Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “If you say so, I’ll spread the rumor that you’re my sister,” he suggested, anxiously. “Shall I?”

  Even she perceived the fatal futility of that suggestion.

  “But when you take off your glove everybody will know we’re not B. and G.,” he insisted.

  She hesitated; a delicate flush crept over her face; then she nervously stripped the glove from her left hand and extended it. A plain gold ring encircled the third finger. “What shall I do?” she whispered. “I can’t get it off. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”

  “Does it belong there?” he asked, seriously.

  “You mean, am I married? No, no,” she said, impatiently; “it’s my grandmother’s wedding-ring. I was just trying it on this morning — this morning of all mornings! Think of it!”

  She looked anxiously at her white fingers, then at him.

  “What do you think?” she asked, naïvely; “I’ve tried soap and cold-cream, but it won’t come off.”

  “Well,” he said, with a forced laugh, “Fate appears to be personally conducting this tour, and it’s probably all right—” He hesitated. “Perhaps it’s better than to wear no ring—”

  “Why?” she asked, innocently. “Oh! perhaps it’s better, after all, to be mistaken for B. and G. than for a pair of unchaperoned creatures. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes,” he said, vaguely.

  There came a gentle jolt, a faint grinding sound, a vibration increasing. Lighted lanterns, red and green, glided past their window.

  “We’ve started,” he said.

  Then a negro porter came jauntily down the aisle, saying something in a low voice to everybody as he passed. And when he came to them he smiled encouragement and made an extra bow, murmuring, “First call for dinner, if you please, madam.”

  They were the centre of discreet attention in the dining-car; and neither the ring on her wedding-finger nor their bearing and attitude towards each other were needed to confirm the general conviction.

  He tried to do all he could to make it easy for her, but he didn’t know how, or he never would have ordered rice pudding with a confidence that set their own negro waiter grinning from ear to ear.

  She bit her red lips and looked out of the window; but the window, blackened by night and quicksilvered by the snow, was only a mirror for a very lovely and distressed face.

  Indeed, she was charming in her supposed rôle; their fellow-passengers’ criticisms were exceedingly favorable. Even the young imp who had pronounced them B. and G. with infantile unreserve appeared to be impressed by her fresh, young beauty; and an old clergyman across the aisle beamed on them at intervals, and every beam was a benediction.

  As for them, embarrassment and depression were at first masked under a polite gayety; but the excitement of the drama gained on them; appearances were to be kept up in the rôles of a comedy absolutely forced upon them; and that brought exhilaration.

  From mental self-absolution they ventured on mentally absolving each other. Fate had done it! Their consciences were free. Their situation was a challenge in itself, and to accept it must mean to conquer.

  Stirring two lumps of sugar into his cup of coffee, he looked up suddenly, to find her gray eyes meeting his across the table. They smiled like friends.

  “Of what are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I was thinking that perhaps you had forgiven me,” he said, hopefully.

  “I have” — she frowned a little— “I think I have.”

  “And — you do not think me a coward?”

  “No,” she said, watching him, chin propped on her linked fingers.

  He laughed gratefully.

  “As a matter of cold fact,” he observed, “if we had met anywhere in town — under other circumstances — there is no reason that I can see why we shouldn’t have become excellent friends.”

  “No reason at all,” she said, thoughtfully.

  “And that reminds me,” he went on, dropping his voice and leaning across the table, “I’m going to send back a telegram to my sister, and I fancy you may wish to send one to your wandering brother.”

  “I suppose I’d better,” she said. An involuntary shiver passed over her. “He’s probably frantic,” she added.

  “Probably,” he admitted.

  “My father and mother are in Europe,” she observed. “I hope my brother hasn’t cabled them.”

  “I think we’d better get those telegrams off,” he said, motioning the waiter to bring the blanks and find pen and ink.

  They waited, gazing meditatively at each other. Presently he said:

  “I’d like to tell you what it is that sends me flying down to Florida at an hour’s notice. I think some explanation is due you — if it wouldn’t bore you?”

  “Tell me,” she said, quietly.

  “Why, then, it’s that headlong idiot of a brother of mine,” he explained. “He’s going to try to marry a girl he has only known twenty-four hours — a girl we never heard of. And I’m on my way to stop it! — the young fool! — and I’ll stop it if I have to drag him home by the heels! Here’s the telegram we got late this afternoon — a regular bombshell.” He drew the yellow bit of paper from his breast-pocket, unfolded it, and read:

  “‘St. Augustine, Florida.

  “‘I am going to marry to-morrow the loveliest girl in the United States. Only met her yesterday. Love at first sight. You’ll all worship her! She’s eighteen, a New-Yorker, and her name is Marie Hetherford. Jim.’”

  He looked up angrily. “What do you think of that?” he demanded.

  “Think?” she stammered— “think?” She dropped her hands helplessly, staring at him. “Marie Hetherford is my sister!” she said.

  “Your — sister,” he repeated, after a long pause— “your sister!”

  She pressed a white hand to her forehead, clearing her eyes with a gesture.

