Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

“Do you want to marry her?”

  “I said that I was considering nothing in particular. We are friends.”

  “Keep away from her! Do you understand?”

  “I really don’t know whether I do or not. I suppose you mean Sir Charles.”

  Mrs. Sprowl turned red:

  “Suppose what you like, you cold-blooded cad! But by God! — if you annoy that child I’ll empty the family wash all over the sidewalk! And let the public pick it over!”

  He rested his pale, protuberant eyes on her for a brief second:

  “Will any of your finery figure in it? Any relics or rags once belonging to the late parent of Sir Charles?”

  Her features were livid; her lips twisted, tortured under the flood of injuries which choked her. Not a word came. Exhausted for a moment she sat there grasping the gilded arms of her chair, livid as the dead save for the hell blazing in her tiny green eyes.

  “I fancy that settles the laundry question,” he said, while his restless glance ceaselessly swept the splendid room and his lean, sunburnt hand steadily caressed his moustache. Then, as though he had forgotten something, he rose and walked out. A footman invested him with hat and overcoat. A moment later the great doors clicked.

  In the silence of the huge house there was not a sound except the whispers of servants; and these ceased presently.

  All alone, amid the lighted magnificence of the vast room sat the old woman hunched in her chair, bloodless, motionless as a mass of dead flesh. Even the spark in her eyes was gone, the lids closed, the gross lower lip pendulous. Later two maids, being summoned, accompanied her to her boudoir, and were dismissed. Her social secretary, a pretty girl, came and left with instructions to cancel invitations for the evening.

  A maid arrived with a choice of headache remedies; then, with the aid of another, disrobed her mistress and got her into bed.

  Their offices accomplished, they were ordered to withdraw but to leave one light burning. It glimmered over an old-fashioned photograph on the wall — the portrait of a British officer taken in the days when whiskers, “pill-box,” and frogged frock-tunic were cultivated in Her British Majesty’s Service.

  From where she lay she looked at him; and Sir Weyward Mallison stared back at her through his monocle.

  Strelsa at home, unpinning her hat before the mirror, received word over the telephone that Mrs. Sprowl, being indisposed, regretfully recalled the invitations for the evening.

  The girl’s first sensation was relief, then self-reproach, quite forgetting that if Mrs. Sprowl’s violent emotions had made that redoubtable old woman ill, they had also thoroughly fatigued the victim of her ill-temper and made her very miserable.

  She wrote a perfunctory note of regret and civil inquiry and dispatched it, then surrendered herself to the ministrations of her maid.

  The luxury of dining alone for the first time in months, appealed to her. She decided that she was not to be at home to anybody.

  Langly Sprowl called about six, and was sent away. Strelsa, curled up on a divan, could hear the staccato racket that his powerful racing-car made in the street outside. The informality of her recent host aboard the Yulan did not entirely please her. She listened to his departure with quiet satisfaction.

  “Strelsa, curled upon a divan ... listened to his departure with quiet satisfaction.”

  Although it was not her day, several people came and went. Flowers from various smitten youths arrived; orchids from Sprowl; nothing from Quarren. Then for nearly two hours she slept where she lay and awakened laughing aloud at something Quarren had been saying in her dream. But what it was she could not recollect.

  At eight her maid came and hooked her into a comfortable and beloved second-year gown; dinner was announced; she descended the stairway in solitary state, still smiling to herself at Quarren’s forgotten remark, and passed by the library just as the telephone rang there.

  It may have been a flash of clairvoyance — afterward she wondered exactly what it was that made her say to her maid very confidently:

  “That is Mr. Quarren. I’ll speak to him.”

  It was Mr. Quarren. The amusing coincidence of her dream and her clairvoyance still lingering in her mind, she went leisurely to the telephone and said:

  “I don’t understand how I knew it was you. And I’m not sure why I came to the ‘phone, because I’m not at home to anybody. But what was it you said to me just now?”

  “When?”

  “A few minutes ago while I was asleep?”

  “About eight o’clock?”

  She laughed: “It happened to be a few minutes before eight. How did you know that? I believe you did speak to me in my dream. Did you?”

  “I did.”

  “Really?”

  “I said something aloud to you about eight o’clock.”

  “How odd! Did you know I was asleep? But you couldn’t — —”

  “No, of course not. I was merely thinking of you.”

  “You were — you happened to be thinking of me? And you said something aloud about me?”

  “About you — and to you.”

  “How delightfully interesting! What was it, please?”

  “Oh, I was only talking nonsense.”

  “Won’t it bear repetition?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Mr. Quarren! How maddening! I’m dying with curiosity. I dreamed that you said something very amusing to me and I awoke, laughing; but now I simply cannot recollect what it was you said.”

  “I’ll tell you some day.”

  “Soon? Would you tell me this evening?”

  “How can I?”

  “That’s true. I’m not at home to anybody. So you can’t drop in, can you?”

  “You are not logical; I could drop in because I’m not anybody — —”

  “What!”

  “I’m not anybody in particular — —”

  “You know if you begin to talk that way, after all these days, I’ll ring off in a rage. You are the only man in the world to whom I’m at home even over the telephone, and if that doesn’t settle your status with me, what does?... Are you well, Mr. Quarren?”

