Complete weird tales of.., p.573
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 573
“Dearest of men, don’t put your family and yourself — and me — into such a false position. I know you won’t when I have explained it; I know you trust me; I know you love me dearly.
“We had a straw ride. There’s no new straw, of course, so we had a wagon filled with straw from one of the barns and we drove to Lake Gentian and Querida was glorious in the moonlight with his guitar.
“He’s so nice to me now — so like himself. But I hate Penrhyn Cardemon and I wish he would go; and he’s taken a fancy to me, and for Hélène’s sake I don’t snub him — the unmitigated cad!
“However, it takes all kinds to make even the smallest of house parties; and I continue to be very happy and to write to you every day.
“Sam is queer. I’m beginning to wonder whether he is really in love with Hélène. If he isn’t he ought to have his knuckles rapped. Of course, Hélène will be sensible about it. But, Louis, when a really nice man behaves as though he were in love with a woman, no matter how gaily she laughs over it, it is bound to mean something to her. And men don’t seem to understand that.”
“Mrs. Hind-Willet departs to-morrow. Sam and Harry go to Ashuelyn; Mr.
Cardemon to his rural palace, I devoutly trust; which will leave José to
Hélène and me; and he’s equal to it.
“How long may I stay, dear? I am having a heavenly time — which is odd because heaven is in New York just now.”
Another letter in answer to one of his was briefer:
“My Darling:
“Certainly you must go to Ashuelyn if your father and mother wish it.
They are old, dear; and it is a heartless thing to thwart the old.
“Don’t think of attempting to come over here to see me. The chances are that your family would hear of it and it would only pain them. Any happiness that you and I are ever to have must not be gained at any expense to them.
“So keep your distance, Monsieur; make your parents and your sister happy for the few days you are to be there; and on Thursday I will meet you on the 9.30 train and we will go back to town together.
“I am going anyway, for two reasons; I have been away from you entirely too long, and — the First of June is very, very near.
“I love you with all my heart, Louis.
“Valerie West.”
CHAPTER XIII
HE NEVER DOUBTED that, when at length the time came for the great change — though perhaps not until the last moment — Valerie would consent to marry him. Because, so far in his life of twenty-eight years, everything he had desired very much had come true — everything he had really believed in and worked for, had happened as he foresaw it would, in spite of the doubts, the fears, the apprehensions that all creators of circumstances and makers of their own destiny experience.
Among his fellow-men he had forged a self-centred, confident way to the front; and had met there not ultimate achievement, but a young girl, Valerie West. Through her, somehow, already was coming into his life and into his work that indefinite, elusive quality — that something, the existence of which, until the last winter, he had never even admitted. But it was coming; he first became conscious of it through his need of it; suspected its existence as astronomers suspect the presence of a star yet uncharted and unseen. Suddenly it had appeared in his portrait of Valerie; and he knew that Querida had recognised it.
In his picture “A Bride,” the pale, mysterious glow of it suffused his canvas. It was penetrating into his own veins, too, subtle, indefinable, yet always there now; and he was sensitive to its presence not only when absorbed in his work but, more or less in his daily life.
And it was playing tricks on him, too, as when one morning, absorbed by the eagerness of achievement, and midway in the happiness of his own work, suddenly and unbidden the memory of poor Annan came to him — the boy’s patient, humorous face bravely confronting failure on the canvas, before him, from which Neville had turned away without a word, because he had no good word to say of it.
And Neville, scarcely appreciating the reason for any immediate self-sacrifice, nevertheless had laid aside his brushes as at some unheard command, and had gone straight to Annan’s studio. And there he had spent the whole morning giving the discouraged boy all that was best in him of strength and wisdom and cheerful sympathy, until, by noon, an almost hopeless canvas was saved; and Annan, going with him to the door, said unsteadily, “Kelly, that is the kindest thing one man ever did for another, and I’ll never forget it.”
