Works of robert w chambe.., p.363
Works of Robert W Chambers, page 363
He had given up going out — made no further pretense; and Boots let him alone.
Once a week he called at the Gerards’, spending most of his time while there with the children. Sometimes he saw Nina and Eileen, usually just returned or about to depart for some function; and his visit, as a rule, ended with a cup of tea alone with Austin, and a quiet cigar in the library, where Kit-Ki sat, paws folded under, approving of the fireside warmth in a pleasureable monotone.
On such evenings, late, if Nina and Eileen had gone to a dance, or to the opera with Boots, Austin, ruddy with well-being and shamelessly slippered, stretched luxuriously in the fire warmth, lazily discussing what was nearest to him — his children and wife, and the material comfort which continued to attend him with the blessing of that heaven which seems so largely occupied in fulfilling the desires of the good for their own commercial prosperity.
Too, he had begun to show a peculiar pride in the commercial development of Gerald, speaking often of his gratifying application to business, the stability of his modest position, the friends he was making among men of substance, their regard for him.
“Not that the boy is doing much of a business yet,” he would say with a tolerant shrug of his big fleshy shoulders, “but he’s laying the foundation for success — a good, upright, solid foundation — with the doubtful scheming of Neergard left out” — at that time Neergard had not yet gone to pieces, physically— “and I expect to aid him when aid is required, and to extend to him, judiciously, such assistance, from time to time, as I think he may require. . . . There’s one thing—”
Austin puffed once or twice at his cigar and frowned; and Selwyn, absently watching the dying embers on the hearth, waited in silence.
“One thing,” repeated Austin, reaching for the tongs and laying a log of white birch across the coals; “and that is Gerald’s fondness for pretty girls. . . . Not that it isn’t all right, too, but I hope he isn’t going to involve himself — hang a millstone around his neck before he can see his way clear to some promise of a permanent income based on—”
“Pooh!” said Selwyn.
“What’s that?” demanded Austin, turning red.
Selwyn laughed. “What did you have when you married my sister?”
Austin, still red and dignified, said:
“Your sister is a very remarkable woman — extremely unusual. I had the good sense to see that the first time I ever met her.”
“Gerald will see the same thing when his time comes,” said Selwyn quietly. “Don’t worry, Austin; he’s sound at the core.”
Austin considered his cigar-end, turning it round and round. “There’s good stock in the boy; I always knew it — even when he acted like a yellow pup. You see, Phil, that my treatment of him was the proper treatment. I was right in refusing to mollycoddle him or put up with any of his callow, unbaked impudence. You know yourself that you wanted me to let up on him — make all kinds of excuses. Why, man, if I had given him an inch leeway he’d have been up to his ears in debt. But I was firm. He saw I’d stand no fooling. He didn’t dare contract debts which he couldn’t pay. So now, Phil, you can appreciate the results of my attitude toward him.”
“I can, indeed,” said Selwyn thoughtfully.
“I think I’ve made a man of him,” persisted Austin.
“He’s certainly a manly fellow,” nodded Selwyn.
“You admit it?”
“Certainly, Austin.”
“Well, I’m glad of it. You thought me harsh — oh, I know you did! — but I don’t blame you. I knew what I was about. Why, Phil, if I hadn’t taken the firm stand I took that boy would have been running to Nina and Eileen — he did go to his sister once, but he never dared try it again! — and he’d probably have borrowed money of Neergard and — by Jove! he might even have come to you to get him out of his scrapes!”
“Oh, scarcely that,” protested Selwyn with grave humour.
“That’s all you know about it,” nodded Austin, wise-eyed, smoking steadily. “And all I have to say is that it’s fortunate for everybody that I stood my ground when he came around looking for trouble. For you’re just the sort of a man, Phil, who’d be likely to strip yourself if that young cub came howling for somebody to pay his debts of honour. Admit it, now; you know you are.”
But Selwyn only smiled and looked into the fire.
After a few moments’ silence Austin said curiously: “You’re a frugal bird. You used to be fastidious. Do you know that coat of yours is nearly the limit?”
