“You know I never went anywhere in Colorado Springs; I was too ill — ill most of the time.... And Mrs. Sprowl said she knew my mother — it’s curious, but mother never said anything about her — and she cared for fashionable people.
“So I came to New York last winter — and you know the rest — I got tired physically, first; then so many wanted to marry me — and so many women urged me to do so many things — and I was unhappy about Rix — and then came this awful financial crash — —”
“Stop thinking of it!”
“Yes; I mean to. I only wanted you to understand how, one by one, emotions and desires have been killed in me during the last four years.... And even the desire for wealth and position — which I clung to up to yesterday — somehow, now — this morning — has become little more than a dreamy wish.... I’d rather have quiet if I could — if there’s enough money left to let me rest somewhere — —”
“There will be,” said Molly, watching her.
“Do you think so? And — then there would be no necessity for — for — —”
“Langly!”
Strelsa flushed. “I wonder,” she mused. “I wonder whether — but it seems impossible that I should suddenly find I didn’t care for everything I cared for this winter. Perhaps I’m too tired to care just now.”
“It might be,” said Molly, “that something — for example your friendship with Rix — had made other matters seem less important.”
The girl looked up quickly, saw nothing in Molly’s expression to disturb her, then turned her eyes away, and lay silent, considering.
If her friendship for Quarren had imperceptibly filled her mind, even crowding aside other and most important matters, she did not realise it. She thought of it now, and of him — recalling the letter she had written.
Vaguely she was aware of the difference in her attitude toward life since she wrote that letter only a few days before. To what was it due? To his letter in reply now lying between the leaves of her New Testament on the table beside her? This was his letter:
“Hold out, Strelsa! Matters are going well with me. Your tide, too, will turn before you know it. But neither man nor woman is going to aid you, only time, Strelsa, and — something that neither you nor I have bothered about very much — something that has many names in many tongues — but they all mean the same. And the symbol of what they mean is Truth.
“Why not study it? We never have. All sages of all times have studied it and found comfort; all saints in all ages have found in it strength.
“I find its traces in every ancient picture that I touch. But there are books still older that have lived because of it. And one man died for it — man or God as you will — the former is more fashionable.
“Lives that have been lived because of it, given for it, forgiven for its sake, are worth our casual study.
“For they say there is no greater thing than Truth. I can imagine no greater. And the search for it is interesting — fascinating — I had no idea how absorbing until recently — until I first saw you, who sent me out into the world to work.
“Hold out — and study this curious subject of Truth for a little while. Will you?
“If you’ll only study it a while I promise that it will interest you — not in its formalisms, not in its petty rituals and observances, nor in its endless nomenclature, nor its orthodoxy — but just as you discover it for yourself in the histories of men and women — of saint and sinner — and, above all, in the matchless life of Him who understood them all.
“Non tu corpus eras sine pectore!”
Lying there, remembering his letter almost word for word, and where it now lay among printed pages incomprehensible to her except by the mechanical processes of formal faith and superficial observance, she wondered how much that, and the scarcely scanned printed page, might have altered her views of life.
Molly kissed her again and went away downstairs.
When she was dressed in her habit she went out to the lawn’s edge where Langly and the horses had already gathered: he put her up, and they cantered away down the wooded road that led to South Linden.
After their first gallop they slowed to a walk on the farther hill slope, chatting of inconsequential things; and it seemed to her that he was in unusually good spirits — almost gay for him — and his short dry laugh rang out once or twice, which was more than she had heard from him in a week.
From moment to moment she glanced sideways at him, curiously inspecting the sleek-headed symmetry of the man, noticing, as always, his perfectly groomed figure, his narrow head and the well-cut lines of the face and jaw. Once she had seen him — the very first time she had ever met him at Miami — eating a broiled lobster. And somehow his healthy appetite, the clean incision of his sun-bronzed jaw and the working muscles, chewing and swallowing, fascinated her; and she never saw him but she thought of him eating vigorously aboard the Yulan.
“Langly,” she said, “is it going to be disagreeable for you when Mrs. Ledwith returns to South Linden?”
He looked at her leisurely, eyes, as always, slightly protruding:
“Why?”
“The newspapers.”
“Probably,” he said.
“Then — what are you going to do about it?”
“About what?”
“The papers.”
“Nothing.”
“Or — about Mrs. Ledwith?”
“Be civil if I see her.”
“Of course,” she said, reddening. “I was wondering whether gossip might be nipped in the bud if you left before she arrives and remained away until she leaves.”
His prominent eyes were searching her features all the while she was speaking; now they wandered restlessly over the landscape.
“It’s my fashion,” he said, “to face things as they come.”
“If you don’t mind I’d rather have you go,” she said.
“Where?”
“Anywhere you care to.”
He said: “I have told you a thousand times that the thing to do is to take Molly Wycherly ‘board the Yulan, and — —”
“I do not care to do it until our engagement is announced.”
