Complete weird tales of.., p.659
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 659
“Colonel Curmew is a funny man. He has, apparently, devoted himself to me, and I have the greatest difficulty in getting away from him long enough to take a stroll with Mr. Wallace. Such a funny, strutty, sentimentally elaborate little man! — with a rather horrid habit of staring. But he’s a crack shot, and popular here with the men.
“Good night,
“DIANA.”
She wrote next day, also:
“Jim! My little Christine is in love — that’s what’s the matter! I know it; I’m absolutely sure of it. And with — oh, ye humorous gods and dryads! — with your melancholy friend, Mr. Inwood.
“And I want to tell you, Jim, that I don’t like Mrs. Wemyss. She’s fat and selfish and — why does she drag that boy about with her all the time? I don’t believe he likes it. I don’t believe he’s so enamored of her. Maybe his low spirits come from too much of that fair and ample lady. I’m going to find out. I won’t have my little Christine ignored by any melancholy idiot who ever lived.
“Write me what you know about Mr. Inwood.
“How is Chance, and the twisted path, and little Miss Ellis?
“Scott Wallace and I managed to shoot a grouse. We both fired, and neither of us were inclined to claim the poor, dead, little thing. A keeper put it in his pocket. Mr. Wallace and I are going to take up target shooting hereafter.
“DIANA.”
He wrote: “Inwood is all right. Who is Mrs. Wemyss?
“JIM.”
A week later he heard from her: “I’ve found out from people in Keno. She was a Mrs. Atherstane — divorced hubby, and resumed her maiden name of Wemyss with the prefix Mrs. Did you ever hear of her? Scott Wallace and I detest her.
“DIANA.”
He did not reply, partly because the constant recurrence of Wallace’s name in her letters had begun to annoy him — partly because what he had to say must be said to Inwood; and at that miserable young man he launched the following:
“DEAR BILLY:
“You’re a fine specimen. What are you, anyway — a lap dog or a Chow pup? Get rid of that woman! I don’t care whether or not you made an ass of yourself over her by sympathizing with her. Old Atherstane had no more mistresses than the majority of church pillars and public benefactors in town; and, anyway, it was not up to you to dry her weeps.
“Don’t make any mistake — the ci-devant Mrs. Atherstane can look out for herself. She needs no consideration from you; she doesn’t deserve any, either. What kind of a woman is she, anyhow — taking advantage of a chivalrous and conscientious boy who never did more than hold her hand and pat it, at most, when she told him she was lonely and unhappy, and needed a good man’s moral support?
“Rot! You’re not responsible for her. You’re not in honor bound to sit around and await her pleasure, now that she’s free to marry. She wouldn’t have you, anyway.
“You probably made an ass of yourself — probably talked too much. You’re not in honor bound, I tell you. And don’t make any mistake — she’s not going to marry. She’s having too good a time. I know that kind of woman, Billy. They never put their heads into the noose a second time; but they harpoon all the men they can, and they trail around with a lot of silly ginks like you.
“If you don’t believe me, I’ll tell you how to put yourself out of your misery. Ask her to marry you; ask her flatly. You’ll wake up, then. I know what I’m saying. You do what I tell you, and then get back to first principles, and clear up all this nightmare between a sweet and plucky little girl and your own dam-fool self. Clear it up, I tell you. I know you, Billy. You have nothing to confess in regard to Mrs. Wemyss. Of course, you wouldn’t confess, anyway; but, thank God! there’s nothing to say except that you were a silly ass, and have learned better.
“Now, I’ve told you how to get clear of this petty and miserable affair. If you don’t do it, for Christine’s sake as well as for your own, you’re no man.
“JIM EDGERTON.”
CHAPTER XI
QUOD ERAT FACIENDUM
WITH THE DAILY advent of men arriving for the flight-shooting, now imminent, Lillian Wemyss seemed to grow prettier and slimmer every day until the perfectly visible metamorphosis had produced radiant and brand-new creature.
For the men who were now accumulating in billiard room and card room, who haunted stable and garage and kennel, were the sort of men who inspired the very breath of life in a woman of her sort — big, handsome, ruddy-faced, thick-necked men with large, indiscriminating tastes and an eternal readiness for anything from a half-broken horse to an unbroken woman, but heartily preferring them both bridlewise and registered.
They tramped all over the place, on the terrace, over the lawn, in to dinner; and the house echoed with large bantering voices, loud unfeigned laughter — and they rode hard and drank hard and played for heavy stakes, and were up and tramping all over the place by sunrise, sniffing for the frost which would bring the first night flight of woodcock from the north into the far-famed coverts of the Adriutha hills.
And the best-looking, most humorous, and most reckless among them was Scott Wallace, a young giant of infinite jest, who began by pleasing himself with Diana and, out of the sheer perversity of humorous animal spirits, pretended to her that he scarcely knew one end of a shotgun from the other, which gave him a pretext for dawdling over the country with her, and making love to her until such time as the flight might send him seriously afield.
So, as he cared nothing for the scattered pheasants and wilder and scarcer grouse, he amused himself and Diana by playing Winkle, now and then consoling himself with a difficult shot, which satisfied him and left the girl none the wiser.