“Nonsense,” said Selwyn, colouring.
“It is. . . . What do you do with your money? Invest it, of course; but you ought to let me place it. You never spend any; you should have a decent little sum tucked away by this time. Do your Chaosite experiments cost anything now?”
“No; the Government is conducting them.”
“Good business. What does the bally Government think of the powder, now?”
“I can’t tell yet,” said Selwyn listlessly. “There’s a plate due to arrive to-morrow; it represents a section of the side armour of one of the new 22,000-ton battleships. . . . I hope to crack it.”
“Oh! — with a bursting charge?”
Selwyn nodded, and rested his head on his hand.
A little later Austin cast the remains of his cigar from him, straightened up, yawned, patted his waistcoat, and looked wisely at the cat.
“I’m going to bed,” he announced. “Boots is to bring back Nina and Eileen. . . . You don’t mind, do you, Phil? I’ve a busy day to-morrow. . . . There’s Scotch over there — you know where things are. Ring if you have a sudden desire for anything funny like peacock feathers on toast. There’s cold grouse somewhere underground if you’re going to be an owl. . . . And don’t feed that cat on the rugs. . . . Good-night.”
“Good-night,” nodded Selwyn, relighting his cigar.
He had no intention of remaining very long; he supposed that his sister and Eileen would be out late, wherever they were, and he merely meant to dream a bit longer before going back to bed.
He had been smoking for half an hour perhaps, lying deep in his chair, worn features dully illuminated by the sinking fire; and he was thinking about going — had again relighted his partly consumed cigar to help him with its fragrant companionship on his dark route homeward, when he heard a footfall on the landing, and turned to catch a glimpse of Gerald in overcoat and hat, moving silently toward the stairs.
“Hello, old fellow!” he said, surprised. “I didn’t know you were in the house.”
The boy hesitated, turned, placed something just outside the doorway, and came quickly into the room.
“Philip!” he said with a curious, excited laugh, “I want to ask you something. I never yet came to you without asking something and — you never have failed me. Would you tell me now what I had better do?”
“Certainly,” said Selwyn, surprised and smiling; “ask me, old fellow. You’re not eloping with some nice girl, are you?”
“Yes,” said Gerald, calm in his excitement, “I am.”
“What?” repeated Selwyn gravely; “what did you say?
“You guessed it. I came home and dressed and I’m going back to the Craigs’ to marry a girl whose mother and father won’t let me have her.”
“Sit down, Gerald,” said Selwyn, removing the cigar from his lips; but:
“I haven’t time,” said the boy. “I simply want to know what you’d do if you loved a girl whose mother means to send her to London to get rid of me and marry her to that yawning Elliscombe fellow who was over here. . . . What would you do? She’s too young to stand much of a siege in London — some Englishman will get her if he persists — and I mean to make her love me.”
“Oh! Doesn’t she?”
“Y-es. . . . You know how young girls are. Yes, she does — now. But a year or two with that crowd — and the duchess being good to her, and Elliscombe yawning and looking like a sleepy Lohengrin or some damned prince in his Horse Guards’ helmet! — Selwyn, I can see the end of it. She can’t stand it; she’s too young not to get over it. . . . So, what would you do?”
“Who is she, Gerald?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Oh! . . . Of course she’s the right sort?”
“Perfectly.”
“Young?”
“Very. Out last season.”
Selwyn rose and began to pace the floor; Kit-Ki, disturbed, looked up, then resumed her purring.
“There’s nothing dishonourable in this, of course,” said Selwyn, halting short.
“No,” said the boy. “I went to her mother and asked for her, and was sent about my business. Then I went to her father. You know him. He was decent, bland, evasive, but decent. Said his daughter needed a couple of seasons in London; hinted of some prior attachment. Which is rot; because she loves me — she admits it. Well, I said to him, ‘I’m going to marry Gladys’; and he laughed and tried to look at his moustache; and after a while he asked to be excused. I took the count. Then I saw Gladys at the Craigs’, and I said, ‘Gladys, if you’ll give up the whole blooming heiress business and come with me, I’ll make you the happiest girl in Manhattan.’ And she looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘I’d rather grow up with you than grow old forgetting you.’”
