Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  And Neeland lay there thinking, his head on his elbow, the other arm extended — from the fingers of which the burnt-out cigarette presently fell to the floor.

  He thought to himself:

  “She is absolutely beautiful; there’s no denying that. It’s not her clothes or the way she does her hair, or her voice, or the way she moves, or how she looks at a man; it’s the whole business. And the whole bally business is a miracle, that’s all. Good Lord! And to think I ever had the nerve — the nerve!”

  He swung himself to a sitting posture, sat gazing into space for a few moments, then continued to undress by pulling off one shoe, lighting a cigarette, and regarding his other foot fixedly.

  That is the manner in which the vast majority of young men do their deepest thinking.

  However, before five o’clock he had scrubbed himself and arrayed his well constructed person in fresh linen and outer clothing; and now he sauntered out through the hallway and down the stairs to the rear drawing-room, where a tea-table had been brought in and tea paraphernalia arranged. Although the lamp under the kettle had been lighted, nobody was in the room except a West Highland terrier curled up on a lounge, who, without lifting his snow-white head, regarded Neeland out of the wisest and most penetrating eyes the young man had ever encountered.

  Here was a personality! Here was a dog not to be approached lightly or with flippant familiarity. No! That small, long, short-legged body with its thatch of wiry white hair was fairly instinct with dignity, wisdom, and uncompromising self-respect.

  “That dog,” thought Neeland, venturing to seat himself on a chair opposite, “is a Presbyterian if ever there was one. And I, for one, haven’t the courage to address him until he deigns to speak to me.”

  He looked respectfully at the dog, glanced at the kettle which had begun to sizzle a little, then looked out of the long windows into the little walled garden where a few slender fruit trees grew along the walls in the rear of well-kept flower beds, now gay with phlox, larkspur, poppies, and heliotrope, and edged with the biggest and bluest pansies he had ever beheld.

  On the wall a Peacock butterfly spread its brown velvet and gorgeously eyed wings to the sun’s warmth; a blackbird with brilliant yellow bill stood astride a peach twig and poured out a bubbling and incessant melody full of fluted grace notes. And on the grass oval a kitten frisked with the ghosts of last month’s dandelions, racing after the drifting fluff and occasionally keeling over to attack its own tail, after the enchanting manner of all kittens.

  A step behind him and Neeland turned. It was Marotte, the butler, who presented a thick, sealed envelope to him on his salver, bent to turn down the flame under the singing silver kettle, and withdrew without a sound.

  Neeland glanced at the letter in perplexity, opened the envelope and the twice-folded sheets of letter paper inside, and read this odd communication:

  * * * * *

  Have I been fair to you? Did I keep my word? Surely you must now, in your heart, acquit me of treachery — of any premeditated violence toward you.

  I never dreamed that those men would come to my stateroom. That plan had been discussed, but was abandoned because it appeared impossible to get hold of you.

  And also — may I admit it without being misunderstood? — I absolutely refused to permit any attempt involving your death.

  When the trap shut on you, there in my stateroom, it shut also on me. I was totally unprepared; I was averse to murder; and also I had given you my word of honour.

  Judge, then, of my shame and desperation — my anger at being entrapped in a false position involving the loss in your eyes of my personal honour!

  It was unbearable: and I did what I could to make it clear to you that I had not betrayed you. But my comrades do not yet know that I had any part in it; do not yet understand why the ship was not blown to splinters. They are satisfied that I made a mistake in the rendezvous. And, so far, no suspicion attaches to me; they believe the mechanism of the clock failed them. And perhaps it is well for me that they believe this.

  It is, no doubt, a matter of indifference to you how the others and I reached safety. I have no delusions concerning any personal and kindly feeling on your part toward me. But one thing you can not — dare not — believe, and that is that I proved treacherous to you and false to my own ideas of honour.

