Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “The die is cast,” she murmured, resolutely discarding her chewing-gum forever, as she boarded the train-de-luxe.

  The “chatoo,” as Edna Ritter found it, appeared to be in as good a state of repair as any Florida residence possibly can be after a Florida summer has tampered with it.

  Mildew marked the interior for its own; a fair number of spiders, ants, scorpions, lizards, and assorted and many-legged creatures were retreating before the languid and perfunctory manœuvres of black servants, when Miss Ritter entered upon the scene with her retinue of white ones.

  But upon the arrival of the young and vigorous mistress of the “chatoo,” matters were accelerated indoors and out; lazy negroes galvanized into action as far as any Ethiopian can be; the work in marl pit, on the shell roads, in orange grove, and on pineapple plantation systematized and accelerated; dogs and horses sent on from summer quarters in Georgia; sloop, sailboat, powerboat, and canoe put into commission on the river; and the private signal of the house of Ritter flung to the breeze.

  And at last only one matter remained unadjusted to perplex Miss Ritter — a matter which had given her father great pleasure during his aggressive life.

  This matter concerned a great, flat plain about five miles square, bordered irregularly by woods — the greatest feeding place for wild doves in the entire South.

  Claimed by the Cliftons, counterclaimed by Peter Ritter, fought over legally during the latter’s lifetime, posted by both claimants, taken from one court to another, this property had furnished to Peter Ritter the only light amusement and mental relaxation he ever had permitted himself.

  To him it had been a delightful and exciting game — a satisfying combination of checkers, poker, and pinochle — a game so interesting that he never permitted a settlement to threaten the sport, but always made some legal move so that the lingering delight of the contest might continue indefinitely. And the fury of William de Montfort Clifton, Senior, knew no bounds. But it was a private and very discreet fury. Only his lawyers ever suspected it. As for his son and heir, he had heard of the contest for the first time when he arrived at Montfort House that lovely January morning.

  The letter from his attorney ended:

  “Shoot there as often as you please: pay no attention to the Ritter trespass signs. Post the entire plain. And if any other people attempt to shoot over it, have them thrown out bodily. The courts will uphold you!” So that evening, as William de Montfort Clifton paced the flowery coquina terraces of Montfort House, he determined to oust any of the brewer’s brood who might prove presumptuous enough to invade the plain that winter — never dreaming of what that brood consisted, and that its sole specimen, aged twenty-one, had already caused shooting pits to be dug, his own trespass notices to be torn down, and others posted bearing the hated name of Ritter.

  Later that night, however, “Ole George,” his father’s negro kennel-master, brought the news of these outrages to the young master of Montfort House, who had just given his orders for a horse, a dog, a gun, and two hundred shells, an hour before sunrise.

  “What!” said the young man incredulously. “Do you mean to tell me the Ritter people are already on the spot?”

  “Yaas, suh,” repeated Ole George. “Dees done dug de pits ercross de flight line, suh — moh’n ten or six, suh, whar I’se done baited doves foh de Kunnel. Yaas, suh — hit’s dat white-trash nigger, Benjamin — dat ole kennel no ‘count roustabout—”

  “This man is Ritter’s kennel-master?”

  “Mistuh Ritter daid, suh.”

  “What? Oh, yes, I believe I’ve heard so.... When was it? I forget — and anyway, who is it interfering with us now?”

  “Ah reckon hit’s some o’ de fambly, suh, a-mekkin’ er fuss, same as hit’s allus been befo’, suh.”

  “Very well,” said young Clifton grimly. “I’ll occupy one of those pits tomorrow. Then we’ll see! No I don’t want anybody with me — I don’t want anybody, I tell you. Have the horse ready an hour before sunrise. I’ll take that red-ticked pup — what do you call him? — that native-bred, nondescript thing you told me about this afternoon? Good night, George.”

  Muttering, he turned away toward his sleeping quarters, dropping his clenched hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, mad clean through. For there was one thing no Clifton could calmly endure, and that was any attempts upon real estate or acreage, the clever acquiring of which had been the foundation of the family’s vast metropolitan prosperity.

