Complete weird tales of.., p.1036
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1036
He lay back in his chair, studying her, and she watched him in silence for a while. Presently she sighed, stirred, placed her feet on the floor as though preparing to rise. And he came out of his impersonal abstraction:
“What is it you want to say, Sweetness?”
“Another time,” she murmured. “I don’t — —”
“You dear child, you came to me needing the intimacy of our comradeship — perhaps its sympathy. My mind was wandering — you are so lovely in the starlight. But you ought to know where my heart is.”
“Is it open — a little?”
“Knock and see, Sweetness.”
“Well, then, I came to ask you — Mr. Skeel is coming to-morrow — to see me — alone. Could it be contrived — without offending?”
“I suppose it could.... Yes, of course.... Only it will be conspicuous. You see, Mr. Skeel is much sought after in certain circles — beginning to be pursued and — —”
“He asked me.”
“Dear, it’s quite all right — —”
“Let me tell you, please.... He did know my mother.”
“I supposed so.”
“Yes. He was the man. I want you to know what he told me.... I always wish you to know everything that is in my — mind — always, for ever.”
She leaned forward in her chair, her pretty, bare feet extended. One silken sleeve of her negligée had fallen to the shoulder, revealing the perfect symmetry of her arm. But he put from his mind the ever latent artistic delight in her, closed his painter’s eye to her protean possibilities, and resolutely concentrated his mental forces upon what she was now saying:
“He turns out to be the same man my mother wrote to — and who wrote to her.... They were in love, then. He didn’t say why he went away, except that my mother’s family disliked him.... She lived at a house called Fane Court.... He spoke of my mother’s father as Sir Barry Fane....”
“That doesn’t surprise me, Sweetness.”
“Did you know?”
“Nothing definite.” He looked at the lovely, slender-limbed girl there in the starry dusk. “I knew nothing definite,” he repeated, “but there was no mistaking the metal from which you had been made — or the mould, either. And as for Soane — —” he smiled.
She said:
“If my name is really Fane, there can be only one conclusion; some kinsman of that name must have married my mother.”
He said:
“Of course,” very gravely.
“Then who was he? My mother never mentioned him in her letters. What became of him? He must have been my father. Is he living?”
“Did you ask Mr. Skeel?”
“Yes. He seemed too deeply affected to answer me. He must have loved my mother very dearly to show such emotion before me.”
“What did you ask him, Dulcie?”
“After we left the piano?”
“Yes.”
“I asked him that. I had only a few more moments alone with him before he left. I asked him about my mother — to tell me how she looked — so I could think of her more clearly. He has a picture of her on ivory. He is to bring it to me and tell me more about her. That is why I must see him to-morrow — so I may ask him again about my father.”
“Yes, dear....” He sat very silent for a while, then rose, came over, and seated himself on the padded arm of Dulcie’s chair, and took both her hands into his:
“Listen, Sweetness. You are what you are to me — my dear comrade, my faithful partner sharing our pretty partnership in art; and, more than these, Dulcie, you are my friend.... Never doubt that. Never forget it. Nothing can alter it — nothing you learn about your origin can exalt that friendship.... Nothing lessen it. Do you understand? Nothing can lessen it, save only if you prove untrue to what you are — your real self.”
She had rested her cheek against his arm while he was speaking. It lay there now, pressed closer.
“As for Murtagh Skeel,” he said, “he is a charming, cultivated, fascinating man. But if he attempts to carry out his agitator’s schemes and his revolutionary propaganda in this country, he is headed for most serious trouble.”
“Why does he?”
“Don’t ask me why men of his education and character do such things. They do; that’s all I know. Sir Roger Casement is another man not unlike Skeel. There are many, hot-hearted, generous, brave, irrational. There is no use blaming them — no justice in it, either. The history of British rule in Ireland is a matter of record.
“But, Dulcie, he who strikes at England to-day strikes at civilisation, at liberty, at God! This is no time to settle old grievances. And to attempt to do it by violence, by propaganda — to attempt a reckoning of ancient wrongs in any way, to-day, is a crime — the crime of treachery against Christ’s teachings — of treason against Lord Christ Himself!”
After a long interval:
“You are going to this war quite soon. Mr. Westmore said so.”
“I am going — with my country or without it.”
“When?”
“When I finally lose patience and self-respect.... I don’t know exactly when, but it will be pretty soon.”
“Could I go with you?”
“Do you wish to?”
She pressed her cheek against his arm in silence.
He said:
“That has troubled me a lot, Dulcie. Of course you could stay here; I can arrange — I had come to a conclusion in regard to financial matters — —”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“Can’t what?”
“Stay here — take anything from you — accept without service in return.”
“What would you do?”
“I wouldn’t care — if you — leave me here alone.”
“But, Dulcie — —”
“I know. You said it this evening. There will come a time when you would not find it convenient to have me — around — —”
“Dear, it’s only because a man and a woman in this world cannot continue anything of enduring intimacy without business as an excuse. And even then, the pleasant informality existing now could not be continued with anything except very serious disadvantage to you.”
