Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Just below her was another terrace and an oval pool set with tiny jets which seemed to spray the basin with liquid silver. Silvery fish, too, were swimming in it near the surface, sometimes flinging themselves clear out of water as though intoxicated by the unwonted lustre which flooded their crystal pool.

  To see them nearer, Thessalie ran lightly down the steps and walked toward the shimmering basin. And at the same time the head and shoulders of a man in evening dress, his bosom crossed by a sash of watered red silk, appeared climbing nimbly from a still lower level.

  She watched him step swiftly upon the terrace and cross it diagonally, walking in her direction toward the stone stairs which she had just descended. Then, paying him no further attention, she looked down into the water.

  He came along very near to where she stood, gazing into the pool — peered at her curiously — was already passing at her very elbow — when something made her lift her head and look around at him.

  The mock moonlight struck full across his features; and the shock of seeing him drove every vestige of colour from her own face.

  The man halted, staring at her in unfeigned amazement. Suddenly he snarled at her, baring his teeth in her shrinking face.

  “Kismet dir!” he whispered, “it ees you!... Nihla Quellen! Now I begin onderstan’!... Yas, I now onderstan’ who arrange it that they haf arrest my good frien’, Tauscher! It ees you, then! Von Igel he has tol’ me, look out once eef she escape — thees yoong leopardess — —”

  “Ferez!” Thessalie’s young figure stiffened and the colour flamed in her cheeks.

  “You leopardess!” he repeated, every tooth a-grin again with rage, “you misbegotten slut of a hunting cheetah! So thees is ‘ow you strike!... Ver’ well. Yas, I see ‘ow it ees you strike at — —”

  “Ferez!” she cried. “Listen to me!”

  “I ‘ear you! Allez!”

  “Ferez Bey! I am not afraid of you!”

  “Ees it so?”

  “Yes, it is so. I never have been afraid of you! Not even there on the deck of the Mirage, that night when you tapped the hilt of your Kurdish knife and spoke of Seraglio Point! Nor when your scared spy shot at me in the corridor of the Tenth Street house; nor afterward at Dragon Court! Nor now! Do you understand, Eurasian jackal! Nor now! Anybody can see what Heruli whelped you! What are you doing in America? Kassim Pasha is your den, where your rayah loll and scratch in the sun! It is their Keyeff! And yours!”

  She took a quick step toward him, her eyes flashing, her white hand clenched:

  “Allah Kerim — do you say? El Hamdu Lillah! Do you take yourself for the muezzin of all jackals, then, howling blasphemies from some minaret in the hills? Do you understand what they’d do to you in the Hirka-i-Sherif Jamesi? Because you are nothing; do you hear? — nothing but an Eurasian assassin! And Moslem and Christian alike know where you belong among the lost pariahs of Stamboul!”

  The girl was utterly transfigured. Whatever of the Orient was in her, now blazed white hot.

  “What have I done to you, Ferez? What have I ever done to you that you, even from my childhood, come always stepping noiselessly at my skirt’s edge? — always padding behind me at my heels, silent, sinister, whimpering with bared teeth for the courage to bite which God denies you!”

  The man stood almost motionless, moistening his dry lips with his tongue, but his eyes moved continually, stealing uneasy glances around him and upward, where, on the main terrace above them, the heads of the throng passed and repassed.

  “Nihla,” he said, “for all thees scorn and abuse of me, you know, in the false heart of you, why it ees so if I have seek you.”

  “You dealer in lies! You would have sold me to d’Eblis! You thought you had sold me! You were paid for it, too!”

  “An’ still!” He looked at her furtively.

  “What do you mean? You conspired with d’Eblis to ruin me, soul and body! You involved me in your treacherous propaganda in Paris. Through you I am an exile. If I go back to my own country, I shall go to a shameful death. You have blackened my honour in my country’s eyes. But that was not enough. No! You thought me sufficiently broken, degraded, terrified to listen to any proposition from you. You sent your agents to me with offers of money if I would betray my country. Finding I would not, you whined and threatened. Then, like the Eurasian dog you are, you tried to bargain. You were eager to offer me anything if I would keep quiet and not interfere — —”

  “Nihla!”