Yes, the something seemed to have penetrated to his own veins now; he felt its serene glow mounting when he spent solemn evenings in John Burleson’s room, the big sculptor lying in his morris-chair, sometimes irritable, sometimes morose, but always now wearing the vivid patch of colour on his flat and sunken cheeks.
Once John said: “Why on earth do you waste a perfectly good afternoon dawdling in this place with me?”
And Neville, for a second, wondered, too; then he laughed:
“I get all that I give you, John, and more, too. Shut up and mind your business.”
“What do you get from me?” demanded the literal one, astonished.
“All that you are, Johnny; which is much that I am not — but ought to be — may yet be.”
“That’s some sort of transcendental philosophy, isn’t it?” grumbled the sculptor.
“You ought to know better than I, John. The sacred codfish never penetrated to the Hudson. Inde irac!”
Yes, truly, whatever it was that had crept into his veins had imperceptibly suffused him, enveloped him — and was working changes. He had a vague idea, sometimes, that Valerie had been the inception, the source, the reagent in the chemistry which was surely altering either himself or the world of men around him; that the change was less a synthesis than a catalysis — that he was gradually becoming different because of her nearness to him — her physical and spiritual nearness.
He had plenty of leisure to think of her while she was away; but thought of her was now only an active ebullition of the ceaseless consciousness of her which so entirely possessed him. When a selfish man loves — if he really loves — his disintegration begins.
Waking, sleeping, in happiness, in perplexity, abroad, at home, active or at rest, inspired or weary, alone or with others, an exquisite sense of her presence on earth invaded him, subtly refreshing him with every breath he drew. He walked abroad amid the city crowds companioned by her always; at rest the essence of her stole through and through him till the very air around seemed sweetened.
He heard others mention her, and remained silent, aloof, wrapped in his memories, like one who listens to phantoms in a dream praising perfection.
Lying back in his chair before his canvas, he thought of her often — of odd little details concerning their daily life — details almost trivial — gestures, a glance, a laugh — recollections which surprised him with the very charm of their insignificance.
He remembered that he had never known her to be ungenerous — had never detected in her a wilfully selfish motive. In his life he had never before believed in a character so utterly unshackled by thought of self.
He remembered that he had never known her to fail in sympathy for any living thing; had never detected in her an indifference to either the happiness or the sorrow of others. In his life he had never before believed that the command to love one’s neighbour had in it anything more significant than the beauty of an immortal theory. He believed it now because, in her, he had seen it in effortless practice. He was even beginning to understand how it might be possible for him to follow where she led — as she, unconsciously, was a follower of a precept given to lead the world through eternities.
Leaning on the closed piano, thinking of her in the still, sunny afternoons, faintly in his ears her voice seemed to sound; and he remembered her choice of ballads: —
— “For even the blind distinguisheth
The king with his robe and crown;
But only the humble eye of faith
Beholdeth Jesus of Nazareth
In the beggar’s tattered gown.
”I saw Him not in the mendicant
And I heeded not his cry;
Now Christ in His infinite mercy grant
That the prayer I say in my day of want,
Be not in scorn put by.”
No; he had never known her to be unkind, uncharitable, unforgiving; he had never known her to be insincere, untruthful, or envious. But the decalogue is no stronger than its weakest link. Was it in the heart of such a woman — this woman he loved — was it in the heart of this young girl to shatter it?
He went on to Ashuelyn, confident of her and of himself, less confident of his sister — almost appalled at the prospect of reconciling his father and mother to this marriage that must surely be. Yet — so far in life — life had finally yielded to him what he fought for; and it must yield now; and in the end it would surely give him the loyalty and sympathy of his family. Which meant that Valerie would listen to him; and, in the certainty of his family’s ultimate acquiescence, she would wear his ring and face with him the problems and the sorrows that must come to all.
Cameron drove down to the station in the motor-car to meet him:
“Hello, Genius,” he said, patting Neville on the back with a pudgy hand.