But on Wallace Mrs. Wemyss had her blue eyes fixed with all the veiled alertness and objectless intensity of the sort of woman she was — a woman who would never be dunce enough to marry again.
In the meanwhile, already exceedingly popular with the shooting fraternity, she kept a mechanical hold on Inwood for no more reason than the matter-of-fact impulse which had prompted her to snap a leash on his collar the moment she set eyes on him after many months’ separation.
To take him away from Christine had not been her object; she had no idea that he was interested in anybody except herself. She was perfectly confident that, given half a chance, men preferred her to any other woman; and there was really no particular malice in her desire to give Scott Wallace an opportunity to follow at her heels instead of Diana’s.
For Mrs. Wemyss really needed nothing of men except admiration and uninterrupted attention. No deeper passion had ever moved her. She was ignorant of love, although apparently fashioned for it; immune to its lawlessness, although lid and ear and lip seemed to chorus the contrary. In the slightly veiled eyes there was really no promise, no significance in the full, sweet mouth — nothing to her except the superficial provocation which all men mistook, and the laughing and ready friendship offered so prettily that no man ever refused.
Inwood, searching the house and terrace over for Christine, discovering her at last in the moonlit rose garden, and, not daring to join her after all, so faint hearted he had become, walked moodily into the billiard room where a noisy lot of people were enjoying themselves.
Wallace, standing between Diana and Lillian Wemyss, his broad back against a billiard table, was evidently having a splendid time; and Inwood halted, irresolute, one hand in his pocket crushing Edgerton’s letter into a wad.
Lillian Wemyss caught sight of him, smiled instinctively, but her blue eyes reverted to Wallace. There was something in her attitude, as she stood in the full splendor of her somewhat ample beauty, that subtly repelled Inwood; and he swung on his heel, somber young head bent, moving toward the door by which he had entered.
“Mr. Inwood!” called Diana across the hubbub, “will you play bottle pool with us?”
He turned, smiling to her.
“Thanks, I’m not up to it,” and resumed his way out.
“Billy!” said Mrs. Wemyss, “I wish you to play!”
“No, thanks,” he returned coolly, and continued toward the door.
It was his first exhibition of insubordination, and Lillian Wemyss, surprised, did not propose to stand it, particularly in the presence of these two people. Scott Wallace seemed to be almost ready for his leash; it was a bad example for him, this insubordination of young Inwood.
She looked anxiously at Diana.
“I’m afraid Billy Inwood is not well,” she said. “I’ve thought so for several days. Those swamps where you men shoot must be full of malaria.”
“Not a bit,” said Wallace, laughing.
“How do you know?” asked Diana. “You never go into them, you lazy thing!”
Mrs. Wemyss hesitated, listening to the banter that passed between Diana and Scott Wallace, which slightly excluded her for the moment.
Then she made up her mind that her authority over Inwood must be asserted at once, and that she had time enough to eliminate Diana later.
She turned and saw Inwood passing the windows outside on the terrace. The next moment she was on the terrace, too, and he turned slowly to confront her.
“Billy,” she said gently, “are you feeling perfectly well?”
“Perfectly, thanks.”
“Then why didn’t you remain at my request?”
“I didn’t care to.”
“But I asked you,” she said, surprised.
“Yes, I know you did.”
“Well?” she asked, astonished.
He had been looking away from her out over the misty moonlit river. Now he turned.
“Lillian,” he said, “do you honestly care for me?”
“Billy, what a question!”
“Yes, it’s one kind of question.... Do you?”
“You know I do. How can you ask such a — —”
“Do you love me?
“What!”
“Do you?”
“Billy, what on earth is — —”
“Wait, please. Let me ask you again, Lillian. Are you honestly in love with me?”
“I don’t know what you mean by suddenly and abruptly questioning — demanding — —”
“Please answer.”
“You have no right to doubt it. You know perfectly well what we have been to each other — even before — —”
“What have we been?”
“I supposed we had been in love,” she said with sad dignity. “I wrote you while I was abroad, and — I don’t write many letters.”
“Then you are in love with me.... We are in love. Is that true as you understand it?”
“You silly boy — of course!”
He stood stock still for a moment, tasting all the misery he had stored up for himself. Finally, he found his voice.
“If that is so,” he said, “we ought to be engaged.”
“Oh, Billy! Are you jealous?”
She laughed, radiant, delighted to feel the leash tighten in her soft little hand once more.
“No,” he said, “I am not jealous; but, if we are to marry, it is time people understood it.”
“Do you mean these people?”
“I mean everybody.”
“You don’t mean to announce our engagement this winter?” she asked uneasily.
“I mean to announce it now.”
“Here!”
“Here — to-night.”
“I — I don’t wish to,” she faltered. “You are unreasonable.”
“Is there any reason why people shouldn’t know it?”
“My dear boy, one doesn’t announce such important matters on the impulse of the moment.”
“If I’m going to marry you, I want people to know it now!” he said.
“I’ve explained that I did not wish it.”
“Why?”
“Why? There are a million perfectly good reasons.”
“Give me one, Lillian.”
She stood considering, her crook’d finger under her chin, blue eyes taking his measure from time to time. Evidently happiness too long deferred had made him unmanageable. She never thought of doubting her power. Probably he needed discipline. It was most annoying to be annoyed at such a time, with all these men here, and Scott Wallace already left too long alone with Diana at the billiard table. Discipline was certainly what Inwood needed.
“Billy,” she said, “come in and play bottle pool.”
“Am I to tell them that we are to be married?”
“No,” she said petulantly.
“When may I tell them?”
“Not at all. Do you think a year of liberty is sufficient for a woman who has suffered what I have? I don’t wish to marry you or anybody — yet. I haven’t made up my mind to do it at all,” she added with a tiny flash of rare anger, for her not very sensitive nerves were beginning to feel the pressure.
“Lillian, I want to know now. It is only square to me to — —”
“Billy, if you continue to insist, you will end by seriously offending me. You have annoyed me enough already.”
“By asking you to set a definite date for our impending marriage?”
“It is not impending!” she retorted, exasperated, as Diana and Wallace came out together and walked toward the farther end of the terrace.
“Do you refuse to marry me?”
“Yes, I do; I am sorry. I really cannot help how you feel about it. This year of liberty has been a year of happiness. I don’t wish to marry. I don’t know when I may wish to. I am perfectly contented; and that’s the truth, Billy.”
“So — you refuse me?”
“For the present — yes.”
“No; you must answer me for all time, to-night.”
She nodded. “Very well, then; I refuse definitely — and for all time.... And, Billy Inwood, you have brought this calamity upon yourself.”
But Lillian’s anger was always short-lived; she was already sorry for him. Besides, she was convinced that he would continue to dangle. It had been her experience with men that they were never reconciled to the unobtainable.
So with one of her swift, smiling changes of feeling she held out her hand to Inwood. He took it.
“Are you very angry?” she asked.
“No.”
“Do we part — friends?”
“We do, indeed,” he said so sincerely that the smile faded on her face, and into her limited mind flickered a momentary doubt. But, no, it was not possible; for Lillian had never really been able to doubt herself. Certain, once more, that this young man would appear at heel when whistled for, she returned his friendly pressure with an encouraging one, laughed, and turned lightly toward the house. He accompanied her to the door and bowed her in.
Then the strength seemed to ooze out of his back and legs; he dropped on to a marble bench, and sat there in the moonlight, his face buried in his hands.
How long he had been there he did not know, when a light touch and a soft voice close to his ear aroused him, and, looking up, he saw Diana inspecting him.
“As dejected as all that, Mr. Inwood?” she asked, as he rose to his feet.
“Not dejected, Miss Tennant.”
“Why, then, these attitude? Wherefore those woe, young sir?”
“I don’t know,” he said listlessly.
But she did — or thought she did; so she took his arm in friendly fashion and strolled about with him in the moonlight until she pretended that the beauty of the night tempted her toward the garden.
He was alarmed for an instant, and hung back, scanning the rose garden with anxious eyes; but he could see nothing of Christine, and presently succumbed to Diana’s whim.
To and fro among the late roses they paced, the girl light-heartedly rallying him on his soberness and lack of animation, until he laughed a little and squared his shoulders, and drew in a full deep breath of the soft air.
“I thought every man flirted if offered an opportunity,” said Diana, “but I’ve flung myself at your head in vain, young man. Evidently there’s some caterpillar at work on that damask cheek, or I’d be more generously appreciated.”
He laughed again, and tried to tell her how deeply he was appreciating her, but she shook her head and finally dropped his arm.
“I’m going to the house,” she said. “There’s an arbor across the garden. If you’ll wait for me there, perhaps I’ll return. Will you?”
“Certainly,” he said.
So she turned and sped away among the roses, and he stood and watched her until she crossed the terrace and vanished into the house.
For a few minutes he remained where he was standing; then, with a sigh, he swung on his heel and started toward the arbor, fumbling for his cigarette case as he walked.
At the entrance he paused to strike a light — and remained motionless until the match burned close to his fingers. Then it fell on the gravel; he dropped the cigarette beside it.
As he entered the arbor, a white figure, lying full length on a swinging seat, lifted its head from its arms, then sat up hastily.
“Is that you, Miss Rivett?”
“Yes.” ... She rose to her feet, holding to one of the swinging chains. Moonlight fell across her white, confused face.
“May I remain?” he asked unsteadily. “Would you rather have me go?”
“No.... I am going.... My gown is damp.... I will go immediately.”
“Were you asleep?”
She hesitated; but there was in her only honesty.
“No,” she said.
“Then you must have heard my step on the gravel?”
She shook her head.
“Then what were you doing out here all alone with your head buried in your arms?”
“Thinking,” she said.... “Would you care to walk to the house with me, Mr. Inwood?”
“Would you mind remaining here a little while?”
“My gown is damp with dew.”
“Then perhaps we had better go?”
“I think so.”
Neither stirred.
“It is so warm and beautiful to-night,” he said, “that I can’t imagine anybody taking cold out here.”
“It is a bad outlook for the flight shooters.”
“Yes, indeed. There is no frost in this wind.”
