handsome — —”

  “I know — but — —”

  “And he’s got money!” shouted the old lady— “plenty of it I tell you! And he has the entrée everywhere on the Continent — in England — everywhere! — which Dankmere has not! — if you’re considering that little whelp!”

  Stunned, shrinking from the dreadful asthmatic noises in Mrs. Sprowl’s voice, Strelsa sat dumb, wincing under the blows of sound, not knowing how to escape.

  “I’m fond of you!” shrieked the old lady— “I can be of use to you and I want to be. That’s why I asked you to tea! I want to make you happy — and Sir Charles, too! What the devil do you suppose there is in it for me except to oblige hi — you both?”

  “Th-thank you, but — —”

  “I’ll bet a shilling that Molly Wycherly let you go about with any little spindle-shanked pill who came hanging around! — And I told her what were my wishes — —”

  “Please — oh, please, Mrs. Sprowl — —”

  “Yes, I did! It’s a good match! I want you to consider it! — I insist that — —”

  “Mrs. Sprowl!” exclaimed Strelsa, pink with confusion and resentment, “I am obliged to you for the interest you display, but it is a matter — —”

  “What!”

  “I am really — grateful — but — —”

  “Answer me, child. Has that cursed nephew of mine made any impression on you? Answer me!”

  “Not the kind you evidently mean!” said Strelsa, helplessly.

  “Is there anybody else?”

  The outrageous question silenced the girl for a moment. Angry, she still tried to be gentle; tried to remember the age, and the excellent intentions of this excited old lady; and she answered in a low voice:

  “I care for no man in particular, unless it be Sir Charles — and — —”

  “And who?”

  “Mr. Quarren, I think,” she said.

  Mrs. Sprowl’s jowl grew purple with fury:

  “You — has that boy had the impudence — damn him — —”

  Strelsa sprang to her feet.

  “I really cannot remain—” she said with decision, but the old lady only bawled:

  “Sit down! Sit down!”

  “I will not!”

  “Sit down!” she roared in a passion. “What the devil — —”

  Strelsa, a little pale, started to pass her — then halted, astounded: for the old lady had burst into a passion of choking gasps. Whether the terrible sounds she made were due to impotent rage or asthma, Strelsa, confused, shocked, embarrassed, but still angry, had no notion; and while Mrs. Sprowl coughed fatly, she stood still, catching muffled fragments of reproaches directed at people who flouted friendship; who had no consideration for age, and no gratitude, no tenderness, no pity.

  “I — I am grateful,” faltered Strelsa, “only I cannot — —”

  “I wanted to be a mother to you! I’ve tried to be,” wheezed the old lady in a fresh paroxysm; and beat the air.

  For one swift instant the girl remembered what her real mother had been to her; and her heart hardened.

  “I care only for your friendship, Mrs. Sprowl; I do not wish you to do anything for me; can we not be friends on that basis?”

  Mrs. Sprowl swabbed her inflamed eyes and peered around the corner of the handkerchief.

  “Come here, my dear,” she said.

  Strelsa went, slowly; and Mrs. Sprowl enveloped her like a fleshy squid, panting.

  “I only wanted to be good to you, Strelsa. I’m just an old fool I suppose — —”

  “Oh, please don’t — —”

  “That’s all I am, child, just a sentimental old fool. The poor man’s adoration of you touched my heart — and you do like him a little, don’t you?”

  “Very much.... Thank you for — for wishing happiness to me. I really don’t mean to be ungrateful; I have a horror of ingratitude. It’s only that — the idea never occurred to me; and I am incapable of doing such a thing for material reasons, unless — I also really cared for a man — —”

  “Of course, child. Maybe you will care for him some day. I won’t interfere any more.... Only — don’t lose your heart to any of these young jackals fawning around your skirts. Every set is full of ‘em. They’re nothing but the capering chorus in this comic opera.... And — don’t be angry — but I am an older and wiser woman than you, and I am fond of you, and it’s my duty to tell you that any of the lesser breed — take young Quarren for example — are of no real account, even in the society which they amuse.”

  “I would scarcely class Mr. Quarren with the sort you mention — —”

  “Why not? He’s of no importance.”

  “Because he is kind, considerate, and unusually intelligent and interesting; and he is very capable of succeeding in whatever he undertakes,” said Strelsa, slowly.

  “Ricky is a nice boy; but what does he undertake?” asked Mrs. Sprowl with good-natured contempt. “He undertakes the duties, obligations, and details of a useful man in the greater household, which make him acceptable to us; and I’m bound to say that he does ’em very well. But outside of that he’s a nobody. And I’ll tell you just what he’ll turn into; shall I? Society’s third chief bottlewasher in succession. We had one, who evolved us. He’s dead. We have another. He’s still talking. When he ultimately evaporates into infinity Ricky will be his natural successor. Do you want that kind of a husband?”

  “Did you suppose — —”

  “Don’t get angry, Strelsa? I didn’t suppose anything. Ricky, like every other man, dangles his good-looking, good-humoured self in your vicinity. You’re inclined to notice him. All I mean is that he isn’t worth your pains.... Now you won’t be offended by a plain-spoken old woman who wishes only your happiness, will you, my child?”

  “No,” said Strelsa, wearily, beginning to feel the fatigue of the scene.

  She took her leave a few moments afterward, very unhappy because two of the pleasantest incidents in her life had been badly, if not hopelessly, marred. But Langly Sprowl was not one of them.

  That hatchet-fac
ed and immaculate gentleman, divining possibly that Strelsa might be with his aunt, arrived shortly after her departure; learned of it from a servant, and was turning on his heel without even asking for Mrs. Sprowl, when the thought occurred to him that possibly she might know Strelsa’s destination.

  When a servant announced him he found his aunt quite herself, grim, ready for trouble, her small green eyes fairly snapping.

  They indulged in no formalities, being alone together, and caring nothing for servants’ opinions. Their greeting was perfunctory; their inquiries civil. Then there ensued a short silence.

  “Which way did Mrs. Leeds go?” he asked, busily twisting his long moustache.

  “None of your business,” rejoined his aunt.

  He looked up in slight surprise, recognised a condition of things which, on second thought, surprised him still more. Because his aunt had never before noticed his affairs — had not even commented on the Ledwith matter to him. He had always felt that she disliked him too thoroughly to care.

  “I don’t think I understood you,” he said, watching her out of shifting eyes which protruded a trifle.

  “I think you will understand me before I’ve done with you,” returned his aunt, grimly. “It’s a perfectly plain matter; you’ve the rest of the female community to chase if you choose. Go and chase ’em for all I care — hunt from here to Reno if you like! — but I have other plans for Strelsa Leeds. Do you understand? I’ve put my private mark on her. There’s no room for yours.”

  Langly’s gaze which had not met hers — and never met anybody’s for more than a fraction of a second — shifted. He continued his attentions to his moustache; his eyes roved; he looked at but did not see a hundred things in a second.

  “You don’t know where she’s gone?” he inquired with characteristic pertinacity and an indifference to what she had said, absolutely stony.

  “Do you mean trouble for that girl?”

  “I do not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.”