Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Do you like it?” he asked hopefully, swinging around on his stool.

  “It’s — lively.”

  “You don’t like it!”

  “I — it seems — very entertaining,” she said, reddening.

  The Earl sat looking at her in silence for a moment; then he said:

  “To care for anything and make a failure of it — can you beat it for straight misery, Miss Vining?”

  “Oh, please don’t speak that way. I really am no judge of musical composition.”

  He considered the key-board gloomily; and resting one well-shaped hand on it addressed empty space:

  “What’s the use of liking to do a thing if you can’t do it? Why the deuce should a desire torment a man when there’s no chance of accomplishment?”

  The girl looked at him out of her pretty, distressed eyes but found no words suitable for the particular moment.

  Dankmere dropped the other hand on the keys, touched a chord or two softly, then drifted into the old-time melody, “Shannon Water.”

  His voice was a pleasantly modulated barytone when he chose; he sang the quaint and lovely old song in perfect taste. Then, very lightly, he sang “The Harp,” and afterward an old Breton song made centuries ago.

  When he turned Miss Vining was resting her head on both hands, eyes lowered.

  “Those were the real musicians and poets,” he said— “not these Strausses and ‘Girls from the Golden West.’”

  “Will you sing some more?”

  “Do you like my singing?”

  “Very much.”

  So he idled for another half hour at the piano, recalling half-forgotten melodies of the Age of Faith, which, like all art of that immortal age, can never again be revived. For art alone was not enough in those days, the creator of the beautiful was also endowed with Faith; all the world was so endowed; and it was such an audience as never again can gather to inspire any maker of beautiful things.

  Quarren came up to listen; Jessie prepared tea; and the last golden hour of the afternoon drifted away to the untroubled harmonies of other days.

  Later, Jessie, halting on the steps to draw on her gloves, heard Dankmere open the door behind her and come out.

  They descended the steps together, and she was already turning north with a nod of good-night, when he said:

  “Are you walking?”

  She was, to save carfare.

  “May I go a little way?”

  “Yes — if — —”

  Lord Dankmere waited, but she did not complete whatever it was she had meant to say. Then, very slowly she turned northward, and he went, too, grasping his walking-stick with unnecessary firmness and carrying himself with the determination and dignity of a man who is walking beside a pretty girl slightly taller than himself.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Strelsa had gone to town with her maid, remained there the entire afternoon, and returned to Witch-Hollow without seeing Quarren or even letting him know she was there.

  It was the beginning of the end for her and she knew it; and she had already begun to move doggedly toward the end through the blind confusion of things, no longer seeing, hearing, heeding; impelled mechanically toward the goal which meant to her only the relief of absolute rest.

  For her troubles were accumulating and she found in herself no resisting power — only the nervous strength left to get away from them. Troubles of every description were impending; some had already come upon her, like Quarren’s last letter which she knew signified that the termination of their friendship was already in sight.

  But other things were in sight, too, so she spent the afternoon in town with her lawyers; which lengthy séance resulted in the advertising for immediate sale of her house in town and its contents, her town car, brougham, victoria and three horses.

  Through her lawyers, also, every jewel she possessed, all her wardrobe except what she had with her at Witch-Hollow, and her very beautiful collection of old lace, were placed in the hands of certain discreet people to dispose of privately.

  Every servant in her employment except her maid was paid and dismissed; her resignation from the Province Club was forwarded, all social engagements for the summer cancelled.

  There remained only two other matters to settle; and one of them could be put off — without hope of escape perhaps — but still it could be avoided for a little while longer.

  The other was to write to Quarren; and she wrote as follows:

  “I have been in town; necessity drove me, and I was too unhappy to see you. But this is the result: I can hold out a few months longer — to no purpose, I know — yet, you asked it of me, and I am trying to do it. Meanwhile the pressure never eases; I feel your unhappiness deeply — deeply, Rix! — and it is steadily wearing me out. And the pressure from Molly in your behalf, from Mrs. Sprowl by daily letter in behalf of Sir Charles, from Langly in his own interest never slackens for one moment.