  “Thank you, perfectly. I called you up to ask you about yourself.”

  “I’m tired, somehow.”

  “Oh, we are all that. Nothing more serious threatens you than impending slumber?”

  “I said I was tired, not sleepy. I’m wide awake but horribly lazy — and inclined to slump. Where are you; at the Legation?”

  “At the Founders’ Club — foundered.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Reading the Evening Post.”

  “You are dining out I suppose?”

  “No.”

  She reflected until he spoke again, asking if she was still there.

  “Oh, yes; I’m trying to think whether I want you to come around and share a solitary dinner with me. Do I want you?”

  “Just a little — don’t you?”

  “Do you want to come?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very much?”

  “I can’t tell you how much — over the telephone.”

  “That sounds both humble and dangerous. Which do you mean to be?”

  “Humble — and very, very grateful, dear lady. May I come?”

  “I — don’t know. Dinner was announced a quarter of an hour ago.”

  “It won’t take me three minutes — —”

  “If it takes you more you’ll ring my door-bell in vain, young man.”

  “I’ll start now! Good — —”

  “‘Do you remember our first toast?’ he asked, smiling.”

  “Wait! I haven’t decided. Really I’m simply stupid with the accumulated fatigues of two months’ frivolity. Do you mind my being stupid?”

  “You know I don’t — —”

  “Shame on you! That was not the answer. Think out the right one on your way over. À bien tôt!”

  She had been in the drawing-room
only a few moments, looking at the huge white orchids that Langly Sprowl had sent and which her butler was arranging, when Quarren was announced; and she partly turned from the orchids, extending her hand behind her in a greeting more confident and intimate than she had ever before given him.

  “Look at these strange, pansy-shaped Brazilian flowers,” she said. “Kindly observe that they are actually growing out of that ball of moss and fibre.”

  She had retained his hand for a fraction of a second longer than conventional acquaintance required, giving it a frank and friendly pressure. Now, loosing it, she found her own fingers retained, and drew them away with a little laugh of self-consciousness.

  “Sentiment before dinner implies that you’ll have no room for it after dinner. Here is your cocktail.”

  “Do you remember our first toast?” he asked, smiling.

  “No.”

  “The toast to friendship?”

  “Yes; I remember it.”

  She touched her lips to her glass, not looking at him. He watched her. After a moment she raised her eyes, met his gaze, returned it with one quite as audacious:

  “I am drinking that same toast again — after many days,” she said.

  “With all that it entails?”

  She nodded.

  “Its chances, hazards, consequences?”

  She laughed, then, looking at him, deliberately sipped from her glass, the defiant smile in her eyes still daring him and Chance and Destiny together.

  When he took her out she was saying: “I really can’t account for my mood to-night. I believe that seeing you again is reviving me. I was beastly stupid.”

  “My soporific society ought to calm, not exhilarate you.”

  “It never did, particularly. What a long time it is since we have seen each other. I am glad you came.”

  Seated, she asked the butler to remove the flowers which interrupted her view of Quarren.

  “You haven’t said anything about my personal appearance,” she observed. “Am I very much battered by my merry bouts with pleasure?”

  “Not much.”

  “You wretch! Do you mean to say that I am marked at all?”

  “You look rather tired, Mrs. Leeds.”

  “I know I do. By daylight it’s particularly visible.... But — do you mind?”

  Her charming head was bent over her grapefruit: she lifted her gray eyes under level brows, looking across the table at him.

  “I mind anything that concerns you,” he said.

  “I mean — are you disappointed because I’m growing old and haggard?”

  “I think you are even more beautiful than you were.”

  She laughed gaily and continued her dinner. “I had to drag that out of you, poor boy. But you see I’m uneasy; because imprudence is stamping the horrid imprint of maturity on me very rapidly; and I’m beginning to keep a more jealous eye on my suitors. You were one. Do you deny your guilt?”

  “I do not.”

  “Then I shall never release you. I intend to let no guilty man escape. Am I very much changed, Mr. Quarren?” she said a trifle wistfully.

  He did not answer immediately. After a few moments she glanced at him again and met his gaze.

  “Well?” she prompted him, laughing; “are you not neglecting your manners as a declared suitor?”

  “You have changed.”

  “What a perfect pill you are!” she exclaimed, vexed— “you’re casting yourself for the rôle of the honest friend — and I simply hate it! Young sir, do you not understand that I’ve breakfasted, lunched and dined too long on flattery to endure anything more wholesome? If you can’t lie to me like a gentleman and a suitor your usefulness in my entourage is ended.”

  He said: “Do you want me to talk shop with you? I get rather tired of my trade, sometimes. It’s my trade to lie, you know.”

  She looked up, quickly, but he was smiling.

  They remained rather silent after that. Coffee was served at table; she lighted a cigarette for him and, later, one for herself, strolling off into the drawing-room with it between her fingers, one hand resting lightly on her hip.

  She seemed to have an inclination to wander about or linger before the marble fireplace and blow delicate rings of smoke at her own reflection in the mirror.