  “Damn that Dutchman,” muttered young Clifton to himself, “whoever he may be! If his father fought mine all his life over that five-mile bit of sand and stubble, I’ll fight him — no fear! And TO show him who is the better man!”

  Then, his irritation already ended, he yawned, stretched his athletic body, gazed humorously into vacancy, and smiled — merely because he was in good health and all the world still seemed to him as young and fresh and happy as himself. Only the weariness of age comprehends how long the world has lasted — or how endlessly it is doomed to endure. Tempus omnia revelat.

  And so it came about that in the still dark hour before the dawn of a January day, several million little stars looked down at a young man in shooting coat and leggins, watched him curiously as he mounted his horse, shoved a shotgun into the leather bucket, adjusted saddle bags, gathered bridle, and whistled a red-ticked setter to follow out into the pallid lustre of a cloudless night.

  Down the white shell drive he walked his horse through pale masses of phantom bloom, where oleander, hibiscus, and plumbago suavely perfumed the starry darkness.

  He heard the splash of water from the phlox lawns; the scent of orange bloom stole into his senses, possessing them as he rode out by the gates and past the two groves.

  Then subtly piquant woodland odours extinguished the languorous sweetness from the citrous groves; delicate hints of China trees in bloom and jasmine; little witch winds tinctured with spice from pine and brier; the faint, fresh aroma of swamp maple and bitter willow, and of frail, pulpy green things that grow in swamps.

  Quietly his horse paced forward under the paling stars, out across the plain; and where a “branch” crossed his path, running molten silver, the breath of the wild briers mounted from the waterside; and, when he rode by some out-thrust peninsula of woods, the loud drumming of the dew filled his ears with its endless elfin tattoo.

  A lurking cat-owl yelped at him; invisible widow-birds warned him huskily; the high whimper of rapid wings marked for him the hurrying wood ducks’ outward flight; the peevish, squashy croak of herons revealed some plume bird’s hidden bivouac.

  Out into the plain he rode; and by a jutting point of pines dismounted, secured his horse, slung gun case and saddle bags across his shoulders, and walked forward across the open, his red-ticked comrade wagging at his heels.

  Searching the dim ground under foot, where only grasses, ground-briers, and dead weeds clothed the nakedness of the sandy plain, he stumbled, frequently catching toe and ankle in thorny strands. And at length he came upon a newly excavated shooting pit, and crawled into it, dropping his burdens. Vastly contented, he laid out a sack of shells, drew forth his gun and assembled it, lighted a cigarette, and lay back, one caressing hand resting upon the red-ticked setter’s head.

  “Well, Speckles,” he murmured, “this is pretty comfortable, isn’t it?”

  Thump! went the ratty tail of Speckles on the sand.

  “You are not beautiful, are you?” inquired his master, gently humorous.

  Thump!

  “You admit it, don’t you!”

  Thump!

  “But who cares?” smiled the young man, lazily massaging the dog’s ears. “You know your business, they tell me. And he who knows what is his business in life, and then performs it, requires nothing further from the gods. To embellish the surface merely gilds the lily of character.... And that’s some epigram, Speckles, believe me.”

  The plain all around him was growing grey; already he could see walls of white mi
st skirting distant cypress woods. Few stars remained and these few faded as he watched. All the world seemed swathed in silvery grey velvet; the chill in the air softened; along the horizon a tint of primrose grew and deepened.

  Gun poised, nose in the air, young Clifton squatted cross-legged in his pit, scanning the void above. Presently a single dove, far out of range, passed high to the right. The game was on.

  But he had not the slightest idea what manner of game it promised to turn into.

  Another dove came over, speeding high and wide of range; another; then three together, then a dozen; then company after company, suddenly appearing above the western woods, rushing high through the sky overhead — all far, far beyond range.