  “And that is not all; my late husband left no will, and I have steadily refused to make any contest for more than my dower rights.

  “That has been swept away, now; urgent need has compelled me to offer for sale everything I possess except what wardrobe and unimportant trinkets I have with me.

  “So many suits have been threatened and even commenced against me — you don’t know, Rix — but while there remains any chance of meeting my obligations dollar for dollar I have refused to go through bankruptcy.

  “I need not, now, I think. But the selling of everything will not leave me very much; and in the end my cowardice will do what you dread, and what I no longer fear, so utterly dead in me is every emotion, every nerve, every moral. Men bound to the wheel have slept; I want that sleep. I long for the insensibility, the endless lethargy that the mortally bruised crave; and that is all I hope or care for now.

  “Love, as man professes it, would only hurt me — even yours. There can be no response from a soul and body stunned. Nothing must disturb their bruised coma.

  “The man I intend to marry can evoke nothing in me, will demand nothing of me. That is already mutually understood. It’s merely a bargain. He wants me as the ornament for the House of Sprowl. I can carry out the pact without effort, figure as the mistress of his domain, live life through unharassed as though I stood alone in a vague, warm dream, safe from anything real.

  “Meanwhile, without aim, without hope, without even desire to escape my destiny, I am holding out because you ask it. To what end, my friend? Can you tell me?”

  One morning Molly came into her room greatly perturbed, and Strelsa, still in bed, laid aside the New Testament which she had been reading, and looked up questioningly at her agitated hostess.

  “It’s your fault,” began Molly without preliminaries— “that old woman certainly suspects what you’re up to with her nephew or she wouldn’t bother to come up here — —”

  “Who?” said Strelsa, sitting up. “Mrs. Sprowl?”

  “Certainly, horse, foot, and dragoons! She’s coming, I tell you, and there’s only one motive for her advent!”

  “But where will she stop?” asked Strelsa, flushing with dismay.

  “Where do you suppose?”

  “With Langly?”

  “He wouldn’t have her.”

  “She is not to be your guest, is she?”

  “No. She wrote hinting that she’d come if asked. I pretended not to understand. I don’t want her here. Every servant I have would leave — as a beginning. Besides I don’t require the social prestige of such a visitation; and she knows that, too. So what do you think she’s done?”

  “I can’t imagine,” said Strelsa wearily.

  “Well, she’s manœuvred, somehow; and this morning’s paper announces that she’s to be entertained at South Linden by Mary Ledwith.”

  Strelsa reddened.

  “Why should that concern me?” she asked calmly.

  “Concern you, child! How can it help concerning you? Do you see what she’s done? — do you count all the birds she’s
knocked over with one stone. Mary Ledwith returns from Reno and Mrs. Sprowl fixes and secures her social status by visiting her at once. And it’s a perfectly plain notice to Langly, too, and — forgive me, dear! — to you!”

  Strelsa scarlet and astonished, sat up rigid, her beautiful head thrown back.

  “If she means it that way, it is slanderous,” she said. “The entire story is a base slander! Did you believe it, Molly?”

  “Believe it? Of course I believe it — —”

  “Why should you? Because a lot of vile newspapers have hinted at such a thing? I tell you it is an infamous story without one atom of truth in it — —”

  “How do you know?” asked Molly bluntly.

  “Because Langly says so.”

  “Oh. Did you ask him?”

  “No. He spoke of it himself.”

  “He denied it?”

  “Absolutely on his word of honour.”

  “Then why didn’t he sue a few newspapers?”

  “He spoke of that, too. He said that his attorneys had advised him not to bring any actions because the papers had been too clever to lay themselves open to suits for libel.”

  “Oh,” said Molly softly.

  Strelsa, flushed, breathing rapidly and irregularly, sat there in bed watching her; but Molly avoided her brilliant, level gaze.