“You will grow tired of painting me,” she said under her breath.
“No. But your life is all before you, Dulcie. Girls usually marry sooner or later.”
“Men do too.”
“That’s not what I meant — —”
“You will marry,” she whispered.
Again, at her words, the same odd uneasiness began to possess him as though something obscure, unformulated as yet, must some day be cleared up by him and decided.
“Don’t leave me — yet,” she said.
“I couldn’t take you with me to France.”
“Let me enlist for service. Could you be patient for a few months so that I might learn something — anything! — I don’t care what, if only I can go with you? Don’t they require women to scrub and do unpleasant things — humble, unclean, necessary things?”
“You couldn’t — with your slender youth and delicate beauty — —”
“Oh,” she whispered, “you don’t know what I could do to be near you! That is all I want — all I want in the world! — just to be somewhere not too far away. I couldn’t stand it, now, if you left me.... I couldn’t live — —”
“Dulcie!”
But, suddenly, it was a hot-faced, passionate, sobbing child who was clinging desperately to his arm and staunching her tears against it — saying nothing more, merely clinging close with quivering lips.
“Listen,” he said impulsively. “I’ll give you time. If there’s anything you can learn that will admit you to France, come back to town with me and learn it.... Because I don’t want to leave you, either.... There ought to be some way — some way — —” He checked himself abruptly, stared at the bowed head under its torrent of splendid hair — at the desperate white little hands holding so fast to his sleeve, at the slender body gathered there in the deep chair, and all aquiver now.
“We’ll go — together,” he said unsteadily.... “I’ll do what I can; I promise.... You must go upstairs to bed, now.... Dulcie!... dear girl....”
She released his arm, tried to get up from her chair obediently, blinded by tears and groping in the starlight.
“Let me guide you — —” His voice was strained, his touch feverish and unsteady, and the convulsive closing of her fingers over his seemed to burn to his very bones.
At the stairs she tried to speak, thanking him, asking pardon for her tears, her loss of self-command, penitent, afraid that she had lowered herself, strained his friendship — troubled him ——
“No. I — want you,” he said in an odd, indistinct, hesitating voice.... “Things must be cleared up — matters concerning us — affairs — —” he muttered.
She closed her eyes a moment and rested both hands on the banisters as though fatigued, then she looked down at him where he stood watching her:
“If you had rather go without me — if it is better for you — less troublesome — —”
“I’ve told you,” he said in a dull voice, “I want you. You must fit yourself to go.”
“You are so kind to me — so wonderful — —”
He merely stared at her; she turned almost wearily to resume her ascent.
“Dulcie!”
She had reached the landing above. She bent over, looking down at him in the dusk.
“Did you understand?”
“I — yes, I think so.”
“That I want you?”
“Yes.”
“It is true. I want you always. I’m just beginning to understand that myself. Please don’t ever forget what I say to you now, Dulcie; I want you. I shall always want you. Always! As long as I live.”
She leaned heavily on the newel-post above, looking down.
He could not see that her eyes were closed, that her lips moved in voiceless answer. She was only a vague white shape there in the dusk above him — a mystery which seemed to have been suddenly born out of some poignant confusion of his own mind.
He saw her turn, fade into the darkness. And he stood there, not moving, aware of the chaos within him, of shapeless questions being evolved out of this profound disturbance — of an inner consciousness groping with these questions — questions involving other questions and menacing him with the necessity of decision.
After a while, too, he became conscious of his own voice sounding there in the darkness:
“I am very near to love.... I have been close to it.... It would be very easy to fall in love to-night.... But I am wondering — about to-morrow.... And afterward.... But I have been very near — very near to love, to-night....”
The front doorbell rang through the darkness.
CHAPTER XXV
STARLIGHT
WHEN BARRES OPENED the front door he saw Renoux standing there in the shadow of the porch, silhouetted against the starlight. They exchanged a silent grip; Renoux stepped inside; Barres closed the front door.
“Shall I light up?” he asked in a low voice.
“No. There are complications. I’ve been followed, I think. Take me somewhere near a window which commands the driveway out there. I’d like to keep my eye on it while we are talking.”
“Come on,” said Barres, under his breath. He guided Renoux through the shadowy entrance hall to the library, moved two padded armchairs to the window facing the main drive, motioned Renoux to seat himself.
“When did you arrive?” he asked in a cautious voice.
“This morning.”
“What! You got here before we did!”
“Yes. I followed Souchez and Alost. Do you know who they were following?”
“No.”
“One of your guests at dinner this evening.”
“Skeel!”
Renoux nodded:
“Yes. You saw them start for the train. Skeel was on the train. But the conference at your studio delayed me. So I came up by automobile last night.”
“And you’ve been here all day?”
Renoux nodded, but his keen eyes were fixed on the drive, shining silver-grey in the starlight. And his gaze continually reverted to it while he continued speaking:
“My friend, things are happening. Let me first tell you what is the situation. Over this entire hemisphere German spies are busy, German intrigue and propaganda are being accelerated, treason is spreading from a thousand foci of infection.