“Did she say that?” asked Selwyn.
“She said,’We’ve the greatest chance in the world, Gerald, to make something of each other. Is it a good risk?’ And I said, ‘It is the best risk in the world if you love me.’ And she said, ‘I do, dearly; I’ll take my chance.’ And that’s how it stands, Philip. . . . She’s at the Craigs’ — a suit-case and travelling-gown upstairs. Suddy Gray and Betty Craig are standing for it, and” — with a flush— “there’s a little church, you know—”
“Around the corner. I know. Did you telephone?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause; the older man dropped his hands into his pockets and stepped quietly in front of Gerald; and for a full minute they looked squarely at one another, unwinking.
“Well?” asked Gerald, almost tremulously. “Can’t you say, ‘Go ahead!’?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“No, I won’t,” said the boy simply. “A man doesn’t ask about such matters; he does them. . . . Tell Austin and Nina. . . . And give this note to Eileen.” He opened a portfolio and laid an envelope in Selwyn’s hands. “And — by George! — I almost forgot! Here” — and he laid a check across the note in Selwyn’s hand— “here’s the balance of what you’ve advanced me. Thank God, I’ve made it good, every cent. But the debt is only the deeper. . . . Good-bye, Philip.”
Selwyn held the boy’s hand a moment. Once or twice Gerald thought he meant to speak, and waited, but when he became aware of the check thrust back at him he forced it on Selwyn again, laughing:
“No! no! If I did not stand clear and free in my shoes do you think I’d dare do what I’m doing? Do you suppose I’d ask a girl to face with me a world in which I owed a penny? Do you suppose I’m afraid of that world? — or of a soul in it? Do you suppose I can’t take a living out of it?”
Suddenly Selwyn crushed the boy’s hand.
“Then take it! — and her, too!” he said between his teeth; and turned on his heel, resting his arms on the mantel and his head face downward between them.
So Gerald went away in the pride and excitement of buoyant youth to take love as he found it and where he found it — though he had found it only as the green bud of promise which unfolds, not to the lover, but to love. And the boy was only one of many on whom the victory might have fallen; but such a man becomes the only man when he takes what he finds for himself — green bud, half blown, or open to its own deep fragrant heart. To him that hath shall be given, and much forgiven. For it is the law of the strong and the prophets: and a little should be left to that Destiny which the devout revere under a gentler name.
The affair made a splash in the social puddle, and the commotion spread outside of it. Inside the nine-and-seventy cackled; outside similar gallinaceous sounds. Neergard pored all day over the blue-pencilled column, and went home, stunned; the social sheet which is taken below stairs and read above was full of it, as was the daily press and the mouths of people interested, uninterested, and disinterested, legitimately or otherwise, until people began to tire of telling each other exactly how it happened that Gerald Erroll ran away with Gladys Orchil.
Sanxon Orchil was widely quoted as suavely and urbanely deploring the premature consummation of an alliance long since decided upon by both families involved; Mrs. Orchil snapped her electric-blue eyes and held her peace — between her very white teeth; Austin Gerard, secretly astounded with admiration for Gerald, received the reporters with a countenance expressive of patient pain, but downtown he made public pretence of busy indifference, as though not fully alive to the material benefit connected with the unexpected alliance. Nina wept — happily at moments — at moments she laughed — because she had heard all about the famous British invasion planned by the Orchils and abetted by Anglo-American aristocracy. She did not laugh too maliciously; she simply couldn’t help it. Her set was not the Orchils’ set, their ways were not her ways; their orbits merely intersected occasionally; and, left to herself and the choice hers, she would not have troubled herself to engineer any such alliance, even to stir up Mrs. Sanxon Orchil. Besides, deep in her complacent little New York soul she had the faintest germ of contempt for the Cordova ancestors of the house of Orchil.
