Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  The subject, naturally, invaded the fairy lore, wild legend and lovely mysticism of the West Coast; and centred about his own exquisite work of interpreting it.

  He spoke of it very modestly, as his source of inspiration, as the inception of his own creative work in that field. But always, through whatever he said, rang low and clear his passionate patriotism and the only motive which incited him to creative effort — his longing for national autonomy and the re-gathering of a scattered people in preparation for its massed journey toward its Destiny.

  His voice was musical, his words unconscious poetry. Without effort, without pains, alas! — without logic — he held every ear enthralled there in the soft candlelight and subdued glimmer of crystal and of silver.

  His was the magic of shadow and half-lights, of vague nuances and lost outlines, and the valued degrees of impinging shade. No sharp contours, no stark, uncompromising shapes, no brutality of raw daylight, and — alas! — no threat of uncompromising logic invaded his realm of dreamy demi-lights and faded fantasies.

  He reigned there, amid an enchanted twilight of his own creation, the embodiment of Irish romance, tender, gay, sweet-minded, persuasive, gallant — and tragic, when, at some unexpected moment, the frail veil of melancholy made his dark eyes less brilliant.

  All yielded to his charm — even the stuffed Teutons, gorging gravy; all felt his sway over mind and heart, nor cared to analyse it, there in the soft light of candles and the scent of old-fashioned flowers.

  There arose some question concerning Sir Roger Casement.

  Murtagh Skeel spoke of him with the pure enthusiasm of passionate belief in a master by a humble disciple. And the Teutons grunted assent.

  The subject of the war had been politely avoided, yet, somehow, it came out that Murtagh Skeel had served in Britain’s army overseas, as an enlisted man in some Irish regiment — a romantic impulse of the moment, involving a young man’s crazy plan to foment rebellion in India. Which little gem of a memoire presently made the fact of his exile self-explanatory. Yet, he contrived that the ugly revelation should end in laughter — an outbreak of spontaneous mirth through which his glittering wit passed like lightning, cauterising the running sore of treason....

  * * * * *

  Coffee served, the diners drifted whither it suited them, together or singly.

  Like an errant spirit, Dulcie moved about at hazard amid the softened lights, engaged here, approached there, pausing, wandering on, nowhere in particular, yet ever listlessly in motion.

  Encountering her near the porch, Barres senior had paused to whisper that there was no hope for any fishing that evening; and she had lingered to smile after him, as, unreconciled, he took his stiff-shirted way toward the pallid, bejewelled, unanimated mass of Mrs. Gerhardt, settled in the widest armchair and absorbing cordial.

  A moment later the girl encountered Garry. He remained with her for a while, evidently desiring to be near her without finding anything in particular to say. And when he, in turn, moved elsewhere, obeying some hazy mandate of hospitality, he became conscious of a reluctance to leave her.

  “Do you know, Sweetness,” he said, lingering, “that you wear a delicate beauty to-night lovelier than I have ever seen in you? You are not only a wonderful girl, Dulcie; you are growing into an adorable woman.”

  The girl looked back at him, blushing vividly in her sheer surprise — watched him saunter away out of her silent sphere of influence before she found any word to utter — if, indeed, she had been seeking any, so deeply, so painfully sweet had sunk his words into every fibre of her untried, defenceless youth.

  Now, as her cheeks cooled, and she came to herself and moved again, there seemed to grow around her a magic and faintly fragrant radiance through which she passed — whither, she paid no heed, so exquisitely her breast was thrilling under the hurrying pulses of her little heart.... And presently found herself on the piano bench, quite motionless, her gaze remote, her fingers resting on the keys.... And, after a long while, she heard an old air stealing through the silence, and her own voice, — à demi-voix — repeating her mother’s words:

  I

  “Were they as wise as they are blue —

  My eyes —

  They’d teach me not to trust in you! —

  If they were wise as they are blue.

  But they’re as blithe as they are blue —

  My eyes —

  They bid my heart rejoice in you,

  Because they’re blithe as well as blue.