  “What?” she said, contemptuously.

  “In spite of thees — of all you say — I have love you!”

  “Liar!” she retorted wrathfully. “Do you dare say that to me, whom you have already tried to murder?”

  “I say it. Yas. Eef it has not been so then you were dead long time.”

  “You — you are trying to tell me that you spared me!” she demanded scornfully.

  “It ees so. Alexandre — d’Eblis, you know? — long time since he would have safety for us all — thees way. Non! Je ne pourrais pas vouz tuer, moi! It ees not in my heart, Nihla.... Because I have love you long time — ver’ long time.”

  “Because you have feared me long time, ver’ long time!” she mocked him. “That is why, Ferez — because you are afraid; because you are only a jackal. And jackals never kill. No!”

  “You say thees-a to me, Nihla?”

  “Yes, I say it. You’re a coward! And I’ll tell you something more. I am going to make a complete statement to the French Government. I shall relate everything I know about d’Eblis, Bolo Effendi, a certain bureaucrat, an Italian politician, a Swiss banker, old Von-der-Goltz Pasha, Heimholz, Von-der-Hohe Pasha, and you, my Ferez — and you, also!

  [Illustration: HE CAME TOWARD HER STEALTHILY]

  “Do you know what France will do to d’Eblis and his scoundrel friends? Do you guess what these duped Americans will do to Bolo Effendi? And to you? And to Von Papen and Boy-ed and Von Igel — yes, and to Bernstorff and his whole murderous herd of Germans? And can you imagine what my own doubly duped Government will surely, surely do, some day, to you, Ferez?”

  She laughed, but her dark eyes fairly glittered:

  “My martyrdom is ending, God be thanked! And then I shall be free to serve where my heart is ... in Alsace!... Alsace! — forever French!”

  In the white light she saw the sweat break out on the man’s forehead — saw him grope for his handkerchief — and draw out a knife instead — never taking his eyes off her.

  She turned to run; but he had already blocked the way to the stone steps; and now he came creeping toward her, white as a cadaver, distracted from sheer terror, and rubbing the knife flat against his thigh.

  “So you shall do thees — a filth to me — eh, Nihla?” he whispered with blanched lips. “It ees on me, your frien’, you spring to keel me, eh, my leopardess? Ver’ well. But firs’ I teach you somethings you don’ know! — thees-a way, my Nihla!”

  He came toward her stealthily, moving more swiftly as she put the stone basin of the pool between them and cast an agonised glance up at the distant terrace.

  “Jim!” she cried frantically. “Jim! Help me, Jim!”

  The gay din of the music above drowned her cry; she fled as Ferez darted toward her, but again he doubled and sprang back to bar the stone steps, and she halted, white and breathless, yet poised for instant flight.

  Again and again she called out desperately for aid; the noise of the orchestra smothered her cry. And if, indeed, anybody from the terrace above chanced to glance down, it is likely that they supposed these two were skylarking merrymakers at some irresponsible game of catch-who-can.

  Suddenly Thessalie remembered the lower level, where the automobiles were parked, and from which Ferez had first appeared. She could escape that way. There were the steps, not very far behind her. The next instant she turned and ran like a deer.

  And after her sped Ferez, his broad, thin-bladed knife pressed flat against the crimson sash across his breast, his dead-white
visage distorted with that blind, convulsive fear which makes murderers out of cowards.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  GREEN JACKETS

  Thoroughly worried by this time over the sudden disappearance of Thessalie Dunois, and unable to discover her anywhere on the terrace or in the house, Westmore, Barres and Dulcie Soane had followed the winding main drive as far as the level, where their car was waiting among scores of other cars.

  But Thessalie was not there; the chauffeur had not seen her.

  “Where in the world could she have gone?” faltered Dulcie. “She was standing up there on the terrace with us, a moment ago; then, the very next second, she had vanished utterly.”

  Westmore, grim and pallid, walked back along the drive; Dulcie followed with Barres. As they overtook Westmore, he cast one more glance back at the ranks of waiting cars, then stared up at the terraced hill above them, over which the artificial moon hung above the lindens, glowing with pallid, lambent fires.

