Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “If that is true, let me be with you sometimes, Strelsa,” he said in a low voice.

  “Why?”

  “Because I am wretchedly unhappy. And I care for you — more than you realise.”

  She said seriously: “You have no right to speak that way to me, Langly.”

  “Could you ever again give me the right to say I love you?”

  A quick flush of displeasure touched her cheeks; he saw it in the dusk of the garden, and mistook it utterly:

  “Strelsa — listen to me, dear! I have not slept since our quarrel. I must have been stark mad to say and do what I did.... Don’t leave me! Don’t go! I beg you to listen a moment — —”

  She had started to move away from him and his first forward step broke a blossom from its stalk where it hung white in the dusk.

  “I ask you to go,” she said under her breath. “There are people here — on the veranda — —”

  Every sense within him told him to go, pretending resignation. That was his policy. He had come here for martyrdom, cuirassed in patience. Every atom of common sense warned him to go.

  But also every physical sense in him was now fully aroused — the silvery star-dusk, the scent of lilies, a slender woman within arm’s reach — this woman who had once been so nearly his — who was still rightfully his! — these circumstances were arousing him once more to a temerity which his better senses warned him to subdue. Yet if he could only get nearer to her — if he could once get her into his arms — overwhelm her with the storm of passion rising so swiftly within him, almost choking him — so that his voice and limbs already trembled in its furious surge ——

  “Strelsa — I love you! For God’s sake show me some mercy!” he stammered. “I come to you half crazed by the solitude to which your anger has consigned me. I cannot endure it — I need you — I want you — I ask for your compassion — —”

  “Hush!” she pleaded, hastily retreating before him through the snowy banks of rockets— “I have asked you not to speak to me that way! I ask you to go — to go now! — because — —”

  “Will you listen to me! Will you wait a moment! I am only trying to tell you that I love you, dear — —”

  He almost caught her, but she sprang aside, frightened, still retreating before him.

  “I cannot go until you listen to me!—” he said thickly, trampling through the flowers to intercept her. “You’ve got to listen! — do you hear?”

  She had almost reached the terrace; the shadowy veranda opened widely beyond.

  “There are people here! Don’t you understand?” she said once more in a choking voice; but he only advanced, and she fell back before him to the very edge of the porch lattice.

  “Now listen to me!” he said between his teeth. “I love you and I’ll never give you up — —”

  Suddenly she turned on him, hands tightly clenched:

  “Be silent!” she whispered fiercely. “I tell you what you say is indecent, revolting! If there were a man here he’d kill you! Do you understand?”

  At the same instant his eyes became fixed on a figure in white which took shadowy shape on the dark veranda, rising and coming slowly forward.

  Ghostlike as it was he knew it instantly, stood rooted in his tracks while Strelsa stole away from him through the star-lit gloom, farther, farther, slipping forever from him now — he knew that as he stood there staring like a damned man upon that other dim shape in the darkness beyond.

  It was his first glimpse of her since her return from Reno. And now, unbidden, memories half strangled were already in full resurrection, gasping in his ears of things that had been — of forgotten passion, of pleasure promised; and, because never tasted, it had been the true and only pleasure for such a man as he — the pleasure of anticipation. But the world had never, would never believe that. Only he, and the phantom there in the dusk before him, knew it to be true.

  Slightly reeling he turned away in the darkness. In his haunted ears sounded a young wife’s voice, promising, caressing; through and through him shot a thrill of the old excitement, the old desire, urging him again toward belated consummation.

  And again the old impatience seized him, the old ruthlessness, the old anger at finding her weak in every way except one, the old contempt which had turned to sullen amazement when she wrote him that she had gone to Reno and that they must wait for their happiness until the courts decreed it legal.

  Now as he swung along under the high stars he was thinking of these things. And he felt that he had not tried her enough, had not really exerted himself — that women who are fools require closer watching than clever ones; that he could have overcome her scruples with any real effort and saved her from giving him the slip and sowing a wind in Reno which already had become enough of a breeze to bother him.