  “There’s no use in talking to you,” she said, “but why on earth you don’t marry Sir Charles — —”

  “Molly! Please don’t — —”

  “ — Or Rix — —”

  “Molly! Molly! Can’t you let me alone! Can’t we be together for ten minutes unless you urge me to marry somebody? Why do you want me to marry anybody! — Why — —”

  “But you’re going to marry Langly, you say!”

  “Yes, I am! I am! But can’t you let me forget it for a moment or two? I — I’m not very well — —”

  “I can’t help it,” said Molly, grimly. “I’m sorry, darling, but the moment your engagement to Langly is announced there’ll be a horrid smash and some people are going to be spattered — —”

  “It isn’t announced!” said the girl hotly. “Only you and Rix know about it except Langly and myself!”

  Molly Wycherly rose from her chair, went over and seated herself on the foot of the bed:

  “Tell me something, will you, Strelsa?”

  “What?”

  “Why does Langly desire to keep your engagement to him a secret?”

  “He wishes it for the present.”

  “Why?”

  “For that very reason!” said Strelsa, fiercely— “because of the injustice the papers have done him in this miserable Ledwith matter. He chooses to wait until it is forgotten — in order to shield me, I suppose, from any libellous comment — —”

  “You talk like a little idiot!” said Molly between her teeth. “Strelsa, I could shake you — if it would wake you up! Do you suppose for a moment that this Ledwith matter will be forgotten? Do you suppose if there were nothing in it but libel that he’d be afraid? You listen to me; that man is not apt to be afraid of anything, but he evidently is afraid, now! Of what, then?”

  “Of my being annoyed by newspaper comment.”

  “And you think it’s merely that?”

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  Molly laughed:

  “We’re a hardened lot — some of us. But our most deadly fear is that the papers may not notice us. No matter what they say if they’ll only say something! — that’s our necessity and our unadmitted prayer. Because we’ve neither brains nor culture nor any distinguishing virtue or ability — and we’re nothing — absolutely nothing unless the papers create us! Don’t tell me that any one among us is afraid of publicity! — not in the particular circle where you and I and Langly and his aunt pursue our eccentric orbits!

  “Plenty of wealthy and fashionable people dread publicity and shrink from it; plenty of them would gladly remain unchronicled and unsung. But it is not so among the fixed stars and planets and meteors and satellites of our particularly flamboyant constellation. I know. I also know that you don’t really belong in it. But you’ll either become accustomed to it or it will kill you if you don’t drop — or soar, as you please — into some other section of eternal space.”

  She sat swinging her foot, flushed, animated, her eyes and colour brilliant — a slim, exquisitely groomed woman with all the superficial smoothness of a girl save for the wisdom in her eyes and in her smile, alas!

  And the other’s eyes reflected in their clear gray depths no such wisdom, only the haunting knowledge of sorrow and, vaguely, the inexplicable horror of man as he really is — or at least as she had only known him.

  Still swinging her pretty foot, a deliberate smile edging her lips, Molly said:

  “If you’ll let me, I’ll stand by you, darling.”

  “‘If you’ll let me, I’ll stand by you, darling.’”

  Strelsa stared at her without comprehension, then dropped her head back on the pillows.

  “If you’ll let me stay with you a little while longer — that is all I ask,” she said almost drowsily.

  Molly sprang up, came around and kissed her, lightly: “Of course. That was what I was going to ask of you.”

  Strelsa closed her eyes. “I’ll stay,” she murmured.

  Molly laid her own cool face down beside Strelsa’s hot cheek, kneeling beside the bed.

  “Dear,” she whispered, “let us wait and see what happens. There’s just one thing that has distorted your view — a dreadful experience with one man — two years of hell’s own horror with one of its wretched inhabitants. I don’t believe the impression is going to last a lifetime. I don’t believe it is indelible. I believe somehow, some time you will learn that a man’s love does not mean horror and degradation; that it is no abuse of friendship which offers love also, to return it with friendship only.

