Complete weird tales of.., p.581
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 581
“And another thing, Kelly; if a man breaks a man-made law — founded, we believe, on a divine commandment — he suffers only in a spiritual and moral sense…. And with us it may be more than that. For women, at least, hell is on earth.”
He stirred in his chair, and his sombre gaze rested on the floor at her feet.
“What are we to do?” he said dully.
Rita shook her head:
“I don’t know. I am not instructing you, Kelly, only recalling to your mind what you already know; what all men know, and find so convenient to forget. Love is not excuse enough; the peril is unequally divided. The chances are uneven; the odds are unfair. If a man really loves a woman, how can he hazard her in a game of chance that is not square? How can he let her offer more than he has at stake — even if she is willing? How can he permit her to risk more than he is even able to risk? How can he accept a magnanimity which leaves him her hopeless debtor? But men have done it, men will continue to do it; God alone knows how they reconcile it with their manhood or find it in their hearts to deal so unfairly by us. But they do…. And still we stake all; and proudly overlook the chances against us; and face the contemptible odds with a smile, dauntless and — damned!”
He leaned forward in the dusk; she could see his bloodless features now only as a pale blot in the twilight.
“All this I knew, Rita. But it is just as well, perhaps, that you remind me.”
“I thought it might be as well. The world has grown very clever; but after all there is no steadier anchor for a soul than a platitude.”
Ogilvy and Annan came mincing in about nine o’clock, disposed for flippancy and gossip; but neither Neville nor Rita encouraged them; so after a while they took their unimpaired cheerfulness and horse-play elsewhere, leaving the two occupants of the studio to their own silent devices.
It was nearly midnight when he walked back with Rita to her rooms.
And now day followed day in a sequence of limpid dawns and cloudless sunsets. Summer began with a clear, hot week in June, followed by three days’ steady downpour which freshened and cooled the city and unfolded, in square and park, everything green into magnificent maturity.
Every day Neville and Rita worked together in the studio; and every evening they walked together in the park or sat in the cool, dusky studio, companionably conversational or permitting silence to act as their interpreter.
Then John Burleson came back from Dartford after remaining there ten days under Dr. Ogilvy’s observation; and Rita arrived at the studio next day almost smiling.
“We’re’ going to Arizona,” she said. “What do you think of that,
Kelly?”
“You poor child!” exclaimed Neville, taking her hands into his and holding them closely.
“Why, Kelly,” she said gently, “I knew he had to go. This has not taken me unawares.”
“I hoped there might be some doubt,” he said.
“There was none in my mind. I foresaw it. Listen to me: twice in a woman’s life a woman becomes a prophetess. That fatal clairvoyance is permitted to a woman twice in her life — and the second time it is neither for herself that she foresees the future, nor for him whom she loves….”
“I wish — I wish—” he hesitated; and she flushed brightly.
“I know what you wish, Kelly dear. I don’t think it will ever happen. But it is so much for me to be permitted to remain near him — so much! — Ah, you don’t know, Kelly! You don’t know!”
“Would you marry him?”
Her honest blue eyes met his:
“If he asked me; and if he still wished it — after he knew.”
“Could you ever be less to him — and perhaps more, Rita?”
“Do you mean—”
He nodded deliberately.
She hung her head.
“Yes,” she said, “if I could be no more I would be what I could.”
“And you tell me that, after all that you have said?”
“I did not pretend to speak for men, Kelly. I told you that women had, and women still would overlook the chances menacing them and face the odds dauntlessly…. Because, whatever a man is — if a woman loves him enough — he is worth to her what she gives.”
“Rita! Rita! Is it you who content yourself with such sorry philosophy?”
“Yes, it is I. You asked me and I answer you. Whatever I said — I know only one thing now. And you know what that is.”
“And where am I to look for sympathy and support in my own decision?
What can I think now about all that you have said to me?”
“You will never forget it, Kelly — whatever becomes of the girl who said it. Because it’s the truth, no matter whose lips uttered it.”
He released her hands and she went away to dress herself for the pose. When she returned and seated herself he picked up his palette and brushes and began in silence.
* * * * *
That evening he went to see John Buries on and found him smoking tranquilly in the midst of disorder. Packing cases, trunks, bundles, boxes were scattered and piled up in every direction, and the master of the establishment, apparently in excellent health, reclined on a lounge in the centre of chaos, the long clay stem of a church-warden pipe between his lips, puffing rings at the ceiling.
“Hello, Kelly!” he exclaimed, sitting up; “I’ve got to move out of this place. Rita told you all about it, didn’t she? Isn’t it rotten hard luck?”
“Not a bit of it. What did Billy Ogilvy say?”
“Oh, I’ve got it all right. Not seriously yet. What’s Arizona like, anyway?”
“Half hell, half paradise, they say.”
“Then me for the celestial section. Ogilvy gave me the name of a place” — he fumbled about— “Rita has it, I believe…. Isn’t she a corker to go? My conscience, Kelly, what a Godsend it will be to have a Massachusetts girl out there to talk to!”
“Isn’t she going as your model?”
“My Lord, man! Don’t you talk to a model? Is a nice girl who poses for a fellow anything extra-human or superhuman or — or unhuman or inhuman — so that intelligent conversation becomes impossible?”
“No,” began Neville, laughing, but Burleson interrupted excitedly:
“A girl can be anything she chooses if she’s all right, can’t she? And
Rita comes from Massachusetts, doesn’t she?”
“Certainly.”
“Not only from Massachusetts, but from Hitherford!” added Burleson triumphantly. “I came from Hitherford. My grandfather knew hers. Why, man alive, Rita Tevis is entitled to do anything she chooses to do.”
“That’s one way of looking at it, anyway,” admitted Neville gravely.
“I look at it that way. You can’t; you’re not from Massachusetts; but you have a sort of a New England name, too. It’s Yankee, isn’t it?”
“Southern.”
“Oh,” said Burleson, honestly depressed; “I am sorry. There were
Nevilles in Hitherford Lower Falls two hundred years ago. I’ve always
liked to think of you as originating, somehow or other, in Massachusetts
Bay.”
“No, John: unlike McGinty, I am unfamiliar with the cod-thronged ocean deeps…. When are you going?”
“Day after to-morrow. Rita says you don’t need her any longer on that picture—”
“Lord, man! If I did I wouldn’t hold you up. But don’t worry, John; she wouldn’t let me…. She’s a fine specimen of girl,” he added casually.
[Illustration: “‘You’d better understand, Kelly, that Rita Tevis is as well born as I am.’”]
“Do you suppose that is news to me?”
“Oh, no; I’m sure you find her amusing—”
“What!”
“Amusing,” repeated Neville innocently. “Don’t you?”
“That is scarcely the word I would have chosen, Kelly. I have a very warm admiration and a very sincere respect for Rita Tevis—”
“John! You sound like a Puritan making love!”
Burleson was intensely annoyed:
“You’d better understand, Kelly, that Rita Tevis is as well born as I am, and that there would be nothing at all incongruous in any declaration that any decent man might make her!”
“Why, I know that.”
“I’m glad you do. And I’m gratified that what you said has given me the opportunity to make myself very plain on the subject of Rita Tevis. It may amaze you to know that her great grandsire carried a flintlock with the Hitherford Minute Men, and fell most respectably at Boston Neck.”
“Certainly, John. I knew she was all right. But I wasn’t sure you knew it—”
“Confound it! Of course I did. I’ve always known it. Do you think I’d care for her so much if she wasn’t all right?”
Neville smiled at him gravely, then held out his hand:
“Give my love to her, John. I’ll see you both again before you go.”
For nearly two weeks he had not heard a word from Valerie West. Rita and John Burleson had departed, cheerful, sure of early convalescence and a complete and radical cure.
Neville went with them to the train, but his mind was full of his own troubles and he could scarcely keep his attention on the ponderous conversation of Burleson, who was admonishing him and Ogilvy impartially concerning the true interpretation of creative art.
He turned aside to Rita when opportunity offered and said in a low voice:
“Before you go, tell me where Valerie is.”
“I can’t, Kelly.”
“Did you promise her not to?”
“Yes.”
He said, slowly: “I haven’t had one word from her in nearly two weeks.
Is she well?”
“Yes. She came into town this morning to say good-bye to me.”
“I didn’t know she was out of town,” he said, troubled.
“She has been, and is now. That’s all I can tell you, Kelly dear.”
“She is coming back, isn’t she?”
“I hope so.”
“Don’t you know?”
She looked into his anxious and miserable face and gently shook her head:
“I don’t know, Kelly.”
“Didn’t she say — intimate anything—”
“No…. I don’t think she knows — yet.”
He said, very quietly: “If she ever comes to any conclusion that it is better for us both never to meet again — I might be as dead as Querida for any work I should ever again set hand to.
“If she will not marry me, but will let things remain as they are, at least I can go on caring for her and working out this miserable problem of life. But if she goes out of my life, life will go out of me. I know that now.”
Rita looked at him pitifully:
“Valerie’s mind is her own, Kelly. It is the most honest mind I have ever known; and nothing on earth — no pain that her decision might inflict upon her — would swerve it a hair’s breath from what she concludes is the right thing to do.”
“I know it,” he said, swallowing a sudden throb of fear.
“Then what can I say to you?”
“Nothing. I must wait.”
“Kelly, if you loved her enough you would not even wait.”
“What!”
“Because her return to you will mean only one thing. Are you going to accept it of her?”
“What can I do? I can’t live without her!”
“Her problem is nobler, Kelly. She is asking herself not whether she can live life through without you — but whether you can live life well, and to the full, without her?”
Neville flushed painfully.
“Yes,” he said, “that is Valerie. I’m not worth the anxiety, the sorrow that I have brought her. I’m not worth marrying; and I’m not worth a heavier sacrifice…. I’m trying to think less of myself, Rita, and more of her…. Perhaps, if I knew she were happy, I could stand — losing her…. If she could be — without me—” He checked himself, for the struggle was unnerving him; then he set his face firmly and looked straight at Rita.
“Do you believe she could forget me and be contented and tranquil — if I gave her the chance?”
“Are you talking of self-sacrifice for her sake?”
He drew a deep, uneven breath:
“I — suppose it’s — that.”
“You mean that you’re willing to eliminate yourself and give her an opportunity to see a little of the world — a little of its order and tranquillity and quieter happiness? — a chance to meet interesting women and attractive men of her own age — as she is certain to do through her intimacy with the Countess d’Enver?”
“Yes,” he said, “that is what must be done…. I’ve been blind — and rottenly selfish. I did not mean to be…. I’ve tried to force her — I have done nothing else since I fell in love with her, but force her toward people whom she has a perfect right not to care for — even if they happen to be my own people. She has felt nothing but a steady and stupid pressure from me; — heard from me nothing except importunities — the merciless, obstinate urging of my own views — which, God forgive me, I thought were the only views because they were respectable!”
He stood, head lowered, nervously clenching and unclenching his hands.
“It was not for her own sake — that’s the worst of it! It was for my sake — because I’ve had respectability inculcated until I can’t conceive of my doing anything not respectable…. Once, something else got away with me — and I gave it rein for a moment — until checked…. I’m really no different from other men.”
“I think you are beginning to be, Kelly.”
“Am I? I don’t know. But the worst of it was my selfishness — my fixed idea that her marrying me was the only salvation for her…. I never thought of giving her a chance of seeing other people — other men — better men — of seeing a tranquil, well-ordered world — of being in it and of it. I behaved as though my world — the fragment inhabited by my friends and family — was the only alternative to this one. I’ve been a fool, Rita; and a cruel one.”
“No, only an average man, Kelly…. If I give you Valerie’s address, would you write and give her her freedom — for her own sake? — the freedom to try life in that well-ordered world we speak of?… Because she is very young. Life is all before her. Who can foretell what friends she may be destined to make; what opportunities she may have. I care a great deal for you, Kelly; but I love Valerie…. And, there are other men in the world after all; — but there is only one Valerie…. And — how truly do you love her?”
“Enough,” he said under his breath.
“Enough to — leave her alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then write and tell her so. Here is the address.”
She slipped a small bit of folded paper into Neville’s land.
“We must join the others, now,” she said calmly.
Annan had come up, and he and Ogilvy were noisily baiting Burleson amid shouts of laughter and a protesting roar from John.
“Stop it, you wretches,” said Rita amiably, entering the little group. “John, are you never going to earn not to pay any attention to this pair of infants?”
“Are you going to kiss me good-bye, Rita, when the train departs?” inquired Sam, anxiously.
“Certainly; I kissed Gladys good-bye—”
“Before all this waiting room full of people?” persisted Sam. “Are you?”
“Why I’ll do it now if you like, Sammy dear.”
“They’ll take you for my sister,” said Sam, disgusted.
“Or your nurse; John, what is that man bellowing through the megaphone?”
“Our train,” said Burleson, picking up the satchels. He dropped them again to shake the hands that were offered:
“Good-bye, John, dear old fellow! You’ll get all over this thing in a jiffy out there You’ll be back in no time at all! Don’t worry, and get well!”
He smiled confidently and shook all their hands Rita’s pretty face was pale; she let Ogilvy kiss her cheek, shook hands with Annan, and then, turning to Neville, put both hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth.
“Give her her chance, Kelly,” she whispered … “And it shall be rendered unto you seven-fold.”
“No, Rita; it never will be now.”
“Who knows?”
“Rita! Rita!” he said under his breath, “when I am ending, she must begin…. You are right: this world needs her. Try as I might, I never could be worth what she is worth without effort. It is my life which does not matter, not hers. I will do what ought to be done. Don’t be afraid. I will do it. And thank God that it is not too late.”
That night, seated at his desk in the studio, he looked at the calendar. It was the thirteenth day since he had heard from her; the last day but two of the fifteen days she had asked for. The day after to-morrow she would have come, or would have written him that she was renouncing him forever for his own sake. Which might it have been? He would never know now.
He wrote her:
“Dearest of women, Rita has been loyal to you. It was only when I explained to her for what purpose I wished your address that she wisely gave it to me.
“Dearest, from the beginning of our acquaintance and afterward when it ripened into friendship and finally became love, upon you has rested the burden of decision; and I have permitted it.
“Even now, as I am writing here in the studio, the burden lies heavily upon your girl’s shoulders and is weighting your girl’s heart. And it must not be so any longer.
“I have never, perhaps, really meant to be selfish; a man in love really doesn’t know what he means. But now I know what I have done; and what must be undone.
“You were perfectly right. It was for you to say whether you would marry me or not. It was for you to decide whether it was possible or impossible for you to appear as my wife in a world in which you had had no experience. It was for you to generously decide whether a rupture between that world and myself — between my family and myself — would render me — and yourself — eternally unhappy.