  “Isn’t it too absurd!” she said, dreamily. “My sister sent us a telegram like yours. Our parents are abroad. So my brother and I threw some things into a trunk and — and started! Oh, did you ever hear of anything like this?”

  “Your sister!” he repeated, dazed. “My brother and your sister. And I am on my way to stop it; and you are on your way to stop it—”

  She began to laugh — not hysterically, but it was not a natural laugh.

  “And,” he went on, “I’ve lost another sister in the shuffle, and you’ve lost another brother in the shuffle, and now there’s a double-shuffle danced by you and me—”

  “Don’t. Don’t!” she said, faint from laughter.

  “Yes, I will,” he said. “And I’ll say more! I’ll say that Destiny is taking exclusive charge of our two families, and it would not surprise me if your brother and my sister were driving around New York together at this moment looking for us!”

  Their laughter infected the entire dining-car; every waiter snickered; the enfant terrible grinned; the aged minister of the Church of England beamed a rapid fire of benedictions on them.

  But they had forgotten everybody except each other.

  “From what I hear and from what I know personally of your family,” she said, “it seems to me that they never waste much time about anything.”

  “We are rather in that way,” he admitted. “I have been in a hurry from the time you first met me — and you see what my brother is going to do.”

  “Going to do? Are you going to let him?”

  “Let him?” He looked steadily at her, and she returned the gaze as steadily. “Yes,” he said, “I’m going to let him. And if I tried to stop him I’d get my deserts. I think I know my brother Jim. And I fancy it would take more than his brother to drag him away from your sister.” He hesitated a moment. “Is she like — like you?”

  “A year younger — yes, we are alike.… And you say that you are going to let him — marry her?”

  “Yes — if you don’t mind.”

  The challenge was in his eyes, and she accepted it.

  “Is your brother
Jim like you?”

  “A year younger — yes.… May he marry her?”

  She strove to speak easily, but to her consternation she choked, and the bright color dyed her face from neck to hair.

  This must not be: she must answer him. To flinch now would be impossible — giving a double meaning and double understanding to a badinage light as air. Alas! Il ne faut pas badiner avec l’amour! Then she answered, saying too much in an effort to say a little with careless and becoming courage.

  “If he is like you, he may marry her.… I am glad he is your brother.”

  The answering fire burned in his face; she met his eyes, and twice her own fell before their message.

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table, hot face between his hands; a careless attitude for others to observe, but a swift glance warned her what was coming — coming in a low, casual voice, checked at intervals as though he were swallowing.

  “You are the most splendid girl I ever knew.” He dropped one hand and picked up a flower that had slipped from her finger-bowl. “You are the only person in the world who will not think me crazy for saying this. We’re a headlong race. Will you marry me?”

  She bent her head thoughtfully, pressing her mouth to her clasped fingers. Her attitude was repose itself.

  “Are you offended?” he asked, looking out of the window.

  There was a slight negative motion of her head.

  A party of assorted travellers rose from their table and passed them, smiling discreetly; the old minister across the aisle mused in his coffee-cup, caressing his shaven face with wrinkled fingers. The dining-car grew very still.

  “It’s in the blood,” he said, under his breath; “my grandparents eloped; my father’s courtship lasted three days from the time he first met my mother — you see what my brother has done in twenty-four hours.… We do things more quickly in these days.… Please — please don’t look so unhappy!”

  “I — I am not unhappy.… I am willing to — hear you. You were saying something about — about—”

  “About love.”

  “I — think so. Wait until those people pass!”

  He waited, apparently hypnotized by the beauty of the car ceiling. Then: “Of course, if you were not going to be my sister-in-law to-morrow, I’d not go into family matters.”

  “No, of course not,” she murmured.

  So he gave her a brief outline of his own affairs, and she listened with bent head until there came the pause which was her own cue.

  “Why do you tell me this?” she asked, innocently.

  “It — it — why, because I love you.”

  On common ground once more, she prepared for battle, but to her consternation she found the battle already ended and an enemy calmly preparing for her surrender.

  “But when — when do you propose to — to do this?” she asked, in an unsteady voice.

  “Now,” he said, firmly.

  “Now? Marry me at once?”

  “I love you enough to wait a million years — but I won’t. I always expected to fall in love; I’ve rather fancied it would come like this when it came; and I swore I’d never let the chance slip by. We’re a headlong family — but a singularly loyal one. We love but once in our lifetime; and when we love we know it.”

  “Do you think that this is that one time?”

  “There is no doubt left in me.”

  “Then” — she covered her face with her hands, leaning heavily on the table— “then what on earth are we to do?”

  “Promise each other to love.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes, I do promise, forever. Do you?”

  She looked up, pale as a ghost. “Yes,” she said.

  “Then — please say it,” he whispered.

  Some people rose and left the car. She sat apparently buried in colorless reverie. Twice her voice failed her; he bent nearer; and —

  “I love you,” she said.

  “‘I LOVE YOU ENOUGH TO WAIT A MILLION YEARS!’”