  And now let me say one more thing to you — let me say it out of a — friendship — for which you care nothing — could not care anything. And that is this: your task is accomplished. You could not possibly have succeeded. There is no chance for recovery of those papers. Your mission is definitely ended.

  Now, I beg of you to return to America. Keep clear of entanglement in these events which are beginning to happen in such rapid succession in Europe. They do not concern you; you have nothing to do with them, no interest in them. Your entry into affairs which can not concern you would be insulting effrontery and foolish bravado.

  I beg you to heed this warning. I know you to be personally courageous; I suppose that fear of consequences would not deter you from intrusion into any affair, however dangerous; but I dare hope that perhaps in your heart there may have been born a little spark of friendliness — a faint warmth of recognition for a woman who took some slight chance with death to prove to you that her word of honour is not lightly given or lightly broken.

  So, if you please, our ways part here with this letter sent to you by hand.

  I shall not forget the rash but generous boy I knew who called me

  Scheherazade.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  TOGETHER

  He sat there, holding the letter and looking absently over it at the little dog who had gone to sleep again. There was no sound in the room save the faint whisper of the tea-kettle. The sunny garden outside was very still, too; the blackbird appeared to doze on his peach twig; the kitten had settled down with eyes half closed and tail tucked under flank.

  The young man sat there with his letter in his hand and eyes lost in retrospection for a while.

  In his hand lay evidence that the gang which had followed him, and through which he no longer doubted that he had been robbed, was now in Paris.

  And yet he could not give this information to the Princess Naïa. Here was a letter which he could not show. Something within him forbade it, some instinct which he did not trouble to analyse.

  And this instinct sent the letter into his breast pocket as a light sound came to his ears; and the next instant Rue Carew entered the further drawing-room.

  The little West Highland terrier looked up, wagged that section of him which did duty as a tail, and watched her as Neeland rose to seat her at the tea-table.

  “Sandy,” she said to the little dog, “if you care to say ‘Down with the Sultan,’ I shall bestow one lump of sugar upon you.”

  “Yap-yap!” said the little dog.

  “Give it to him, please — —” Rue handed the sugar to Neeland, who delivered it gravely.

  “That’s because I want Sandy to like you,” she added.

  Neeland regarded the little dog and addressed him politely:

  “I shouldn’t dare call you Sandy on such brief acquaintance,” he said; “but may I salute you as Alexander? Thank you, Alexander.”

  He patted the dog, whose tail made a slight, sketchy motion of approval.

  “Now,” said Rue Carew, “you are friends, and we shall all be very happy together, I’m sure.... Princess Naïa said we were not to wait. Tell me how to fix your tea.”

  He explained. About to begin on a buttered croissant, he desisted abruptly and rose to receive the Princess, who entered with the light, springy step characteristic of her, gowned in one of those Parisian afternoon creations which never are seen outside that capital, and never will be.

  “Far too charming to be real,” commented Neeland. “You are a pretty fairy story, Princess Naïa, and your gown is a miracle tale which never was true.”

  He had not dared any such flippancy with Rue Carew, and th
e girl, who knew she was exquisitely gowned, felt an odd little pang in her heart as this young man’s praise of the Princess Mistchenka fell so easily and gaily from his lips. He might have noticed her gown, as it had been chosen with many doubts, much hesitation, and anxious consideration, for him.

  She flushed a little at the momentary trace of envy:

  “You are too lovely for words,” she said, rising. But the Princess gently forced her to resume her seat.

  “If this young man has any discrimination,” she said, “he won’t hesitate with the golden apple, Ruhannah.”

  Rue laughed and flushed:

  “He hasn’t noticed my gown, and I wore it for him to notice,” she said. “But he was too deeply interested in Sandy and in tea and croissants — —”

  “I did notice it!” said Neeland. And, to that young man’s surprise and annoyance, his face grew hot with embarrassment. What on earth possessed him to blush like a plow-boy! He suddenly felt like one, too, and turned sharply to the little dog, perplexed, irritated with himself and his behaviour.