  Then, as the flight streamed by into the east, the blinding disc of the sun appeared and shot rosy beams and turquoise-tinted shadows into the west. And at the same instant two light reports sounded from the plain directly in front of him.

  Out of a rushing company of doves, which had been driving straight toward his pit, he saw two dark objects pitching swiftly earthward; the flight swerved wide, skirting him, and was gone.

  Before he could make up his mind what to do, crack! crack! came from the plain; two black dots sheered downward, and a vast rush of doves veered south of him.

  “W-well, what do you know about that!” he stammered aloud in his indignation, meeting the astonished eyes of his dog.

  Crack! A single bird stopped in mid-air, whirled over and over in swift descent. And far across the scrub he saw a sinuous, dainty, blue-ticked setter creep forward, stand, then retrieve at some evident command from an unseen and pitted gunner. And a dead clean shot at that.

  “Damn!” said Clifton heartily, and sprang to his feet. But the distant dog had vanished; the pit remained as invisible as its insolent occupant; and even when two more short, dry reports came to his ears, and he saw a bunch of doves swing wide of him, he merely caught the glint of gun barrels above a waste of withered grass and weeds.

  But that glimpse was sufficient for him to mark the pit; and, gun in hand, and his red-ticked friend at heel, he sprang from the shallow hollow and strode angrily across the plain.

  Twice, while he was en route, and greatly to his satisfaction, he saw that his appearance was demoralizing the line of flight. But as yet the unseen gunner could not suspect what was diverting the doves.

  Two or three times he tripped on ground-briers, and once came down heavily on his knees. The shock did not sweeten his temper, and he swung forward, scowling, determined to find out once and for all which was the better man, his father’s only son or the progeny of the late lord of the “pungaloo.”

  He was destined to discover which was the better man.

  But the way he went about it was rather odd; as he caught sight of a slanted gun glittering above the ground just ahead of him, a tough carpet of briers caught his right foot and seized it.

  He went into the pit on his ornamental head.

  The abruptness of his intrusion resulted in three incidents; his own momentary unconsciousness, a dog fight, and a terrific whack on Edna Ritter’s left ankle from the barrels of his gun.

  She thought that she was going to faint from the sheer pain of the blow, until she saw him open his eyes and sit up beside her. Then her father’s daughter understood that this was no time for fainting. So she pulled the dogs apart, cuffed her own canine, and shoved him behind her, where he crouched growling defiance at the red-ticked one.

  When the young man had thoroughly realized what had happened, the first thing he did was to blush.

  “Good heavens!” he said. “What can you think of me! Is there any use in my asking?”

  “Was it ground-briers?” she asked seriously. The pain of her ankle still sickened her, but she managed to smile.

  “I suppose so — I don’t know any other reason why I should present myself to you on my head.... Did I by any chance hurt you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “I am very thankful,” he breathed, looking into the clearest, bluest eyes he had ever seen.

  Her dog growled at him.

  “Our dogs appear to disagree,” she observed; and her slight smile seemed to make her eyes almost starry, like the eyes of children. He clutched at Speckles and yanked him to his side.

  “There remains for me only my exit,” said the young man. “That exit is prepared by abject apologies — which you will inwardly deride and scorn — and then these stammered words of contrition will be duly followed by the most humiliating retreat since Moscow.”

  She laughed with the slightest trace of embarrassment.

  “First,” he said, “although it doesn’t mitigate my offense, may I say that I never dreamed you were the occupant of this shooting pit?”

  “Who did you expect to find here?”

  “A man — some individual wearing the surname of Ritter.”

  “Oh!”

  “A poacher, a nuisance, an impudent claim-jumper whose father — while alive — tormented the courts with maddening and endless litigation over the title to this land. That’s who I expected to find here.”

  “Oh! What did you intend to do to him?” she asked, blue eyes very starry and wide.

  “Bounce him,” said the young fellow.