“How’s your twin brother, Vice?”
“Hello, you large and adipose object!” retorted Neville, seating himself in the tonneau. “How is that overworked, money-grubbing intellect of yours staggering along?”
“Handicapped with precious thoughts; Ogilvy threw ’em into me when he was here. How’s the wanton Muse, Louis? Sitting on your knees as usual?”
“One arm around my neck,” admitted Neville, “and the band playing
‘Sweethearts.’”
“Waiting for you to order inspiration cocktails. You’re looking fit.”
“Am I? I haven’t had one.”
“Oh, I thought you threw one every time you painted that pretty model of yours—” He looked sideways at Neville, but seeing that he was unreceptive, shrugged.
“You’re a mean bunch, you artists,” he said. “I’d like to meet that girl, but because I’m a broker anybody’d think I had rat-plague from the way you all quarantine her — yes, the whole lot of you — Ogilvy, Annan, Querida. Why, even Penrhyn Cardemon has met her; he told me so; and if he has why can’t I—”
“For heaven’s sake let up!” said Neville, keeping his temper, “and tell me how everybody is at Ashuelyn.”
“Huh! I’m ridden off as usual,” grunted Cameron. “All right, then; I’ll fix it myself. What was it you were gracious enough to inquire of me?”
“How the people are at Ashuelyn?” repeated Neville.
“How they are? How the deuce do I know? Your mother embroiders and reads The Atlantic Monthly; your father tucks his hands behind him and critically inspects the landscape; and when he doesn’t do that he reads Herbert Spencer. Your efficient sister nourishes her progeny and does all things thoroughly and well; Gordon digs up some trees and plants others and squirts un-fragrant mixtures over the shrubbery, and sits on fences talking to various Rubes. Stephanie floats about like a well-fed angel, with a fox-terrier, and makes a monkey of me at tennis whenever I’m lunatic enough to let her, and generally dispenses sweetness, wholesomeness, and light upon a worthy household. I wouldn’t mind marrying that girl,” he added casually. “What do you think?”
Neville laughed: “Why don’t you? She’s the nicest girl I ever knew — almost.”
“I’d ask her to marry me,” said Cameron facetiously; “only I’m afraid such a dazzling prospect would turn her head and completely spoil her.”
He spoke gaily and laughed loudly — almost boisterously. Neville glanced at him with a feeling that Cameron was slightly overdoing it — rather forcing the mirth without any particular reason.
After a moment he said: “Sandy, you don’t have to be a clown if you don’t want to be, you know.”
“Can’t help it,” said Cameron, reddening; “everybody expects it now. When Ogilvy was here we played in a double ring to crowded houses. Every seat on the veranda was taken; we turned ’em away, my boy. What was it you started to say about Stephanie?”
“I didn’t start to say anything about Stephanie.”
“Oh, I thought you were going to” — his voice died into an uncertain grumble. Neville glanced at him again, thoughtfully.
“You know, Sandy,” he said, “that there’s another side to you — which, for some occult reason you seem to hide — even to be ashamed of.”
“Sure I’m ashamed to be a broker with all you highbrows lining out homers for the girls while I have to sit on the bleachers and score ’em up. If I try to make a hit with the ladies it’s a bingle; and it’s the bench and the bush-league for muh—”
“You great, overgrown kid! It’s a pity people can’t see you down town. Everybody knows you’re the cleverest thing south of Broad and Wall. Look at all the boards, all the committees, all the directorates you’re mixed up with! Look at all the time you give freely to others — look at all your charities, all your: civic activities, all—”
“All the hell I raise!” said Cameron, very red. “Don’t forget that,
Louis!”
“You never did — that’s the wonder and the eternal decency of you, Cameron. You’re a good citizen and a good man, and you do more for the world than we painters ever could do! That’s the real truth of it; and why you so persistently try to represent yourself as a commonplace something else is beyond me — and probably beyond Stephanie Swift,” he added carelessly.