“In South America matters are very serious. A revolution is being planned by the half million Germans in Brazil; the neutrality of Argentine is being most grossly violated and Count Luxburg, the boche Ambassador, is already tampering with Chile and other Southern Republics.
“Of course, the Mexican trouble is due to German intrigue which is trying desperately to involve that Republic and yours and also drag in Japan.
“In Honolulu the German cruiser which your Government has interned is sending out wireless information while her band plays to drown the crackle of the instrument.
“And from the Golden Gate to the Delaware capes, and from the Soo to the Gulf, the spies of Germany swarm in your great Republic, planning your destruction in anticipation of the war which will surely come.”
Barres reddened in the darkness and his heart beat more rapidly:
“You think it really will come?”
“War with Germany? My friend, I am certain of it. Your Government may not be certain. It is, if you permit a foreigner to say so — an — unusual Administration.... In this way, for example: it is cognisant of almost everything treasonable that is happening; it maintains agents in close contact with every mischief-hatching German diplomat in this hemisphere; it even has agents in the German Embassies — agents unsuspected, who daily rub elbows with German Ambassadors themselves!
“It knows what Luxburg is doing; it is informed every day concerning Bernstorff’s dirty activities; the details of the Mexican and Japanese affairs are familiar to Mr. Lansing; all that happens aboard the Geier, the interned German liners — all that occurs in German consulates, commercial offices, business houses, clubs, cafés, saloons, is no secret to your Government.
“Yet, nothing has been done, nothing is being done except to continue to collect data of the most monstrous and stupendous conspiracy that ever threatened a free nation! I repeat that nothing is being done; no preparation is being made to face the hurricane which has been looming for two years and more, growing ever blacker over your horizon. All the world can see the lightning playing behind those storm clouds.
“And, my God! — not an umbrella! Not an order for overshoes and raincoats!... I am not, perhaps, in error when I suggest that the Administration is an — unusual one.”
Barres nodded slowly.
Renoux said:
“I am sorry. The reckoning will be heavy.”
“I know.”
“Yes, you know. Your great politician, Mr. Roosevelt, knows; your great Admiral, Mahan, knew; your great General, Wood, knows. Also, perhaps some million or more sane, clear thinking American citizens know.” He made a hopeless gesture. “It is a pity, Barres, my friend.... Well — it is, of course, the affair of your people to decide.... We French can only wait.... But we have never doubted your ultimate decision.... Lafayette did not live in vain. Yorktown was not merely a battle. Your Washington lighted a torch for your people and for ours to hold aloft eternally. Even the rain of blood drenching our Revolution could not extinguish it. It still burned at Gravelotte, at Metz, at Sedan. It burned above the smoke and dust of the Commune. It burned at the Marne. It still burns, mon ami.”
“Yes.”
“Alors — —” He sat silent for a few moments, his gaze intent on the starry obscurity outdoors. Then, slow and pleasantly:
“The particular mess, the cooking of which interests my Government, the English Government, and yours, is now on the point of boiling over. It’s this Irish stew I speak of. Poor devils — they must be crazy, every one of them, to do what they are already beginning to do.... You remember the papers which you secured?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what we did last night at Grogan’s has prematurely dumped the fat into the fire. They know they’ve been robbed; they know that their plans are in our hands. Do you suppose that stops them? No! On the contrary, they are at this very moment attempting, as you say in New York, to beat us to it.”
“How do you mean?”
“This way: the signal for an Irish attempt on Canada is to be the destruction of the Welland Canal. You remember the German suggestion that an ore steamer be seized? They’re going to try it. And if that fails, they’re to take their power boat into the canal anyway and blow up a lock, even if they blow up themselves with it. Did you ever hear of such madness? Mon dieu, if only we had those men under your flag on our western front!”
“Do you know who these men are?” asked Barres.
“Your dinner guest — Murtagh Skeel — leads this company of Death.”
“When?”
“Now! To-morrow! That’s why I’m here! That’s why your Secret Service men are arriving. I tell you the mess is on the point of boiling over. The crew is already on its way to take over the launch. They’re travelling west singly, by separate trains and routes.”
“Do you know who they are — these madmen?”
“Here is the list — don’t strike a light! I can recall their names, I think — some of them anyway — —”
“Are any of them Germans?”
“Not one. Your German doesn’t blow himself up with anything but beer. Not he! No; he lights a fuse and legs it! I don’t say he’s a coward. But self-immolation for abstract principle isn’t in him. There have been instances resembling it at sea — probably not genuine — not like that poor sergeant of ours in 1870, who went into the citadel at Laon and shoved a torch into the bin of loose powder under the magazine.... Because the city had surrendered. And Paris was not many miles away.... So he blew himself up with citadel, magazine, all the Prussians in the neighbourhood, and most of the town.... Well — these Irish are planning something of that sort on the Welland Canal.... Murtagh Skeel leads them. The others I remember are Madigan, Cassidy, Dolan, McBride — and that fellow Soane! — —”