  Believe and love! my gay heart cries;

  Believe him not! my mind replies;

  What shall I do

  When heart affirms and sense denies

  All I reveal within my eyes

  To you?

  II

  “If they were black instead of blue —

  My eyes —

  Perhaps they’d prove unkind to you!

  If they were black instead of blue.

  But God designed them blithe and blue —

  My eyes —

  Designed them to be kind to you,

  And made them tender, gay and true.

  Believe me, love, no maid is wise

  When from the windows of her eyes,

  Her heart looks through!

  Alas! My heart, to its surprise,

  Has learned to look; and now it sighs

  For you!”

  She became conscious of somebody near, as she ended. She turned and saw Murtagh Skeel at her elbow — saw his agitated, ashen face — looked beyond him and discovered other people gathered in the tinted light beyond, listening; then she lifted her clear, still gaze again to the white-faced man beside her, and saw his shaken soul staring at her through the dark windows of his eyes.

  “Where did you learn it?” he asked with a futile effort at that control so difficult for any Celt to grasp where the heart is involved.

  “The song I sang? ‘Blue Eyes’?” she inquired.

  “Yes — that.”

  “I have the manuscript of the composer.”

  “Could you tell me where you got it — and — and who wrote those words you sang?”

  “The manuscript came to me from my mother.... She wrote it.... I think you knew her.”

  His strong, handsome hand dropped on the piano’s edge, gripped it; and under his pale skin the quick blood surged to his temples.

  “What was your — your mother’s name, Miss Soane?”

  “She was Eileen Fane.”

  The throbbing seconds passed and still they looked into each other’s eyes in silence. And at last:

  “So you did know my mother,” she said under her breath; and the hushed finality of her words set his strong hand trembling.

  “Eileen’s little daughter,” he repeated. “Eileen Fane’s child.... And grown to womanhood.... Yes, I knew your mother — many years ago.... When I enlisted and went abroad.... Was it Sir Terence Soane who married your mother?”

  She shook her head. He stared at her, striving to concentrate, to think. “There were other Soanes,” he muttered, “the Ellet Water folk — no? —— But there were many Soanes among the landed gentry in the East and North.... I cannot seem to recollect — the sudden shock — hearing a song unexpectedly — —”

  His white forehead had grown damp under the curly hair now clinging to it. He passed his handkerchief over his brow in a confused way, then leaned heavily on the piano with both hands grasping it. For the ghost of his youth was interfering, disputing his control over his own mind, filling his ear with forgotten words, taking possession of his memory and tormenting it with the distant echoes of a voice long dead.

  Through the increasing chaos in his brain his strained gaze sought to fix itself on this living, breathing face before him — the child of Eileen Fane.

  He made the effort:

  “There were the Soanes of Colross — —” But he got no farther that way, for the twin spectres of his youth and hers were busy with his senses now; and he leaned more heavi
ly on the piano, enduring with lowered head the ghostly whirlwind rushing up out of that obscurity and darkness where once, under summer skies, he had sowed a zephyr.

  The girl had become rather white, too. One slim hand still rested on the ivory keys, the other lay inert in her lap. And after a while she raised her grey eyes to this man standing beside her:

  “Did you ever hear of my mother’s marriage?”

  He looked at her in a dull way:

  “No.”

  “You heard — nothing?”

  “I heard that your mother had left Fane Court.”

  “What was Fane Court?”

  Murtagh Skeel stared at her in silence.

  “I don’t know,” she said, trembling a little. “I know nothing about my mother. She died when I was a few months old.”

  “Do you mean that you don’t know who your mother was? You don’t know who she married?” he asked, astounded.

  “No.”

  “Good God!” he said, gazing at her. His tense features were working now; the battle for self-control was visible to her, and she sat there dumbly, looking on at the mute conflict which suddenly sent the tears flashing into his dark eyes and left his sensitive mouth twitching.