  He stood a little distance behind her, watching her, and she nodded affably to him in the glass:

  “I’m quite changed; you are right. I’m not as nice as I was when I first knew you.... I’m not as contented; I’m restless — I wasn’t then.... Amusement is becoming a necessity to me; and I’m not particular about the kind — as long as it does amuse me. Tell me something exciting.”

  “A cradle song is what you require.”

  “How impudent of you. I’ve a mind to punish you by retiring to that same cradle. I’m dreadfully cross, too. Do you realise that?”

  “I realise how tired you are.”

  “And — I’ll never again be rested,” she said thoughtfully, looking at her mirrored self. “I seem to understand that, now, for the first time.... Something in me will always remain a little tired. I wonder what. Do you know?”

  “Conscience?” he suggested, laughing.

  “Do you think so? I thought it was my heart.”

  “Have you acquired one?”

  She laughed, too, then glanced at him askance in the glass, and turned around toward him, still smiling.

  “I believe I didn’t have any heart when I first knew you. Did I?”

  “I believe not,” he said lightly. “Has one germinated?”

  “I really don’t know. What do you think?”

  He took her cigarette from her and tossed it, with his own, into the fire. She seated herself on a sofa and bent toward the blaze, her dimpled elbows denting her silken knees, her chin balanced between forefinger and thumb.

  Presently she said, not looking at him: “Somehow, I’ve changed. I’m not the woman you knew. I’m beginning to realise it. It seems absurd: it was only a few weeks ago. But the world has whirled very swiftly. Each day was a little lifetime in itself; a week a century condensed; Time became only a concentrated essence, one drop of which contained eons of experience.... I wonder whether my silly head was turned a little.... People said too much to me: there were too many of them — and they came too near.... And do you know — looking back at it now as I sit here talking to you — I — it seems absurd — but I believe that I was really a trifle lonely at times.”

  She interlaced her fingers and rested her chin on the back of them.

  “I thought of you on various occasions,” she added.

  He was leaning against the mantel, one foot on the fender.

  Her eyes rested on that foot, then lifted slowly until they remained fixed on his face which was shadowed by his hand as though to shield his eyes from the bracket light.

  For a time she sat motionless, considering him, interested in his silence and abstraction — in the set of his shoulders, and the unconscious grace of him. Light, touching his short blond hair, made it glossy like a boy’s where his hand had disarranged it above the forehead. Certainly it was very pleasant to see him again — agreeable to be with him — not exactly restful, perhaps, but distinctly agreeable — for even in the frequent silences that had crept in between them there was no invitation to repose of mind. On the contrary, she was perfectly conscious of a reserve force now awaking — of a growing sense of freshness within her; of physical renewal, of unsuspected latent vigour.

  “Are you attempting to go to sleep, Mr. Quarren?” she inquired at last.

  He dropped his hand, smiling: she made an instinctive move — scarcely an invitation, scarcely even perceptible. But he came over and seated himself on the arm of the lounge beside her.

  “Your letters,” he said, “did a lot for me.”

  “I wrote very few.... Did they really interest you?”

  “A lot.”

  “How?”

  “They helped that lame old gaffer, Time, to limp alo
ng toward the back door of Eternity.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Otherwise he would never have stirred a step — until to-night.”

  “That is very gallant of you, Mr. Quarren — but a little sentimental — isn’t it?”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a poor judge of real sentiment — being unaccustomed to it.”

  “How many men made you declarations?”

  “Oh; is that real sentiment? I thought it was merely love.”

  He looked at her. “Don’t,” he said. “You mustn’t harden. Don’t become like the rest.”

  She said, amused, or pretending to be: “You are clever; I have grown hard. To-day I can survey, unmoved, many, many things which I could not even look at yesterday. But it makes life more interesting. Don’t you think so?”

  “Do you, Mrs. Leeds?”

  “I think so.... A woman might as well know the worst truths about life — and about men.”

  “Not about men.”

  “Do you prefer her to remain a dupe?”

  “Is anybody happy unless life dupes them?”

  “By ‘life’ you mean ‘men.’ You have the seraglio point of view. You probably prefer your women screened and veiled.”

  “We are all born veiled. God knows why we ever tear the film.”

  “Mr. Quarren — are you becoming misanthropic?” she exclaimed, laughing. But under his marred eyes of a boy she saw shadows, and the pale induration already stamped on the flesh over the cheek-bones.

  “What have you been doing with yourself all these weeks?” she asked, curiously.

  “Working at my trade.”

  “You seem thinner.”

  “Fewer crumbs have fallen from the banquet, perhaps. I keep Lent when I must.”

  “You are beginning to speak in a way that you know I dislike — aren’t you?” she asked, turning around in her seat to face him.

  He laughed.

  “You make me very angry,” she said; “I like you — I’m quite happy with you — and suddenly you try to tell me that my friendship is lavished on an unworthy man; that my taste is low, and that you’re a kind of a social jackal — an upper servant ——

  “I feed on what the pack leaves — and I wash their fragile plates for them,” he said lightly.