  Behind him the Princess was saying:

  “The car is here. I shan’t stop for tea, dear. In case anything happens, I am at the Embassy.”

  “The Russian Embassy,” repeated Rue.

  “Yes. I may be a little late. We are to dine here en famille at eight. You will entertain James ——

  “James!” she repeated, addressing him. “Do you think Ruhannah sufficiently interesting to entertain you while I am absent?”

  But all his aplomb, his lack of self-consciousness, seemed to be gone; and Neeland made some reply which seemed to him both obvious and dull. And hated himself because he found himself so unaccountably abashed, realising that he was afraid of the opinions that this young girl might entertain concerning him.

  “I’m going,” said the Princess. “Au revoir, dear; good-bye, James — —”

  She looked at him keenly when he turned to face her, smiled, still considering him as though she had unexpectedly discovered a new feature in his expressive face.

  Whatever it was she discovered seemed to make her smile a trifle more mechanical; she turned slowly to Rue Carew, hesitated, then, nodding a gay adieu, turned and left the room with Neeland at her elbow.

  “I’ll tuck you in,” he began; but she said:

  “Thanks; Marotte will do that.” And left him at the door.

  When the car had driven away down the rue Soleil d’Or, Neeland returned to the little drawing-room where Rue was indulging Sandy with small bits of sugar.

  He took up cup and buttered croissant, and for a little while nothing was said, except to Sandy who, upon invitation, repeated his opinion of the Sultan and snapped in the offered emolument with unsatiated satisfaction.

  To Rue Carew as well as to Neeland there seemed to be a slight constraint between them — something not entirely new to her since they had met again after two years.

  In the two years of her absence she had been very faithful to the memory of his kindness; constant in the friendship which she had given him unasked — given him first, she sometimes thought, when she was a little child in a ragged pink frock, and he was a wonderful young man who had taken the trouble to cross the pasture and warn her out of range of the guns.

  He had always held his unique place in her memory and in her innocent affections; she had written to him again and again, in spite of his evident lack of interest in the girl to whom he had been kind. Rare, brief letters from him were read and reread, and laid away with her best-loved treasures. And when the prospect of actually seeing him again presented itself, she had been so frankly excited and happy that the Princess Mistchenka could find in the girl’s unfeigned delight nothing except a young girl’s touching and slightly amusing hero-worship.

  But with her first exclamation when she caught sight of him at the terminal, something about her preconceived ideas of him, and her memory of him, was suddenly and subtly altered, even while his name fell from her excited lips.

  Because she had suddenly realised that he was even more wonderful than she had expected or remembered, and that she did not know him at all — that she had no knowledge of this tall, handsome, well-built young fellow with his sunburnt features and his air of smiling aloofness and of graceful assurance, almost fascinating and a trifle disturbing.

  Which had made the girl rather grave and timid, uncertain of the estimation in which he might hold her; no longer so sure of any encouragement from him in her perfectly obvious attitude of a friend of former days.

  And so, shyly admiring, uncertain, inclined to warm response at any advance from this wonderful young man, the girl had been trying to adjust herself to this new incarnation of a certain James Neeland who had won her gratitude and who had awed her, too, from the time when, as a little girl, she had first beheld him.

  She lifted her golden-grey eyes to him; a little unexpected sensation not wholly unpleasant checked her speech for a moment.

  This was odd, even unaccountable. Such awkwardness, such disquieting and provincial timidity wouldn’t do.

  “Would you mind telling me a little about Brookhollow?” she ventured.

  Certainly he would tell her. He laid aside his plate and tea cup and told her of his visits there when he had walked over from Neeland’s Mills in the pleasant summer weather.