They whizzed along in silence for some time, and it was only when Ashuelyn was in sight that Cameron suddenly turned and held out his hand:
“Thank you, Louis; you’ve said some very kind things.”
Neville shrugged: “I hear you are financing that New Idea Home. I tell you that’s a fine conception.”
But Cameron only looked modest. At heart he was a very shy man and he deprecated any idea that he was doing anything unusual in giving most of his time to affairs that paid dividends only in happiness and in the consciousness of moral obligation fulfilled.
The household was occupying the pergola as they arrived and sprang out upon the clipped lawn.
Neville kissed his mother tenderly, shook hands cordially with his father, greeted Lily with a fraternal hug and Stephanie with a firm grasp of both hands.
“How perfectly beautiful it is here!” he exclaimed, looking out over the green valley beyond — and unconsciously his gaze rested on the Estwich hills, blue and hazy and soft as dimpled velvet. Out there, somewhere, was Valerie; heart and pulse began to quicken. Suddenly he became aware that his mother’s eyes were on him, and he turned away toward the south as though there was also something in that point of the compass to interest him.
Gordon Collis, following a hand-cart full of young trees wrapped in burlap, passed across the lawn below and waved a greeting at Neville.
“How are you, Louis!” he called out. “Don’t you want to help us set these hybrid catalpas?”
“I’ll be along by and by,” he replied, and turned to the group under the pergola who desired to know how it was in town — the first question always asked by New Yorkers of anybody who has just arrived from that holy spot.
“It’s not too warm,” said Neville; “the Park is charming, most of the houses on Fifth Avenue are closed—”
“Have you chanced to pass through Tenth Street?” asked his father solemnly.
But Neville confessed that he had not set foot in those sanctified precincts, and his father’s personal interest in Manhattan Island ceased immediately.
They chatted inconsequentially for a while; then, in reply to a question from Stephanie, he spoke of his picture, “A Bride,” and, though it was still unfinished, he showed them a photograph of it.
[Illustration: “‘It is very beautiful, Louis,’ said his mother, with a smile of pride.”]
The unmounted imprint passed from hand to hand amid various comments.
“It is very beautiful, Louis,” said his mother, with a smile of pride; and even as she spoke the smile faded and her sad eyes rested on him wistfully.
“Is it a sacred picture?” asked his father, examining it through his glasses without the slightest trace of interest.
“It is an Annunciation, isn’t it?” inquired Lily, calmly. But her heart was failing her, for in the beauty of the exquisite, enraptured face, she saw what might have been the very soul of Valerie West.
His father, removing his spectacles, delivered himself of an opinion concerning mysticism, and betrayed an illogical tendency to drift toward the Concord School of Philosophy. However, there seemed to be insufficient incentive; he glanced coldly toward Cameron and resumed Herbert Spencer and his spectacles.
“Mother, don’t you want to stroll on the lawn a bit?” he asked presently. “It looks very inviting to a city man’s pavement-worn feet.”
She drew her light wool shawl around her shoulders and took her tall son’s arm.
For a long while they strolled in silence, passed idly through the garden where masses of peonies hung over the paths, and pansies, iris, and forget-me-nots made the place fragrant.
It was not until they came to the plank bridge where the meadow rivulet, under its beds of cress and mint, threaded a shining way toward the woods, that his mother said in a troubled voice:
“You are not happy, Louis.”
“Why, mother — what an odd idea!”
“Am I mistaken?” she asked, timidly.
“Yes, indeed, you are. I am very happy.”
“Then,” she said, “what is it that has changed you so?”
[Illustration: “‘You are not happy, Louis.’”]
“Changed me?”
“Yes, dear.”
“I am not changed, mother.”
“Do you think a mother can be mistaken in her only son? You are so subdued, so serious. You are like men who have known sorrow…. What sorrow have you ever known, Louis?”
