Book: The Fighting Chance

R >> Robert W. Chambers >> The Fighting Chance




“Mr. Quarrier,” said Siward quietly, “I did not take that girl to the
Patroons Club--and you know it.”

Quarrier was all surface now; he had drawn away internally so far that
even his eyes seemed to recede until they scarcely glimmered through the
slits in his colourless mask. And Siward went on:

“I knew perfectly well what sort of women I was to meet at that fool
supper Billy Fleetwood gave; and you must have, too, for the girl you
took in was no stranger to you. … Her name is Lydia Vyse, I believe.”

The slightest possible glimmer in the elder man’s eyes was all the
answer he granted.

“What happened,” said Siward calmly, “was this: She bet me she could so
disguise herself that I could safely take her into any club in New York.
I bet her she couldn’t. I never dreamed of trying. Besides, she was
your--dinner partner,” he added with a shrug.

His concentrated gaze seemed at length to pierce the expressionless
surface of the other man, who moved slightly in his chair and moistened
his thin lips under the glossy beard.

“Quarrier,” said Siward earnestly, “What happened in the club lobby I
don’t exactly know, because I was not in a condition to know. I admit
it; that was the trouble with me. When I left Fleetwood’s rooms I left
with a half dozen men. I remember crossing Fifth Avenue with them; and
the next thing I remember distinctly was loud talking in the club lobby,
and a number of men there, and a slim young fellow in Inverness and top
hat in the centre of a crowd, whose face was the face of that girl,
Lydia Vyse. And that is absolutely all. But I couldn’t do more than deny
that I took her there unless I told what I knew; and of course that was
not possible, even in self-defence. But it was for you to admit that I
was right. And you did not. You dared not! You let another man blunder
into your private affairs and fall a victim to circumstantial evidence
which you could have refuted; and it was up to you to say something! And
you did not! … And now--what are you going to do? The Lenox Club has
taken this thing up. A man can’t stand too much of that sort of thing.
What am I to do? I can’t defend myself by betraying my accidental
knowledge of your petty, private affairs. So I leave it to you. I ask
you what are you going to do?”

“Do you mean”--Quarrier’s voice was not his own, and he brought it
harshly under command--“do you mean that you think it necessary for me to
say I knew her? What object would be attained by that? I did not take
her to the Patroons’.”

“Nor did I. Ask her how she got there. Learn the truth from her, man!”

“What proof is there that I ever met her before I took her into supper
at Fleetwood’s?”

“Proof! Are you mad? All I ask of you is to say to the governors what I
cannot say without using your name.”

“You wish me,” asked Quarrier icily, “to deny that you made that wager?
I can do that.”

“You can’t do it! I did make that bet.”

“Oh! Then, what is it you wish me to say?”

“Tell them the truth. Tell them you know I did not take her to the club.
You need not tell them why you know it. You need not tell them how much
you know about her, whose brougham she drove home in. I can’t defend
myself at your expense--intrench myself behind your dirty little romance.
What could I say? I denied taking her to the club. Then Major Belwether
confronted me with my wager. Then I shut up. And so did you, Quarrier--so
did you, seated there among the governors, between Leroy Mortimer and
Belwether. It was up to you, and you did not stir!”

“Stir!” echoed the other man, exasperated. “Of course I did not stir.
What did I know about it? Do you think I care to give a man like
Mortimer a hold on me by admitting I knew anything?--or Belwether--do you
think I care to have that man know anything about my private and
personal business? Did you expect me to say that I was in a position to
prove anything one way or another? And,” he added with increasing
harshness, “how do you know what I might or might not prove? If she went
to the Patroons Club, I did not go with her; I did not see her; I don’t
know whether or not you took her.”

“I have already told you that I did not take her,” said Siward, turning
whiter.

“You told that to the governors, too. Tell them again, if you like. I
decline to discuss this matter with you. I decline to countenance your
unwarranted intrusion into what you pretend to believe are my private
affairs. I decline to confer with Belwether or Mortimer. It’s enough
that you are inclined to meddle--” His cold anger was stirring. He rose
to his full, muscular height, slow, menacing, his long, pale fingers
twisting his silky beard. “It’s enough that you meddle!” he repeated.
“As for the matter in question, a dozen men, including myself, heard you
make a wager; and later I myself was a witness that the terms of that
wager had been carried out to the letter. I know absolutely nothing
except that, Mr. Siward; nor, it appears, do you, for you were drunk at
the time, and you have admitted it to me.”

“I have asked you,” said Siward, rising, and very grave, “I have asked
you to do the right thing. Are you going to do it?”

“Is that a threat?” inquired Quarrier, showing the edges of his well-
kept teeth. “Is this intimidation, Mr. Siward? Do I understand that you
are proposing to bespatter others with scandal unless I am frightened
into going to the governors with the flimsy excuse you attempt to offer
me? In other words, Mr. Siward, are you bent on making me pay for what
you believe you know of my private life? Is it really intimidation?”

And still Siward stared into his half-veiled, sneering eyes, speechless.

“There is only one name used for this kind of thing,” added Quarrier,
taking a quick involuntary step backward to the door as the blaze of
fury broke out in Siward’s eyes.

“Good God! Quarrier,” whispered Siward with dry lips, “what a cur you
are! What a cur!”

And long after Quarrier had passed the door and disappeared in the
corridor, Siward stood there, frozen motionless under the icy waves of
rage that swept him.

He had never before had an enemy worth the name; he knew he had one now.
He had never before hated; he now understood something of that, too. The
purely physical craving to take this man and crush him into eternal
quiescence had given place to a more terrible mental desire to punish.
His brain surged and surged under the first flood of a mortal hatred.
That the hatred was sterile made it the more intense, and, blinded by
it, he stood there or paced the room minute after minute, hearing
nothing but the wild clamour in his brain, seeing nothing but the
smooth, expressionless face of the man whom he could not reach.

Toward midnight, seated in his chair by the window, a deathly lassitude
weighing his heart, he heard the steps of people on the stairway, the
click of the ascending elevator, gay voices calling good night, a ripple
of laughter, the silken swish of skirts in the corridor, doors opening
and closing; then silence creeping throughout the house on the receding
heels of departure--a stillness that settled like a mist through hall and
corridor, accented for a few moments by distant sounds, then absolute,
echoless silence. And for a long while he sat there listening.

The cool wind from the ocean blew his curtains far into the room, where
they bellied out, fluttering, floating, subsiding, only to rise again in
the freshening breeze. He sat watching their silken convolutions,
stupidly, for a while, then rose and closed his window, and raised the
window on the south for purposes of air.

As he turned to adjust his transom, something white thrust under the
door caught his eye, and he walked over and drew it across the sill. It
was a sealed note. He opened it, reading it as he walked back to the
drop-light burning beside his bed:

“Did you not mean to say good-bye? Because it is to be good-bye for a
long, long time--for all our lives--as long as we live--as long as the
world lasts, and longer. … Good-bye--unless you care to say it to me.”

He stood studying the note for a while; presently, lighting a match, he
set fire to it and carried it blazing to the grate and flung it in,
watching the blackened ashes curl up, glow, whiten, and fall in flakes
to the hearth. Then he went out into the corridor, and traversed the
hall to the passage which led to the bay-window. There was nobody there.
The stars looked in on him, twinkling with a frosty light; beneath, the
shadowy fronds of palms traced a pale pattern on the glass roof of the
swimming pool. He waited a moment, turned, retraced his steps to his own
door and stood listening. Then, moving swiftly, he walked the length of
the corridor, and, halting at her door, knocked once.

After a moment the door swung open. He stepped forward into the room,
closing the door behind him, and confronted the tall girl standing there
silhouetted against the lamp behind her.

“You are insane to do this!” she whispered. “I let you in for fear you’d
knock again!”

“I went to the bay-window,” he said.

“You went too late. I was there an hour ago. I waited. Do you know what
time it is?”

“Come to the bay-window,” he said, “if you fear me here.”

“Do you know it is nearly three o’clock?” she repeated. “And you leave
at six.

“Shall we say good-bye here?” he asked coolly.

“Certainly. I dare not go out. And you--do you know the chances we are
running? You must be perfectly mad to come to my room. Do you think
anybody could have seen--heard you--”

“No. Good night.” He offered his hand; she laid both of hers in it. He
could scarcely distinguish her features where she stood dark against the
brilliant light behind her.

“Good-bye,” he whispered, kissing her hands where they lay in his.

“Good-bye.” Her fingers closed convulsively, retaining his hands. “I
hope--I think that--you--” Her head was drooping; she could not control her
voice.

“Good-bye, Sylvia,” he said again.

It was quite useless, she could not speak; and when he took her in his
arms she clung to him, quivering; and he kissed the wet lashes, and the
hot, trembling lips, and the smooth little hands crushed to his breast.

“We have a year yet,” she gasped. “Dear, take me by force before it
ends. I--I simply cannot endure this. I told you to take me--to tear me
from myself. Will you do it? I will love you--truly, truly! Oh, my
darling, my darling! Don’t--don’t give me up! Can’t you do something for
us? Can’t you--”

“Will you come with me now?”

“How can--”

“Will you?”

A sudden sound broke out in the night--the distant pealing of the lodge-
gate bell. Startled, she shrank back; somebody in the adjoining room had
sprung to the floor and was opening the window.

“What is it?” she motioned with whitening lips. “Quick! oh, quick,
before you are seen! Grace may come! I--I beg of you to go!”

As he stepped into the corridor he heard, below, a sound at the great
door, and the stirring of the night watchman on post. At his own door he
turned, listening to the movement and whispering. Ferrall, in dressing-
gown and slippers, stepped into the corridor; below, the chains were
rattling as the wicket swung open. There was a brief parley at the door,
sounds of retreating steps on the gravel outside, sounds of approaching
steps on the stairway.

“What’s that? A telegram?” said Ferrall sharply. “Here, give it to me. …
Wait! It isn’t for me. It’s for Mr Siward!”

Siward, standing at his open door, swayed slightly. A thrill of pure
fear struck him through and through. He laid one hand on the door to
steady himself, and stepped forward as Ferrall came up.