  With her, for a while, he might be able to distract his mind from this recent obsession tormenting him. To overcome her would interest him; and he had no doubt it could be done — for she was a little fool — silly enough to slap the world in the face and brave public opinion at Reno. No — it was not necessary to marry such a woman. She might think so, but it wasn’t.

  He had behaved unwisely, too. Why should he not have gone to see her when she returned? By doing so, and acting cleverly, he could have avoided trouble with his aunt, and also these annoying newspaper paragraphs. Also he could have avoided the scene with Ledwith — and the aborted reconciliation just now with Strelsa, where he had stood staring at the apparition of Mary Ledwith as lost souls stand transfixed before the pallid shades of those whom they have destroyed.

  At his lodge-gate a half-cowering dog fawned on him and he kicked it aside. The bruised creature fled, and Sprowl turned in at his gates and walked slowly up the cypress-bordered drive.

  He thought it all out that night, studied it carefully. What he needed was distraction from the present torment. Mary Ledwith could give that to him. What a fool she had been ever to imagine that she could be anything more than his temporary mistress.

  “The damned little idiot,” he mused— “cutting away to Reno before I knew what she was up to — and involving us both in all that talk! What did she flatter herself I wanted, anyway.... But I ought to have called on her at once; now it’s going to be difficult.”

  Yet he sullenly welcomed the difficulty — hoped that she’d hold out. That was what he wanted, the excitement of it to take his mind from Strelsa — keep him interested and employed until the moment arrived once more when he might venture to see her again. He was, by habit, a patient man. Only in the case of Strelsa Leeds had passion ever prematurely betrayed him; and, pacing his porch there in the darkness, he set his teeth and wondered at himself and cursed himself, unable to reconcile what he knew of himself with what he had done to the only woman he had ever wished to marry as a last resort.

  For two weeks Sprowl kept to himself. Few men understood better than he what was the medicinal value of time. Only once had he dared ignore it.

  So one evening, late in August, still dressed in knickerbockers and heather-spats, he walked from his lawn across country to make the first move in a new game with Mary Ledwith.

  Interested, confident, already amused, and in far better spirits than he had been for many a day, he strode out across the fields, swinging his walking-stick, his restless eyes seeing everything and looking directly at nothing.

  Which was a mistake on his part for once, because, crossing a pasture corner, his own bull, advancing silently from a clump of willows, nearly caught him; but Sprowl went over the fence and, turning, brought down his heavy stick across the brute’s ringed nose; and the animal bellowed at him and tore up the sod and followed along inside the fence thundering his baffled fury as long as Sprowl remained in sight.

  It was not all bad disposition. Sprowl, who cared nothing for animals, hated the bull, and, when nothing more attractive offered, was accustomed to come to the fence, irritate the animal, lure him within range, and strike him. He had done it many times; and, some
day, he meant to go into the pasture with a rifle, stand the animal’s charge, and shoot him.

  It was a calm, primrose-tinted sunset where trees and hills and a distant spire loomed golden-black against the yellow west. No trees had yet turned, although, here and there on wooded hills, single discoloured branches broke the green monotony.

  No buckwheat had yet been cut, but above the ruddy fields of stalks the snow of the blossoms had become tarnished in promise of maturity — the first premonition of autumn except for a few harvest apples yellow amid green leaves.

  He had started without any definite plan, a confident but patient opportunist; and as he approached the Ledwith property and finally sighted the chimneys of the house above the trees, something — some errant thought seemed to amuse him, for he smiled slightly. His smile was as rare as his laughter — and as brief; and there remained no trace of it as he swung up the last hill and stood there gazing ahead.