“Very well,” he said, swinging around in his saddle, “I’ll announce it to-day and we’ll go aboard this evening and clear out.”
“Wh-what!” she faltered.
“There’s no use waiting any longer,” he said. “Mrs. Ledwith and my fool of an aunt are coming to-morrow. Did you know that? Well, they are. And every dirty newspaper in town will make the matter insidiously significant! If my aunt hadn’t taken it into her head to visit Mrs. Ledwith at this particular moment, there would have been few comments. As it is there’ll be plenty — and I don’t feel like putting up with them — I don’t propose to for my own sake. The time comes, sooner or later, when a man has got to consider himself.”
After a short silence Strelsa raised her gray eyes:
“Has it occurred to you to consider, me, Langly?”
“What? Certainly. Haven’t I been doing that ever since we’ve been engaged — —”
“I — wonder,” she mused.
“What else have I been doing?” he insisted— “denying myself the pleasure of you when I’m half crazy about you — —”
“What!”
A dull flush settled under his prominent cheek-bones: he looked straight ahead of him between his horse’s ears as he rode, sitting his saddle like the perfect horseman he was, although his mount felt the savage pain of a sudden and reasonless spurring and the wicked curb scarcely controlled him.
Strelsa set her lips, not looking at either horse or man on her right, nor even noticing her own mare who was cutting up in sympathy with the outraged hunter at her withers.
“Langly?”
“Yes?”
“Has it ever occurred to you how painful such scandalous rumours must be for Mrs. Ledwith?”
“Can I help them?”
Strelsa said, thoughtfully: “What a horri
ble thing for a woman! It was generous of your aunt to show people what she thought of such cruel stories.”
“Do you think,” he said sneeringly, “that my excellent aunt was inspired by any such motive? You might as well know — if you don’t know already—” and his pale eyes rested a moment on the girl beside him— “that my aunt is visiting Mrs. Ledwith solely to embarrass me!”
“How could it embarrass you?”
“By giving colour to the lies told about me and the Ledwiths,” he said in a hard voice— “by hinting that Mary Ledwith, free to marry, is accepted by my aunt; and the rest is up to me! That’s what that female relative of mine has just done—” His big, white teeth closed with a click and he spurred his horse cruelly again and checked him until the slavering creature almost reared over backward.
“If you maltreat that horse again, Langly, I’ll leave you. Do you understand?” she said, exasperated.
“I beg your pardon—” Again his jaw fairly snapped, but the horse did not suffer from his displeasure.
“What has enraged you so?” she demanded.
“This whole business. There isn’t anything my aunt could have done more vicious, more contemptible, than to visit Mrs. Ledwith at this moment. I’ll get it from every quarter, now.”
“I suppose she will, too.”
“My aunt? No such luck!”
“I mean Mrs. Ledwith.”
“She? Oh, I suppose so.”
Strelsa said between tightening lips:
“Is there nothing you can do, no kindness, no sacrifice you can make to shield Mrs. Ledwith?”
He stared at her, then his eyes roamed restlessly:
“How?”
“I don’t know, Langly.... But if there is anything you could do — —”
“What? My aunt and the papers are determined that I shall marry her! I take it that you are not suggesting that, are you?”
“I am suggesting nothing,” she replied in a low voice.
“Well, I am. I’m suggesting that you and Molly and I go aboard the Yulan and clear out to-night!”
“You mean — to announce our engagement first?”
“Just as you choose,” he said without a shade of expression on his features.
“You would scarcely propose that I sail with you under any other circumstances,” she said sharply.
“I leave it to you and Mrs. Wycherly. The main idea is to clear out and let them howl and tear things up.”
“Howl at Mrs. Ledwith and tear her to tatters while we start around the world on the Yulan?” nodded Strelsa. She was rather white, but she laughed; and he, hearing her, turned and laughed, too — a quick bark of a laugh that startled both horses who were unaccustomed to it.
“Oh, I guess they won’t put her out of business,” he said. “She’s young and handsome and there are plenty of her sort to marry her — even Dankmere would have a chance there or—” he hesitated, and decided to refrain. But she understood perfectly, and lost the remainder of her colour.
“You mean Mr. Quarren,” she said coolly.
“I didn’t,” he replied, lying. And she was aware of his falsehood, too.
“What started those rumours about Mrs. Ledwith and you, Langly?” she asked in the same pleasantly even tone, and turned her horse’s head toward home at the same time. He made his mount pivot showily on his hocks and drew bridle beside her.
“Oh, they started at Newport.”
“How?”
“How do I know? Ledwith and I were connected in business matters; I saw more or less of them both — and he was too busy to be with his wife every time I happened to be with her. So — you know what they said.”
“Yes. When you and she were lunching at different tables at the Santa Regina you used to write notes to her, and everybody saw you.”
“What of it?”
“Nothing.”
“That is just it; there was nothing in it.”
“Except her reputation.... What a silly and careless girl! But a man doesn’t think — doesn’t care very much I fancy. And then everybody was offensively sorry for Chester Ledwith. But that was not your lookout, was it, Langly?”