  There was a vague whitish object on one of the grassy slopes — something in motion up there — something that was running erratically but swiftly — as though in pursuit — or pursued!

  “My God! What’s that, Garry!” he burst out. “That thing up there on the hillside!”

  He sprang for the steps, Barres after him, taking the ascent at incredible speed, up, up, then out along a shrub-set grassy slope.

  “Thessa!” shouted Westmore. “Thessa!”

  But the girl was flat on her back on the grass now, fighting sturdily for life — twisting, striking, baffling the whining, panting thing that knelt on her, holding her and trying to drive a knife deep into the lithe young body which always slipped and writhed out of his trembling clutch.

  Again and again he tore himself free from her grasp; again and again his armed hand sought to strike, but she always managed to seize and drag it aside with the terrible strength of one dying. And at last, with a last crazed, superhuman effort, she wrested the knife from his unnerved fist, tore it out of his spent fingers.

  It fell somewhere near her on the grass; he strove to reach it and pick it up, but already her dauntless resistance began to exhaust him, and he groped for the knife in vain, trying to pin her down with one hand while, with desperate little fists, she rained blows on his bloodless face that dazed him.

  But there was still another way — a much better way, in fact. And, as the idea came to him, he ripped the red-silk sash from his breast and, in spite of her struggles, managed to pass it around her bare neck.

  “Now!” he panted. “I keep my word at last. C’est fini, ma petite Nihla.”

  “Jim! Help me!” she gasped, as Ferez pulled savagely at the silk noose, tightened it with all his strength, knotted it. And in that same second he heard Westmore crashing through the shrubbery, close to him.

  Instantly he rose to his knees on the grass; bounded to his feet, leaped over the low shrubs, and was off down the slope — gone like a swift hawk’s shadow on the hillside. Barres was after him.

  * * * * *

  The soul of Thessalie Dunois was very near to its escape, now, brightening, glistening within its unconscious chrysalis, stretching its glorious limbs and wings; preparing to arise from its spectral tenement and soar aloft to its myriad sisters, where they swarmed glittering in the zenith.

  Had it not been for the knife lying beside her on the grass — the blade very bright in the starlight — truly the youthful soul of Thessalie had been sped.

  At the edge of the Gerhardts’ pine woods, Barres, at fault, baffled, furious, out of breath and glaring around him in the dark, sullenly gave up the hopeless chase, turned in his tracks, and came back. Thessalie, lying in Dulcie’s arms, unclosed her eyes and looked up at him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, kneeling and bending over her.

  “Yes ... Jim came.”

  Westmore’s voice was shaky.

  “We worked her arms — Dulcie and I — started respiration. She was nearly gone. That beast strangled her — —”

  “I lost him in those woods below. Who was he?”

  “Ferez Bey!”

  Thessalie sighed, closed her eyes.

  “She’s about all in,” whispered Westmore. And, to Dulcie: “Let me take her. I’ll carry her to the car.”

  At that Thessalie opened her eyes again and the old, faintly humorous smile glimmered out at him as he stooped and lifted her from the grass.

  “Can I really trust myself to your arms, Jim?” she murmured.

  “You’d better get used to ‘em,” he retorted. “You’ll never get away from them again — I can tell you that right now!”

  “Oh.... In that case, I hope they’ll be — comfortable — your arms.”

  “Do you think they will be, Thessa?”

  “Perhaps.” She gazed into his eyes very seriously from where she lay cradled in his powerful arms.

  “I’m tired, Jim.... So sore and bruised.... When he was choking me I tried to think of you — believing it was the end — my last conscious thought — —”

  “My darling! — —”

  “I’m so tired,” she breathed, “so lonely.... I shall be — contented — in your arms.... Always — —” She turned her head and rested her cheek against his breast with a deep sigh.

  * * * * *

  He held her in his arms in the car all the way to Foreland Farms. Dulcie, however, had possessed herself of Thessalie’s left hand, and when she stroked it and pressed it to her lips the girl’s tightening fingers responded, and she always smiled.

  “I’m just tired and sore,” she explained languidly. “Ferez battered me about so dreadfully!... It was so mortifying. I despised him all the time. It made me furious to be handled by such a contemptible and cowardly creature.”