  The sun had set. A delicate purple haze already dimmed distances; and the twilight which falls more swiftly as summer deepens into autumn was already stealing into every hollow and ravine, darkening the alders where the stream stole swampwards. A few laggard crows were still winging toward the woods; a few flocks of blackbirds passed overhead almost unseen against the sky. Somewhere some gardener had been burning leaves and refuse, and the odour made the dusk more autumn-like.

  As he crossed the line separating his land from the Ledwith estate he nodded to the daughter of one of his own gardeners who was passing with a collie; and then he turned to look again at the child whose slender grace and freshness interested him.

  “Look out for that bull, Europa,” he said, staring after her as she walked on.

  She looked back at him, laughingly, and thanked him and went on quite happily, the collie plodding at her heels. Recently Sprowl had been very pleasant to her.

  When she was out of sight he started forward, climbed the fence into the road, followed it to the drive-way, and followed that among the elms and Norway firs to the porch.

  It was so dark here among the trees that only the lighted transom guided him up the steps.

  To the maid who came to the door he said coolly: “Say to Mrs. Ledwith that Mr. Sprowl wishes to see her for a moment on a very important matter.”

  “Mrs. Ledwith is not at home, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Ledwith is not at home.”

  “Where is she; out?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, sir — —”

  “Yes, you do. Mrs. Ledwith is at home but has given you instructions concerning me. Isn’t that so?”

  The maid, crimson and embarrassed, made no answer, and he walked past her into the drawing-room.

  “Light up here,” he said.

  “Please, sir — —”

  “Do as I tell you, my good girl. Here — where’s that button? — there!—” as the pretty room sprang into light— “Now never mind your instructions but go and say to Mrs. Ledwith that I must see her.”

  He calmly unfolded a flat packet of fresh bank-notes, selected one, changed it on reflection for another of higher denomination, and handed it to her. The girl hesitated, still irresolute until he lifted his narrow head and stared at her. Then she went away hurriedly.

  When she returned to say that Mrs. Ledwith was not at home to Mr. Sprowl he shrugged and bade her inform her mistress that their meeting was not a matter of choice but of necessity, and that he would remain where he was until she received him.

  Again the maid went away, evidently frightened, and Sprowl lighted a cigarette and began to saunter about. When he had examined everything in the room he strolled into the farther room. It was unlighted and suited him to sit in; and he installed himself in a comfortable chair and, throwing his cigarette into the fire-place, lighted a cigar.

  This was a game he understood — a waiting game. The game was traditional with his forefathers; every one of them had played it; their endless patience had made a fortune to which each in turn had added before he died. Patience and courage — courage of the sort known as personal bravery — had distinguished all his race. He himself had inherited patience, and had used it wisely except in that one inexplicable case! — and personal courage in him had never been lacking, nor had what often accompanies it, coolness, obstinacy, and effrontery.

  He had decided to wait until his cigar had been leisurely finished. Then, other measures — perhaps walking upstairs, unannounced, perhaps an unresentful withdrawal, a note by messenger, and another attempt to see her to-morrow — he did not yet know — had arrived at no conclusion — but would make up his mind when he finished his cigar and then do whatever caution dictated.

  Once a servant came to the door to look around for him, and when she discovered him in the half-light of the music-room she departed hastily for regions above. This amused Sprowl.

  As he lounged there, thoroughly comfortable, he could hear an occasional stir in distant regions of the house, servants moving perhaps, a door opened or closed, faint creaks from the stairs. Once the distant sounds indicated that somebody was using a telephone; once, as he neared the end of his cigar, a gray cat stole in, caught sight of him, halted, her startled eyes fixed on him, then turned and scuttled out into the hall.

  Finally he rose, flicked his cigar ashes into the fireplace, stretched his powerful frame, yawned, and glanced at his watch.

  And at the same instant somebody entered the front door with a latch-key.

  Sprowl stood perfectly still, interested, waiting: and two men, bare-headed and in evening dress, came swiftly but silently into the drawing-room. One was Quarren, the other Chester Ledwith. Quarren took hold of Ledwith’s arm and tried to draw him out of the room. Then Ledwith caught sight of Sprowl and started toward him, but Quarren again seized his companion by the shoulder and dragged him back.