  Nothing had changed, he assured her; mill-dam and pond and bridge, and the rushing creek below were exactly as she knew them; her house stood there at the crossroads, silent and closed in the sunshine, and under the high moon; pickerel and sunfish still haunted the shallow pond; partridges still frequented the alders and willows across her pasture; fireflies sailed through the summer night; and the crows congregated in the evening woods and talked over the events of the day.

  “And my cat? You wrote that you would take care of Adoniram.”

  “Adoniram is an aged patriarch and occupies the place of honour in my father’s house,” he said.

  “He is well?”

  “Oh, yes. He prefers his food cut finely, that is all.”

  “I don’t suppose he will live very long.”

  “He’s pretty old,” admitted Neeland.

  She sighed and looked out of the window at the kitten in the garden. And, after an interval of silence:

  “Our plot in the cemetery — is it — pretty?”

  “It is beautiful,” he said, “under the great trees. It is well cared for. I had them plant the shrubs and flowers you mentioned in the list you sent me.”

  “Thank you.” She lifted her eyes again to him. “I wonder if you realise how — how splendid you have always been to me.”

  Surprised, he reddened, and said awkwardly that he had done nothing. Where was the easy, gay and debonaire assurance of this fluent young man? He was finding nothing to say to Rue Carew, or saying what he said as crudely and uncouthly as any haymaker in Gayfield.

  He looked up, exasperated, and met her eyes squarely. And Rue Carew blushed.

  They both looked elsewhere at once, but in the girl’s breast a new pulse beat; a new instinct stirred, blindly importuning her for recognition; a new confusion threatened the ordered serenity of her mind, vaguely menacing it with unaccustomed questions.

  Then the instinct of self-command returned; she found composure with an effort.

  “You haven’t asked me,” she said, “about my work. Would you like to know?”

  He said he would; and she told him — chary of self-praise, yet eager that he should know that her masters had spoken well of her.

  “And you know,” she said, “every week, now, I contribute a drawing to the illustrated paper I wrote to you about. I sent one off yesterday. But,” and she laughed shyly, “my nostrils are no longer filled with pride, because I am not contented with myself any more. I wish to do — oh, so much better work!”

  “Of course. Contentment in creative work means that we have nothing more to create.”

  She nodded and smiled:

  “The youngest born is
the most tenderly cherished — until a new one comes. It is that way with me; I am all love and devotion and tenderness and self-sacrifice while fussing over my youngest. Then a still younger comes, and I become like a heartless cat and drive away all progeny except the newly born.”

  She sighed and smiled and looked up at him:

  “It can’t be helped, I suppose — that is, if one’s going to have more progeny.”

  “It’s our penalty for producing. Only the newest counts. And those to come are to be miracles. But they never are.”

  She nodded seriously.

  “When there is a better light I should like to show you some of my studies,” she ventured. “No, not now. I am too vain to risk anything except the kindest of morning lights. Because I do hope for your approval — —”

  “I know they’re good,” he said. And, half laughingly: “I’m beginning to find out that you’re a rather wonderful and formidable and overpowering girl, Ruhannah.”

  “You don’t think so!” she exclaimed, enchanted. “Do you? Oh, dear! Then I feel that I ought to show you my pictures and set you right immediately — —” She sprang to her feet. “I’ll get them; I’ll be only a moment — —”

  She was gone before he discovered anything to say, leaving him to walk up and down the deserted room and think about her as clearly as his somewhat dislocated thoughts permitted, until she returned with both arms full of portfolios, boards, and panels.

  “Now,” she said with a breathless smile, “you may mortify my pride and rebuke my vanity. I deserve it; I need it; but Oh! — don’t be too severe — —”

  “Are you serious?” he asked, looking up in astonishment from the first astonishing drawing in colour which he held between his hands.

  “Serious? Of course — —” She met his eyes anxiously, then her own became incredulous and the swift colour dyed her face.

  “Do you like my work?” she asked in a fainter voice.

  “Like it!” He continued to stare at the bewildering grace and colour of the work, turned to another and lifted it to the light: