Complete weird tales of.., p.574
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 574
“None. No great one, mother. Perhaps, lately, I have developed — recognised — become aware of the sombre part of life — become sensitive to it — to unhappiness in others — and have cared more—”
“You speak like a man who has suffered.”
“But I haven’t, mother,” he insisted. “Of course, every painter worries. I did last winter — last winter—” He hesitated, conscious that last winter — on the snowy threshold of the new year — sorrow and pain and happiness and pity had, in an instant, assumed for him a significance totally new.
“Mother,” he said slowly, “if I have changed it is only in a better understanding of the world and those who live in it. I have cared very little about people; I seem to have come to care more, lately. What they did, what they thought, hoped, desired, endured, suffered, interested me little except as it concerned my work. And somehow, since then, I am becoming interested in people for their own sakes. It’s a — new sensation.”
He smiled and laid his hand over hers:
“Do you know I never even appreciated what a good man Alexander Cameron is until recently. Why, mother, that man is one of the most generous, modest, kind, charitable, unselfish fellows in the world!”
“His behaviour is sometimes a little extraordinary,” said his mother— “isn’t it?”
“Oh, that’s all on the surface! He’s full of boyish spirits. He dearly loves a joke — but the greater part of that interminable funny business is merely to mask the modesty of a man whose particular perversity is a fear that people might discover how kind and how clever he really is!”
They walked on in silence for a while, then his mother said:
“Mr. Querida was here. Is he a friend of yours?”
Neville hesitated: “I’ll tell you, mother,” he said, “I don’t find
Querida personally very congenial. But I have no doubt he’s an
exceedingly nice fellow. And he’s far and away the best painter in
America…. When did he go back to town?”
“Last week. I did not care for him.”
“You and father seldom do care for new acquaintances,” he rejoined, smiling. “Don’t you think it is about time for you to emerge from your shells and make up your minds that a few people have been born since you retired?”
“People have been born in China, too, but that scarcely interests your father and me.”
“Let it interest you, mother. You have no idea how amusing new people are. That’s the way to keep young, too.”
“It is a little too late for us to think of youth — or to think as youth thinks — even if it were desirable.”
“It is desirable. Youth — which will be age to-morrow — may venture to draw a little consideration in advance—”
“My children interest me — and I give their youth my full consideration. But I can scarcely be expected to find any further vital interest in youth — and in the complexity of its modern views and ideas. You ask impossibilities of two very old people.”
“I do not mean to. I ask only, then, that you and father take a vital and intelligent interest in me. Will you, mother?”
“Intelligent? What do you mean, Louis?”
“I mean,” he said, “that you might recognise my right to govern my own conduct; that you might try to sympathise with views which are not your own — with the ideas, ideals, desires, convictions which, if modern, are none the less genuine — and are mine.”
There was a brief silence; then:
“Louis, are you speaking with any thought of — that woman in your mind?” she asked in a voice that quivered slightly.
“Yes, mother.”
“I knew it,” she said, under her breath; “I knew it was that — I knew what had changed you — was changing you.”
“Have I altered for the worse?”
“I don’t know — I don’t know, Louis!” She was leaning heavily on his elbow now; he put one arm around her and they walked very slowly over the fragrant grass.
“First of all, mother, please don’t call her, ‘that woman.’ Because she is a very sweet, innocent, and blameless girl…. Will you let me tell you a little about her?”
His mother bent her head in silence; and for a long while he talked to her of Valerie.
The sun still hung high over the Estwich hills when he ended. His mother, pale, silent, offered no comment until, in his trouble, he urged her. Then she said:
“Your father will never consent.”
“Let me talk to father. Will you consent?”
“I — Louis — it would break our hearts if—”
“Not when you know her.”
“Lily knows her and is bitterly opposed to her—”
“What!” he exclaimed, astounded. “You say that my sister knows Valerie
West?”
“I — forgot,” faltered his mother; “I ought not to have said anything.”
“Where did Lily meet her?” he asked, bewildered.
“Don’t ask me, Louis. I should not have spoken—”
“Yes, you should have! It is my affair; it concerns me — and it concerns
Valerie — her future and mine — our happiness. Where did Lily meet her?”
“You must ask that of Lily. I cannot and will not discuss it. I will say only this: I have seen the — this Miss West. She is at present a guest at the villa of a — countess — of whom neither your father nor I ever before heard — and whom even Lily knows so slightly that she scarcely bows to her. And yesterday, while motoring, we met them driving on the Estwich road and your sister told us who they were.”
After a moment he said slowly: “So you have actually seen the girl I am in love with?”
“I saw — Miss West.”
“Can’t you understand that I am in love with her?”
“Even if you are it is better for you to conquer your inclination—”
“Why?”
“Because all your life long you will regret such a marriage.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody will care to receive a woman for whom you can make no explanation — even if you are married to her.”
He kept his patience.
“Will you receive her, mother?”
She closed her eyes, drew a quick, painful breath: “My son’s wife — whoever she may be — will meet with no discourtesy under my roof.”