Sprowl turned his narrow face and looked at her in silence; and after a moment misjudged her.
“It was not my fault,” he said quietly. “I liked his wife and I was friendly with him until his gutter habits annoyed me.”
“He went to pieces, didn’t he?”
Once more Sprowl inspected her features, warily. Once more he misjudged her.
“He’s gone to smash,” he said— “but what’s that to us?”
“I wonder,” she smiled, but had to control the tremor of her lower lip by catching it between her teeth and looking away from the man beside her. Quickly the hint of tears dried out in her gray eyes — from whatever cause they sprang glimmering there to dim her eyesight. She bent her head, absently arranging, rearranging and shifting her bridle.
“The thing to do,” he said, curling his long moustache with powerful fingers— “is for the Wycherlys to stand by us now — and the others there — that little Lacy girl — and Sir Charles if he chooses. We’ll have to take the whole lot of them aboard I suppose.”
“Suppose I go with you alone,” she said in a low voice.
He started in his saddle, turned on her a face that was reddening heavily. For an instant she scarcely recognised him, so thick his lips seemed, so congested the veins in forehead and neck. He seemed all mouth and eyes and sanguine colour — and big, even teeth, now, as the lips drew aside disclosing them.
“Would you do that, Strelsa?”
“Why not?”
“Would you do it — for me?”
Her rapid breathing impeded speech; she said something inarticulate; he leaned from his saddle and caught her in his left arm.
“By God,” he stammered, “I knew it! You can have what you like from me — I don’t care what it is! — take it — fill out your own checks — only let’s get out of here before those damned women ruin us both!”
She had strained back and aside from him, and was trying to guide her mare away, but his powerful arm crushed her and his hot breath fell on her face and neck.
“You can have it your own way I tell you — I swear to God I’ll marry you — —”
“What!”
Almost strangled she wrenched herself free, panting, staring; and he realised his mistake.
“We can’t get a licence if we leave to-night,” he said, breathing heavily. “But we can touch at any port and manage that.”
“You — you would take me — permit me to go — in such a manner?” she breathed, still staring at him.
“It’s necessity, isn’t it? Didn’t you propose it? It makes no difference to me, Strelsa. I told you I’d do anything you wished.”
“What did you mean — what did you mean by — by—” But she could go no further in speech or thought.
“The thing to do,” he said calmly, “is not to fly off our heads or become panic-stricken. You’re doing the latter; I lost control of myself — after what you gave me to hope — after what you said — showing your trust in me,” he added, moistening his thick dry lips with his tongue. “I lost my self-command — because I am crazy for you, Strelsa — there’s no sense in pretending otherwise — and you knew it all the time, you little coquette!
“What do you think a man’s made of? You wanted a business arrangement and I humoured you; but you knew all the while, and I knew, that — that I am infatuated, absolutely mad about you.” He added, boldly: “And I have reason to think it doesn’t entirely displease you, haven’t I?”
She did not seem to hear him. He laid his gloved hand over hers, and recoiled before her eyes as from a blow.
“Are you angry?” he asked.
Her teeth were still working on her under lip. She made no answer.
“Strelsa — if you really feel nothing for me — if you mean what you have said about a purely business agreement — I will hold to
it. I thought for a moment — when you said — something in your smile made me think — —”
“You need not think any further,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I came with you this morning to tell you that I will not marry you.”
“That’s nonsense! I’ve hurt you — made you angry — —”
“I came for that reason,” she repeated. “I meant to do it as soon as I had the courage. I meant to do it gently. Now I don’t care how I do it. It’s enough for you to know that I will not marry you.”
“Is that final?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it. I know perfectly well I was — was too impulsive, too ardent — —”
She turned her face away with a faint, sick look at the summer fields where scores of birds sang in the sunshine.
“See here,” he said, his manner changing, “I tell you I’m sorry. I ask your pardon. Whatever you wish shall be done. Tell me what to do.”
After a few moments she turned toward him again.
“A few minutes ago I could have told you what to do. I would have told you to marry Mary Ledwith. Also I would have been wrong. Now, as you ask me, I tell you not to marry her.”
His eyes were deadly dangerous, but she met them carelessly.
“No,” she said, “don’t marry any woman after your attentions have made her conspicuous. It will be pleasanter for her to be torn to pieces by her friends.”
“You are having your vengeance,” he said. “Take it to the limit, Strelsa, and then let us be reconciled.”
“No, it is too late. It was too late even before we started out together. Why — I didn’t realise it then — but it was too late long ago — from the day you spoke as you did in my presence to Mr. Quarren. That finished you, Langly — if, indeed, you ever really began to mean anything at all to me.”
He made a last effort and the veins stood out on his forehead:
“I am sorry I spoke to Quarren as I did. I like him.”
She said coolly: “You hate him. You and Mr. Caldera almost ruined him in that acreage affair.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 608