  “I tell you to keep quiet,” he said in a low voice— “Keep out of this! — go out of the house!”

  “I can’t, Quarren! I — —”

  “You promised not to come in until that man had left — —”

  “I know it. I meant to — but, good God! Quarren! I can’t stand there — —”

  He was struggling toward Sprowl and Quarren was trying to push him back into the hall.

  “You said that you had given up any idea of personal vengeance!” he panted. “Let me deal with him quietly — —”

  “I didn’t know what I was saying,” retorted Ledwith, straining away from the man who held him, his eyes fixed on Sprowl. “I tell you I can’t remain quiet and see that blackguard in this house — —”

  “But he’s going I tell you! He’s going without a row — without any noise. Can’t you let me manage it — —”

  He could not drag Ledwith to the door, so he forced him into a chair and stood guard, glancing back across his shoulder at Sprowl.

  “You’d better go,” he said in a low but perfectly distinct voice.

  Sprowl, still holding his cigar, sauntered forward into the drawing-room.

  “I suppose you are armed,” he said contemptuously. “If you threaten me I’ll take away your guns and slap both your faces — ask the other pup how it feels, Quarren.”

  Ledwith struggled to rise but Quarren had him fast.

  “Get out of here, Sprowl,” he said. “You’ll have a bad time of it if he gets away from me.”

  Sprowl stared, hands in his pockets, puffing his cigar.

  “I’ve a notion to kick you both out,” he drawled.

  “It would be a mistake,” panted Quarren. “Can’t you go while there’s time, Sprowl! I tell you he’ll kill you in this room if you don’t.”

  “I won’t — kill him! — Let go of me, Quarren,” gasped Ledwith. “I — I won’t do murder; I’ve promised you that — for her sake — —”

  “Let him loose, Quarren,” said Sprowl.

  “‘Let him loose, Quarren,’ said Sprowl.”

  He waited
for a full minute, watching the struggling men in silent contempt. Then with a shrug he went out into the hall, leisurely put on his hat, picked up his stick, opened the door, and sauntered out into the darkness.

  “Now,” breathed Quarren fiercely, “you play the man or I’m through with you! He’s gone and he won’t come back — I’ll see to that! And it’s up to you to show what you’re made of!”

  Ledwith, freed, stood white and breathing hard for a few moments. Then a dull flush suffused his thin face; he looked down, stood with hanging head, until Quarren laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s up to you, Ledwith,” he said quietly. “I don’t blame you for losing your head a moment, but if you mean what you said, I should say that this is your chance.... And if I were you I’d simply go upstairs and speak to her.... She’s been through hell.... She’s in it still. But you’re out; and you can stay out if you choose. There’s no need to wallow if you don’t want to. You’re not in very good shape yet, but you’re a man. And now, if you do care for her, I really believe it’s up to you.... Will you go upstairs?”

  Ledwith turned and went out into the familiar hall. Then, as though dazed, resting one thin hand on the rail, he mounted the stairway, head hanging, feeling his way blindly back toward all that life had ever held for him, but which he had been too weak to keep or even to defend.

  Quarren waited for a while; Ledwith did not return. After a few minutes an excited maid came down, stared at him, then, reassured, opened the door for him with a smile. And he went out into the starlight.

  He had been walking for only a few moments when he overtook Sprowl sauntering down a lane; and the latter glanced around and, recognising him, halted.

  “Where’s the other hero?” he asked.

  “Probably discussing you with the woman he is likely to remarry.”

  Sprowl shrugged:

  “That’s what that kind of a man is made for — to marry what others don’t have to marry.”

  “You lie,” said Quarren quietly.

  Sprowl stared at him: then the long-pent fury overwhelmed his common sense again, and again it was in regard to the woman he had lost by his violence.