  “I shall not ask you anything now,” he said unsteadily; “I shall have to see you somewhere else — where there are no people — to interrupt.... But I shall tell you all I know about — your mother.... I was in trouble — in India. Somehow or other I heard indirectly that your mother had left Fane Court. Later it was understood that she had eloped.... Nobody could tell me the man’s name.... My people in Ireland did not know.... And I was not on good terms with your grandfather. So there was no hope of information from Fane Court.... I wrote, indeed, begging, beseeching for news of your mother. Sir Barry — your grandfather — returned my letters unopened.... And that is all I have ever heard concerning Eileen Fane — your mother — with whom I — fell in love — nearly twenty years ago.”

  Dulcie, marble pale, nodded.

  “I knew you cared for my mother,” she said.

  “How did you learn it?”

  “Some letters of hers written to you. Letters from you to her. I have nothing else of hers except some verses and little songs — like the one you recognised.”

  “Child, she wrote it as I sat beside her! — —” His voice choked, broke, and his lips quivered as he fought for self-control again.... “I was not welcome at Fane Court.... Sir Barry would not tolerate me.... Your mother was more kind.... She was very young. And so was I, Dulcie.... There were political troubles. I was always involved. God knows which was the stronger passion — it must have been love of country — the other seeming hopeless — with the folk at Fane Court my bitter enemies — only excepting your mother.... So I went away.... And which of the Soanes your mother eloped with I have never learned.... Now, tell me — for you surely know that much.”

  She said:

  “There is a man called Soane who tells me sometimes that he was once a gamekeeper at what he calls ‘the big house.’ I have always supposed him to be my father until within the last year. But recently, when he has been drinking heavily, he sometimes tells me that my name is not Soane but Fane.... Did you ever know of such a man?”

  “No. There were gamekeepers about.... No. I cannot recall — and it is impossible! A gamekeeper! And your mother! The man is mad! What in God’s name does all this mean! — —”

  He began to tremble, and his white forehead under the clustering curls grew damp and pinched again.

  “If you are Eileen’s daughter — —” But his face went dead white and he got no further.

  People were approaching from behind them, too; voices grew distinct in conversation; somebody turned up another lamp.

  “Do sing that little song again — the one you sang for Mr. Skeel,” said Lee Barres, coming up to the piano on her brother’s arm. “Mrs. Gerhardt has been waiting very patiently for an opportunity to ask you.”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  A SILENT HOUSE

  The guests from Hohenlinden had departed from Foreland Farms; the family had retired. Outside, under a sparkling galaxy of summer stars, tall trees stood unstirring; indoors nothing stirred except the family cat, darkly prowling on velvet-shod feet in eternal search of those viewless things which are manifest only to the feline race — sorcerers all, whether quadruped or human.

  In various bedrooms upstairs lights went out, one after another, until only two windows remained illuminated, one in the west wing, one in the north.

  For Dulcie, in her negligée and night robe, still sat by the open window, chin resting on palm, her haunted gaze remotely lost somewhere beyond the July stars.

  And, in his room, Garry had arrived only as far as removing coat and waistcoat in the process of disrobing for the night. For his mind was still deeply preoccupied with Dulcie Soane and with the strange expression of her face at the piano — and with the profoundly altered visage of Murtagh Skeel.

  And he was asking himself what could have happened between those two in such a few minutes there at the piano in the music-room. For it was evident to him that Skeel was labouring under poorly controlled emotion, was dazed by it, and was recovering self-possession only by a mighty effort.

  And when Skeel had finally taken his leave and had gone away with the Gerhardts, he suddenly stopped on the porch, returned to the music-room, and, bending down, had kissed Dulcie’s hand with a grace and reverence which made the salute more of a serious ceremony than the impulsive homage of a romantic poet’s whim.