  “Sir Charles offers that; and you refuse because you do not love him and will not use his friendship to aid yourself to material comfort.

  “And I suspect you have said the same thing to Rix. Have you?”

  The girl lay silent, eyes closed.

  “Never mind; don’t answer. I know you well enough to know that you said some such thing to Rix.... And it’s all right in its way. But the alternative is not what you think it is — not this bargain with Langly for a place to lay your tired head — not this deal to decorate his name and estates in return for personal immunity. You are wrong — I’m not immoral, only unmoral — as many of us are — but you’ve gone all to pieces, dear — morally, mentally, nervously — and it’s not from cowardice, not from depravity. It is the direct result of the two years of terror and desperate self-control — two years of courage — high moral courage, determination, self-suppression — and of the startling and dreadful climax.

  “That is the blow you are now feeling — and the reaction even after two years more of half-stunned solitude. You are waking, darling; that is all. And it hurts.”

  Strelsa’s bare arm moved a little, moved, groping, and tightened around Molly’s neck. And they remained that way for a long while, Molly kneeling on the floor beside her.

  “Don’t you ever cry?” she whispered.

  “Not — now.”

  “It would be better if you could.”

  “There are no tears — I — I am burnt out — all burnt out — —”

  “You need strength.”

  “I haven’t the desire for it any longer.”

  “Not the desire to face things pluckily?”

  “No — no longer. Everything’s dead in me except the longing for — quiet. I’ll pay any price for it — except misuse of friends.”

  “How could you misuse Rix by marrying him?”

  “By accepting what I could never return.”

  “Love?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he ask that?”

  “N-no — not now. But — he wants it. And I haven’t it to give. So I can’t take his �
�� and let him work all his life for my comfort — I can’t take it from Sir Charles and accept the position and fortune he offered me once — —”

  She lay silent a moment, then unclosed her eyes.

  “Molly,” she said, “I don’t believe that Sir Charles is going to mind very much.”

  Molly met her eyes for an instant, very near, and a pale flash of telepathy passed between them. Then Strelsa smiled.

  “You mean Chrysos,” said Molly.

  “Yes.... Don’t you think so?”

  “She’s little more than a child.... I don’t know. Men are that way — men of Sir Charles’s age and experience are likely to drift that way.... But if you are done with Sir Charles, what he does no longer interests me — except that the Lacys will become insufferable if — —”

  “Don’t talk that way, dear.”

  “I don’t like the family — except Chrysos.”

  “Then be glad for her — if it comes true.... Sir Charles is a dear — almost too perfectly ideal to be a man.... I do wish it for his sake.... He was a little unhappy over me I think.”

  “He adores you still, you little villain!” whispered Molly, fondling her. “But — let poets sing and romancers rave — there’s nothing that starves as quickly as love. And Sir Charles has been long fasting — good luck to him and more shame on you!”

  Strelsa laughed, cleared her brow and eyes of the soft bright hair, and, flinging out both arms, took Molly to her heart in a swift, hard embrace.

  “There!” she said, breathless, “I adore you anyhow, Molly.... I feel better, too. I’m glad you talked to me.... Do you think I’ll get anything for my house?”

  “Yes, when you sell it. That’s the hopeless part of it just at this time of year — —”

  “Perhaps my luck will turn,” said Strelsa. “You know I’ve had an awful lot of the other kind all my life.”

  They laughed.

  Strelsa went on: “Perhaps when I sell everything I’ll have enough left over to buy a little house up here near you, Molly, and have pigs and chickens and a cow!”

  “How long could you stand that kind of existence, silly?”

  Strelsa looked gravely back at her, then with a sigh: “It seems as though I could stand it forever, now. You know I seem to be changing a little all the while. First, when Mrs. Sprowl found me at Colorado Springs and persuaded me to come to New York I was mad for pleasure — crazy about anything that promised gaiety and amusement — anything to make me forget.