  Contents

  A PILGRIM

  I

  THE servants had gathered in the front hall to inspect the new arrival — cook, kitchen-maid, butler, flanked on the right by parlor-maids, on the left by a footman and a small buttons.

  The new arrival was a snow-white bull-terrier, alert, ardent, quivering in expectation of a welcome among these strangers, madly wagging his whiplike tail in passionate silence.

  When the mistress of the house at last came down the great stone stairway, the servants fell back in a semi-circle, leaving her face to face with the white bull-terrier.

  “So that is the dog!” she said, in faint astonishment. A respectful murmur of assent corroborated her conclusion.

  The dog’s eyes met hers; she turned to the servants with a perplexed gesture.

  “Is the brougham at the door?” asked the young mistress of the house.

  The footman signified that it was.

  “Then tell Phelan to come here at once.”

  Phelan, the coachman, arrived, large, rosy, freshly shaven, admirably correct.

  “Phelan,” said the young mistress, “look at that dog.”

  The coachman promptly fixed his eyes on the wagging bull-terrier. In spite of his decorous gravity a smile of distinct pleasure slowly spread over his square, pink face until it became a subdued simper.

  “Is that a well-bred dog, Phelan?” demanded the young mistress.

  “It is, ma’am,” replied Phelan, promptly.

  “Very well bred?”

  “Very, ma’am.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “In a fight, ma’am.” Stifled enthusiasm swelled the veins in the coachman’s forehead. Triumphant pæans of praise for the bull-terrier trembled upon his lips; but he stood rigid, correct, a martyr to his perfect training.

  “Say what you wish to say, Phelan,” prompted the young mistress, with a hasty glance at the dog.

  “Thanky, ma’am.… The bull is the finest I ever laid eyes on.… He hasn’t a blemish, ma’am; and the three years of him doubled will leave him three years to his prime, ma’am.… And there’s never another bull, nor a screw-tail, nor cross, be it mastiff or fox or whippet, ma’am, that can loose the holt o’ thim twin jaws.… Beg pardon, ma’am, I know the dog.”

  “You mean that you have seen that dog before?”

  “Yes, ma’am; he won his class from a pup at the Garden. That is ‘His Highness,’ ma’am, Mr. Langham’s champion three-year.”

  She had already stooped to caress the silent, eager dog — timidly, because she had never before owned a dog — but at the mention of his master’s name she drew back sharply and stood erect.

  “Never fear, ma’am,” said the coachman, eagerly; “he won’t bite, ma’am—”

  “Mr. Langham’s dog?” she repeated, coldly; and then, without another glance at either the dog or the coachman, she turned to the front door; buttons swung it wide with infantile dignity; a moment later she was in her brougham, with Phelan on the box and the rigid footman expectant at the window.

  II

  Seated in a corner of her brougham, she saw the world pass on flashing wheels along the asphalt; she saw the April sunshine slanting across brown-stone mansions and the glass-fronted façades of shops; … she looked without seeing.

  So Langham had sent her his dog! In the first year of her widowhood she had first met Langham; she was then twenty-one. In the second year of her widowhood Langham had offered himself, and, with the declaration on his lips, had seen the utter hopelessness of his offer. They had not met since then. And now, in the third year of her widowhood, he offered her his dog!

  She had at first intended to keep the dog. Knowing nothing of animals, discouraged from all sporting fads by a husband who himself was devoted to animals dedicated to sport, she had quietly acquiesced in her husband’s dictum that “horse-women and dog-women made a man ill!” — and so dismissed any idea she might have entertained towards the harboring of the four-footed.
r />   A miserable consciousness smote her: why had she allowed the memory of her husband to fade so amazingly in these last two months of early spring? Of late, when she wished to fix her thoughts upon her late husband and to conjure his face before her closed eyes, she found that the mental apparition came with more and more difficulty.

  Sitting in a corner of her brougham, the sharp rhythm of her horses’ hoofs tuning her thoughts, she quietly endeavored to raise that cherished mental spectre, but could not, until by hazard she remembered the portrait of her husband hanging in the smoking-room.

  But instantly she strove to put that away; the portrait was by Sargent, a portrait she had always disliked, because the great painter had painted an expression into her husband’s face which she had never seen there. An aged and unbearable aunt of hers had declared that Sargent painted beneath the surface; she resented the suggestion, because what she read beneath the surface of her husband’s portrait sent hot blood into her face.

  Thinking of these things, she saw the spring sunshine gilding the gray branches of the park trees. Here and there elms spread tinted with green; chestnuts and maples were already in the full glory of new leaves; the leafless twisted tangles of wistaria hung thick with scented purple bloom; everywhere the scarlet blossoms of the Japanese quince glowed on naked shrubs, bedded in green lawns.

  Her husband had loved the country.… There was one spot in the world which he had loved above all others — the Sagamore Angling Club. She had never been there. But she meant to go. Probably to-morrow.… And before she went she must send that dog back to Langham.

  At the cathedral she signalled to stop, and sent the brougham back, saying she would walk home. And the first man she met was Langham.

  III

  There was nothing extraordinary in it. His club was there on the corner, and it was exactly his hour for the club.