  “It’s a matter for the police, now,” remarked Barres gloomily.

  “Oh, Garry!” she exclaimed. “What a very horrid ending to the moonlit way we took together so long ago! — the lovely silvery path of Pierrot!”

  “The story of Pierrot is a tragedy, Thessa! We have been luckier on our moonlit way.”

  “Than Pierrot and Pierrette?”

  “Yes. Death always saunters along the path of the moon, watching for those who take it.... You are very fortunate, Pierrette.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, “I am fortunate.... Am I not, Jim?” she added, looking up wistfully into his shadowy face above her.

  “I don’t know about that,” he said, “but there’ll be no more moonlight business for you unless I’m with you. And under those circumstances,” he added, “I’ll knock the block off Old Man Death if he tries to flirt with you!”

  “How brutal! Garry, do you hear his language to me?”

  “I hear,” said Barres, laughing. “Your young man is a very matter of fact young man, Thessa, and I fancy he means what he says.”

  She looked up at Westmore; her lips barely moved:

  “Do you — dear?”

  “You bet I do,” he whispered. “I’ll pull this planet to pieces looking for you if you ever again steal away to a rendezvous with Old Man Death.”

  * * * * *

  When the car arrived at Foreland Farms, Thessalie felt able to proceed to her room upon her own legs, and with Dulcie’s arm around her.

  Westmore bade her good-night, kissing her hand — awkwardly — not being convincing in any rôle requiring attitudes.

  He wanted to take her into his arms, but seemed to know enough not to do it. Probably she divined his irresolute state of mind, for she extended her hand in a pretty manner quite unmistakable. And the romantic education of James H. Westmore began.

  Barres lingered at the door after Westmore departed, obeying a whispered aside from Dulcie. She came out in a few moments, carefully closing the bedroom door, and stood so, one hand behind her still resting on the knob.

  “Thessa is crying. It’s only the natural relaxation from that horrible tension. I shall sleep with her to-night.”

  “Is there anything — —�
��

  “Oh, no. She will be all right.... Garry, are they — are they — in love?”

  “It rather looks that way, doesn’t it?” he said, smiling.

  She gazed at him questioningly, almost fearfully.

  “Do you believe that Thessa is in love with Mr. Westmore?” she whispered.

  “Yes, I do. Don’t you?”

  “I didn’t know.... I thought so. But — —”

  “But what?”

  “I didn’t — didn’t know — what you would think of it.... I was afraid it might — might make you — unhappy.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you care if Thessa loves somebody else?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Did you think I did, Dulcie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  There was a strained silence; then the girl smiled at him in a confused manner, drew a swift, sudden breath, and, as he stepped forward to detain her, turned sharply away, pressing her forearm across her eyes.

  “Dulcie! Did you understand me?” he said in a low, unsteady voice.

  She was already trying to open the door, but he dropped his right hand over her fingers where they were fumbling with the knob, and felt them trembling. At the same moment, the sound of Thessalie’s smothered and convulsive sobbing came to him; and Dulcie’s nervous hand slipped from his.

  “Dulcie!” he pleaded. “Will you come back to me if I wait?”

  She had stopped; her back was still toward him, but she nodded slightly, then moved on toward the bed, where Thessalie lay all huddled up, her face buried in the tumbled pillows.

  Barres noiselessly closed the door.

  He had already started along the corridor toward his own room, when the low sound of voices in the staircase hall just below arrested his attention — his sister’s voice and Westmore’s. And he retraced his steps and went down to where they stood together by the library door.

  Lee wore a nurse’s dress and apron, such as a kennel-mistress affects, and her strong, capable hands were full of bottles labelled “Grover’s Specific” — the same being dog medicine of various sorts.

  “Mother is over at the kennels, Garry,” she said. “She and I are going to sit up with those desperately sick pups. If we can pull them through to-night they’ll probably get well, eventually, unless paralysis sets in. I was just telling Jim that a very attractive young Frenchman was here only a few minutes before you arrived. His name is Renoux. And he left this letter for you — fish it out of my apron pocket, there’s a dear — —”