“Is that the best you can offer us?”
“Louis! Louis! — if it lay only with me — I would do what you wished — even this — if it made you happy—”
He took her in his arms and kissed her in silence.
“You don’t understand,” she said,— “it is not I — it is the family — our entire little world against her. It would be only an eternal, hopeless, heart-breaking struggle for you, and for her; — pain for you — deep pain and resentment and bitterness for those who did not — perhaps could not — take your views of—”
“I don’t care, mother, as long as you and father and Lily stand by her. And Valerie won’t marry me unless you do. I didn’t tell you that, but it is the truth. And I’m fighting very hard to win her — harder than you know — or will ever know. Don’t embitter me; don’t let me give up. Because, if I do, it means desperation — and things which you never could understand…. And I want you to talk to father. Will you? And to Lily, too. Its fairer to warn her that I have learned of her meeting Valerie. Then I’ll talk to them both and see what can be done…. And, mother, I am very happy and very grateful and very proud that you are going to stand by me — and by the loveliest girl in all the world.”
That night Lily came to his room. Her eyes were red, but there was fire in them. She seated herself and surveyed her brother with ominous self-possession.
“Well, Lily,” he said pleasantly, prepared to keep his temper at all hazards.
“Well, Louis, I understand from mother that you have some questions to ask me.”
“No questions, little sister; only your sympathetic attention while I tell you how matters stand with me.”
“You require too much!” she said shortly.
“If I ask for your sympathy?”
“Not if you ask it for yourself, Louis. But if you include that—”
“Please, dear!” he interrupted, checking her with a slight gesture — for an instant only; then she went on in a determined voice:
“Louis, I might as well tell you at once that I have no sympathy for her. I wrote to her, out of sheer kindness, for her own good — and she replied so insolently that — that I am not yet perfectly recovered—”
“What did you write?”
Mrs. Collis remained disdainfully silent, but her eyes sparkled.
“Won’t you tell me,” he asked, patiently, “what it was you wrote to
Valerie West?”
“Yes, I’ll tell you if you insist on knowing! — even if you do misconstrue it! I wrote to her — for her own sake — and to avoid ill-natured comment, — suggesting that she be seen less frequently with you in public. I wrote as nicely, as kindly, as delicately as I knew how. And her reply was a practical request that I mind my business!… Which was vulgar and outrageous, considering that she had given me her promise—” Mrs. Collis checked herself in her headlong and indignant complaint; then she coloured painfully, but her mouth settled into tight, uncompromising lines.
“What promise had Valerie West made you?” he asked, resolutely subduing his amazement and irritation.
For a moment Mrs. Collis hesitated; then, realising that matters had gone too far for concealment, she answered almost violently:
“She promised me not to marry you, — if you must know! I can’t help what you think about it; I realised that you were infatuated — that you were making a fatal and terrible mistake — ruining life for yourself and for your family — and I went to her and told her so! I’ve done all I could to save you. I suppose I have gained your enmity by doing it. She promised me not to marry you — but she’ll probably break her word. If you mean to marry her you’ll do so, no doubt. But, Louis, if you do, such a step will sever all social relations between you and your family. Because I will not receive her! Nor will my friends — nor yours — nor father’s and mother’s friends! And that settles it.”
He spoke with great care, hesitating, picking and choosing his words:
“Is it — possible that you did — such a thing — as to write to Valerie
West — threatening her with my family’s displeasure if she married me?”
“I did not write her at first. The first time I went to see her. And I told her kindly but plainly what I had to tell her! It was my duty to do it and I didn’t flinch.”
Lily was breathing fast; her eyes narrowed unpleasantly.
He managed to master his astonishment and anger; but it was a heavy draught on his reserve of self-discipline, good temper, and common sense to pass over this thing that had been done to him and to concentrate himself upon the main issue. When he was able to speak again, calmly and without resentment, he said:
“The first thing for us to do, as a family, is to eliminate all personal bitterness from this discussion. There must be no question of our affection for one another; no question but what we wish to do the best by each other. I accept that as granted. If you took the step which you did take it was because you really believed it necessary for my happiness—”
“I still believe it!” she insisted; and her lips became a thin, hard line.
“Then we won’t discuss it. But I want to ask you one thing; have you talked with mother about it?”
“Yes — naturally.”
“Has she told you all that I told her this afternoon?”
“I suppose so. It does not alter my opinion one particle,” she replied, her pretty head obstinately lowered.
He said: “Valerie West will not marry me if my family continues hostile to her.”
Lily slowly lifted her eyes:
“Then will you tell me why she permits herself to be seen so constantly with you? If she is not going to marry you what is she going to do? Does she care what people are saying about her? — and about you?”
“No decent people are likely to say anything unpleasant about either of us,” he said, keeping a tight rein on himself — but the curb was biting deeply now. “Mother will stand by me, Lily. Will you?”