But the young and silly pair had now relieved her as well as Mrs. Orchil of any further trouble concerning themselves, the American duchess, the campaign, and the Horse Guards: they had married each other rather shamelessly one evening while supposed to be dancing at the Sandon Craigs’, and had departed expensively for Palm Beach, whither Austin, grim, reticent, but inwardly immensely contented, despatched the accumulated exclamatory letters of the family with an intimation of his own that two weeks was long enough to cut business even with a honeymoon as excuse.
Meanwhile the disorganisation in the nursery was tremendous; the children, vaguely aware of the household demoralisation and excitement, took the opportunity to break loose on every occasion; and Kit-Ki, to her infinite boredom and disgust, was hunted from garret to cellar; and Drina, taking advantage, contrived to over-eat herself and sit up late, and was put to bed sick; and Eileen, loyal, but sorrowfully amazed at her brother’s exclusion of her in such a crisis, became slowly overwhelmed with the realisation of her loneliness, and took to the seclusion of her own room, feeling tearful and abandoned, and very much like a very little girl whose heart was becoming far too full of all sorts of sorrows.
Nina misunderstood her, finding her lying on her bed, her pale face pillowed in her hair.
“Only horridly ordinary people will believe that Gerald wanted her money,” said Nina; “as though an Erroll considered such matters at all — or needed to. Clear, clean English you are, back to the cavaliers whose flung purses were their thanks when the Cordovans held their horses’ heads. . . . What are you crying for?”
“I don’t know,” said Eileen; “not for anything that you speak of. Neither Gerald nor I ever wasted any emotion over money, or what others think about it. . . . Is Drina ill?”
“No; only sick. Calomel will fix her, but she believes she’s close to dissolution and she’s sent for Boots to take leave of him — the little monkey! I’m so indignant. She’s taken advantage of the general demoralisation to eat up everything in the house. . . . Billy fell downstairs, fox-hunting, and his nose bled all over that pink Kirman rug. . . . Boots is a dear; do you know what he’s done?”
“What?” asked Eileen listlessly, raising the back of her slender hand from her eyes to peer at Nina through the glimmer of tears.
“Well, he and Phil have moved out of Boots’s house, and Boots has wired Gerald and Gladys that the house is ready for them until they can find a place of their own. Of course they’ll both come here — in fact, their luggage is upstairs now — Boots takes the blue room and Phil his old quarters, . . . But don’t you think it is perfectly sweet of Boots? And isn’t it good to have Philip back again?”
“Y-es,” said Eileen faintly. Lying there, the deep azure of her eyes starred with tears, a new tremor altered her mouth, and the tight-curled upper lip quivered. Her heart, too, had begun its heavy, unsteady response in recognition of her lover’s name; she turned partly away from Nina, burying her face in her brilliant hair; and beside her slim length, straight and tense, her arms lay, the small hands contracting till they had closed as tightly as her teeth.
It was no child, now, who lay there, fighting down the welling desolation; no visionary adolescent grieving over the colourless ashes of her first romance; not even the woman, socially achieved, intelligently and intellectually in love. It was a girl, old enough to realise that the adoration she had given was not wholly spiritual, that her delight in her lover and her response to him was not wholly of the mind, not so purely of the intellect; that there was still more, something sweeter, more painful, more bewildering that she could give him, desired to give — nay, that she could not withhold even with sealed eyes and arms outstretched in the darkness of wakeful hours, with her young heart straining in her breast and her set lips crushing back the unuttered cry.
Love! So that was it! — the need, the pain, the bewilderment, the hot sleeplessness, the mad audacity of a blessed dream, the flushed awakening, stunned rapture — and then the gray truth, bleaching the rose tints from the fading tapestries of slumberland, leaving her flung across her pillows, staring at daybreak.
Nina had laid a cool smooth hand across her forehead, pushing back the hair — a light caress, sensitive as an unasked question.
But there was no response, and presently the elder woman rose and went out along the landing, and Eileen heard her laughingly greeting Boots, who had arrived post-haste on news of Drina’s plight.