  “Then perhaps — if this is your property — I had better—”

  “Oh, I beg of you!” he cried, red as a pippin again. “Please if you could be gracious enough to accept the shooting privileges from such an idiot as I am—”

  “But I am not sure that I care to—”

  “Oh, I know how you feel — how naturally incensed and disgusted you must be — after I have diverted the line of flight, introduced myself head first, started a dog fight—”

  She laughed, furtively feeling of her ankle under her shooting kilts. It was swelling. Very cautiously she unbuckled the top strap of her high shooting boot below her knee, loosened the laces at the ankle, then by degrees eased them all the way up.

  Her cheeks paled and flushed with pain; the gold-brown hair framed a face so delicate, so exquisite, that Clifton, who already had learned to sidestep all feminine loveliness because long warned by feminine pursuit that he was a universal object of prey, once again became conscious of his inculcated instinct toward caution.

  Had this exquisite young creature guessed who he was? And, if so, was she, like the others, already busy with schemes concerning the only son and heir of the recent William de Monfort Clifton?

  And suddenly it came into his head to lie. Why it entered his mind he did not know exactly — unless from a whimsical and almost pathetic desire that this young girl should smile at him because he was merely a man and not because he happened to be a Clifton.

  “May I name myself?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Please.... But I think I know who you are.”

  He said with a stiffened smile on his lips:

  “Who do you suppose me to be?”

  “You are Mr. Clifton of Montfort House, are you not?”

  “I was afraid you might think so, because I said that this land belongs to me,” he returned carelessly. “And so it does — temporarily — but I merely lease it from the present Mr. Clifton.”

  “But you are Mr. Clifton, are you not?”

  “His private secretary, James Gay.”

  She considered him calmly for a few moments, seeing the romantic opportunity of a lifetime fading with every throb from a tortured ankle.

  Vain then the pain sent by the gods themselves; vain the incident in all its best-seller possibilities! For though she had carefully and deliberately set this scene for them both, never had she hoped for such a perfect opening chapter — if this young man had only been the right man in the rôle.

  Wave after wave of pain swept over her; the white smile became fixed.... Well, she would have to set another scene some day, on another stage, for the right man’s entrance; that was all. Meanwhile — her shoe had to come off, even if pulled off by the wrong man. She fumbled for
a while under the edge of her kilts, striving to manage it herself, then:

  “If you please,” she said quietly, “I have hurt my ankle, and it is swelling rather rapidly. Could you aid me to take off this boot?”

  “Your ankle!... When did you—” And, with sudden and awful misgiving: “Had I anything to do with hurting your ankle?”

  “A mere sprain,” she returned coolly, extending the foot in its shapely shooting boot. “I think you may have to cut the leather — it’s rather too late to unlace it.” He knelt beside her at once, touched the foot cautiously, saw the blood leave her cheeks at the contact.

  “How long have you been here with an ankle like that?” he demanded.

  “Not long. I thought it would get better.”

  “Lie back,” he said. “I shall have to cut this boot to rags.”

  She carelessly crossed her arms under her head and extended her slender figure flat along the sandy bottom of the shooting pit. Very deftly, and with infinite precaution, he slit the leather with his hunting knife, severed the moose-hide laces, unbuckled the remaining strap, and eased the boot away.

  She lay there without a whimper, her narrow, stockinged foot extended, giving no sign of suffering save for the pallor of her cheeks and the hands clenched under her head.

  He had risen and was looking down at her; and presently her eyes unclosed.

  “You are suffering agonies,” he insisted.

  “It — hurts,” she admitted quietly.

  “I think,” he said, “I had better get my horse at once, mount you on him, and lead you — wherever you may happen to be stopping—”

  “Let me lie still a while,” she returned faintly. And closed her eyes.

  After he had stood gazing down at the white face for five full minutes, he slipped off his shooting coat and spread it over the swollen foot. She winced and looked up at him pitifully, but in silence, and he removed the coat and dropped on one knee beside her.

  “This is a perfect mess,” she murmured, striving to steady lip and voice.

  “You are sheer grit — every inch of you,” he breathed.