His sister’s face reddened: “Louis,” she said, “I am married; I have children, friends, a certain position to maintain. You are unmarried, careless of conventions, uninterested in the kind of life that I and my friends have led, and will always lead. The life, the society, the formalities, the conventional observances are all part of our lives, and make for our happiness and self-respect; but they mean absolutely nothing to you. And you propose to invade our respectable and inoffensive seclusion with a conspicuous wife who has been a notorious professional model; and you demand of your family that they receive her as one of them! Louis, I ask you, is this fair to us?”
He said very gravely: “You have met Valerie West. Do you really believe that either the dignity or the morals of the family circle would suffer by her introduction to it?”
“I know nothing about her morals!” said his sister, excitedly.
“Then why condemn them?”
“I did not; I merely reminded you that she is a celebrated professional model.”
“It is not necessary to remind me. My mother knows it and will stand by her. Will you do less for your own brother?”
“Louis! You are cruel, selfish, utterly heartless—”
“I am trying to think of everybody in the family who is concerned; but, when a man’s in love he can’t help thinking a little of the woman he loves — especially if nobody else does.” He turned his head and looked out of the window. Stars were shining faintly in a luminous sky. His face seemed to have grown old and gray and haggard:
“I don’t know what to do,” he said, as though speaking to himself;— “I don’t know where to turn. She would marry me if you’d let her; she will never marry me if my family is unkind to her—”
“What will she do, then?” asked Lily, coolly.
For a moment he let her words pass, then, turned around. The expression of his sister’s brightly curious eyes perplexed him.
“What do you mean?” he asked, disturbed.
“What I say, Louis. I asked you what Miss West means to do if she does not marry you? Discontinue her indiscreet intimacy with you?”
“Why should she?”
Lily said, sharply: “I would not have to put that question to a modest girl.”
“I have to put it to you!” he retorted, beginning to lose his self-command. “Why should Valerie West discontinue her friendship with me because my family’s stupid attitude toward her makes it impossible for a generous and proud girl to marry me?”
Lily, pale, infuriated, leaned forward in her chair.
“Because,” she retorted violently, “if that intimacy continues much longer a stupid world and your stupid family will believe that the girl is your mistress! But in that event, thank God, the infamy will rest where it belongs — not on us!”
A cold rage paralysed his speech; she saw its ghastly reflection on his white and haggard face — saw him quiver under the shock; rose involuntarily, terrified at the lengths to which passion had scourged her:
“Louis,” she faltered— “I — I didn’t mean that! — I was beside myself; forgive me, please! Don’t look like that; you are frightening me—”
She caught his arm as he passed her, clung to it, pallid, fearful, imploring,— “W-what are you going to do, Louis! Don’t go, dear, please. I’m sorry, I’m very, very humble. Won’t you speak to me? I said too much; I was wrong; — I — I will try to be different — try to reconcile myself to — to what — you — wish—”
He looked down at her where she hung to him, tearful face lifted to his:
“I didn’t know women could feel that way about another woman,” he said, in a dull voice. “There’s no use — no use—”
“But — but I love you dearly, Louis! I couldn’t endure it to have anything come between us — disrupt the family—”
“Nothing will, Lily…. I must go now.”
“Don’t you believe I love you?”
He drew a deep, unconscious breath.
“I suppose so. Different people express love differently. There’s no use in asking you to be different—”
She said, piteously: “I’m trying. Don’t you see I’m trying? Give me time, Louis! Make allowances. You can’t utterly change people in a few hours.”
He gazed at her intently for a moment.
“You mean that you are trying to be fair to — her?”
“I — if you call it that; — yes! But a family can not adapt itself, instantaneously, to such a cataclysm as threatens — I mean — I mean — oh, Louis! Try to understand us and sympathise a little with us!”
His arms closed around her shoulders:
“Little sister, we both have the family temper — and beneath it, the family instinct for cohesion. If we are also selfish it is not individual but family selfishness. It is the family which has always said to the world, ‘Noli me tangere!’ while we, individually, are really inclined to be kinder, more sympathetic, more curious about the neighbours outside our gate. Let it be so now. Once inside the family, what can harm Valerie?”
“Dearest, dearest brother,” she murmured, “you talk like a foolish man. Women understand better. And if it is a part of your program that this girl is to be accepted by an old-fashioned society, now almost obsolete, but in which this family is merely a single superannuated unit, that program can never be carried out.”
“I think you are mistaken,” he said.
“I know I am not. It is inevitable that if you marry this girl she will be more or less ignored, isolated, humiliated, overlooked outside our own little family circle. Even in that limited mob which the newspapers call New York Society — in that modern, wealthy, hard-witted, over-jewelled, self-sufficient league which is yet too eternally uncertain of its own status to assume any authority or any responsibility for a stranger without credentials, — it would not be possible to make Valerie West acceptable in the slightest sense of the word. Because she is too well known; her beauty is celebrated; she has become famous. Her only chance there — or with us — would have been in her absolute anonymity. Then lies might have done the rest. But lying is now useless in regard to her.”