  Considered by itself, the abrupt return and quaintly perfect salute might have been taken as a spontaneous effervescence of that delightful Celtic gallantry so easily stirred to ebullition by youth and beauty. And for that it was accepted by the others after Murtagh Skeel was gone; and everybody ventured to chaff Dulcie a little about her conquest — merely the gentle humour of gentlefolk — a harmless word or two, a smile in sympathy.

  Garry alone saw in the girl’s smile no genuine response to the light badinage, and he knew that her serenity was troubled, her careless composure forced.

  Later, he contrived to say good-night to her alone, and gave her a chance to speak; but she only murmured her adieux and went slowly away up the stairs with Thessalie, not looking back.

  * * * * *

  Now, sitting there in his dressing-gown, briar pipe alight, he frowned and pondered over the matter in the light of what he already knew of Dulcie, of the dead mother who bore her, of the grotesquely impossible Soane, of this man, Murtagh Skeel.

  What had he and Dulcie found in common to converse about so earnestly and so long there in the music-room? What had they talked about to drive the colour from Dulcie’s cheeks and alter Skeel’s countenance so that he had looked more like his own wraith than his living self?

  That Dulcie’s mother had known this man, had once, evidently, been in love with him more or less, doubtless was revealed in their conversation at the piano. Had Skeel enlightened Dulcie any further? And on what subject? Soane? Her mother? Her origin — in case the child had admitted ignorance of it? Was Dulcie, now, in possession of new facts concerning herself? Were they agreeable facts? Were they depressing? Had she learned anything definite in regard to her birth? Her parentage? Did she know, now, who was her real father? Was the obvious absurdity of Soane finally exploded? Had she learned what the drunken Soane meant by asserting that her name was not Soane but Fane?

  His pipe burned out and he laid it aside, but did not rise to resume his preparation for bed.

  Then, somewhere from the unlighted depths of the house came the sound of the telephone bell — at that hour of night always a slightly ominous sound.

  He got up and went down stairs, not troubling to switch on any light, for the lustre of the starry night outside silvered every window and made it possible for him to see his way.

  At the clamouring telephone, finally, he unhooked the receiver:

  “Hello?” he said. “Yes! Yes! Oh, is that
you, Renoux? Where on earth are you?... At Northbrook?... Where?... At the Summit House? Well, why didn’t you come here to us?... Oh!... No, it isn’t very late. We retire early at Foreland.... Oh, yes, I’m dressed.... Certainly.... Yes, come over.... Yes!... Yes!... I’ll wait for you in the library.... In an hour?... You bet. No, I’m not sleepy.... Sure thing!... Come on!”

  He hung up the receiver, turned, and made his way through the dusk toward the library which was opposite the music-room across the big entrance hall.

  Before he turned on any light he paused to look out at the splendour of the stars. The night had grown warmer; there was no haze, now, only an argentine clarity in which shadowy trees stood mysterious and motionless and the dim lawn stretched away to the distant avenue and wall, lost against their looming border foliage.

  Once he thought he heard a slight sound somewhere in the house behind him, but presently remembered that the family cat held sway among the mice at such an hour.

  A little later he turned from the window to light a lamp, and found himself facing a slim, white figure in the starry dusk.

  “Dulcie!” he exclaimed under his breath.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Why on earth are you wandering about at this hour?” he asked. “You made me jump, I can tell you.”

  “I was awake — not in bed yet. I heard the telephone. Then I went out into the west corridor and saw you going down stairs.... Is it all right for me to sit here in my night dress with you?”

  He smiled:

  “Well, considering — —”

  “Of course!” she said hastily, “only I didn’t know whether outside your studio — —”

  “Oh, Dulcie, you’re becoming self-conscious! Stop it, Sweetness. Don’t spoil things. Here — tuck yourself into this big armchair! — curl up! There you are. And here I am — —” dropping into another wide, deep chair. “Lord! but you’re a pretty thing, Dulcie, with your hair down and all glimmering with starlight! We’ll try painting you that way some day — I wouldn’t know how to go about it offhand, either. Maybe a screened arc-lamp in a dark partition, and a peep-hole — I don’t know — —”