“Oh! You’re awake, Stephen. Here’s a telegram.” He extended his hand.
Siward took the yellow envelope, fumbled it, tore it open.

“Good God!” whispered Ferrall; “is it bad?”

And Siward’s glazed eyes stared and stared at the scrawled and inky
message:

“YOUR MOTHER IS VERY ILL. COME AT ONCE.”

The signature was the name of their family physician, Grisby.



CHAPTER VIII CONFIDENCES

By January the complex social mechanism of the metropolis was whirling
smoothly again; the last ultra-fashionable December lingerer had
returned from the country; those of the same caste outward bound for a
Southern or exotic winter had departed; and the glittering machine,
every part assembled, refurbished, repolished, and connected, having
been given preliminary speed-tests at the horse show, and a tuning up at
the opera, was now running under full velocity; and its steady, subdued
whir quickened the clattering pulse of the city, keying it to a
sublimely syncopated ragtime.

The commercial reaction from the chaos of the holidays had become a
carnival of recovery; shop windows grew brighter and gayer than ever,
bursting into gaudy winter florescence; the main arteries of the town
roared prosperity; cross streets were packed; Fifth Avenue, almost
impassible in the morning, choked up after three o’clock; and all the
afternoon through, and late into the night, mounted police of the
traffic squad, adrift in the tide of carriages, stemmed the flashing
currents pouring north and south from the white marble arch to the
gilded bronze battle-horse and its rider on guard at the portals of the
richest quarter of the wealthiest city in the world.

So far, that winter, snow had fallen only twice, lasting but a day or
two each time; street and avenue remained bone dry where the white-
uniformed cleaning squads worked amid clouds of dust; and all day long
the flinty asphalt echoed the rattling slap of horses’ feet; all day
long the big, shining motor-cars sped up town and down town, droning
their distant warnings. It was an open winter in New York, and,
financially, a prosperous one; and that meant a brilliant social season.
Like a set piece of fireworks, with its interdependent parts taking fire
in turn, function after function, spectacle after spectacle, glittered,
fizzed, and was extinguished, only to give place to newer and more
splendid spectacles; separate circles, sets, and groups belonging to the
social solar system whizzed, revolved, rotated, with edifying effects on
everybody concerned, unconcerned, and not at all concerned; and at
intervals, when for a moment or two something hung fire, the twinkle of
similar spectacles sputtering away in distant cities beyond the horizon
was faintly reflected in the social sky above the incandescent
metropolis. For the whole nation was footing it, heel and toe, to the
echoes of strains borne on the winds from the social capital of the
republic; and the social arbiter at Bird Centre was more of a facsimile
of his New York confrère than that confrère could ever dream of even in
the most realistic of nightmares.

Three phenomena particularly characterised that metropolitan winter: the
reckless rage for private gambling through the mediums of bridge and
roulette; the incorporation of a company known as The Inter-County
Electric Company, capitalised at a figure calculated to disturb nobody,
and, so far, without any avowed specific policy other than that which
served to decorate a portion of its charter which otherwise might have
remained ornately and comparatively blank; the third phenomenon was the
retirement from active affairs of Stanley S. Quarrier, the father of
Howard Quarrier, and the election of the son to the presidency of the
great Algonquin Loan and Trust Company, with its network system of
dependent, subsidiary, and allied corporations.

The day that the newspapers gave this interesting information to the
Western world, Leroy Mortimer, on being bluntly notified that he had
overdrawn his account with the Algonquin Loan and Trust, began
telephoning in every direction until he located Beverly Plank at the
Saddle Club--an organisation of wealthy men, and sufficiently exclusive
not to compromise Plank’s possible chances for something better; in
fact, the Saddle Club, into which Leroy Mortimer had already managed to
pilot him, was one riser and tread upward on the stair he was climbing,
though it was more of a lobby for other clubs than a club in itself. To
be seen there was, perhaps, rather to a man’s advantage, if he did not
loaf there in the evenings or use it too frequently. As Plank carefully
avoided doing either, Mortimer was fortunate in finding him there; and
he crawled out of his hansom, saying that the desk clerk would pay, and
entered the reading-room, where Plank sat writing a letter.

Beverly Plank had grown stouter since he had returned to town from Black
Fells; but the increase of weight was evenly distributed over his six
feet odd, which made him only a trifle more ponderous and not
abdominally fat. But Mortimer had become enormous; rolls of flesh
crowded his mottled ear-lobes outward and bulged above his collar;
cushions of it padded the backs of his hands and fingers; shaving left
his heavy, distended face congested and unpleasantly shiny. But be was
as minutely groomed as ever, and he wore that satiated air of prosperity
which had always been one of his most important assets.

The social campaign inaugurated by Leila Mortimer in behalf of Beverly
Plank had, so far, received no serious reverses. His box at the horse
show, of course, produced merely negative results; his box at the opera
might mean something some day. His name was up at the Lenox and the
Patroons; he had endowed a ward in the new pavilion of St. Berold’s
Hospital; he had presented a fine Gainsborough--The Countess of Wythe--to
the Metropolitan Museum; and it was rumoured that he had consulted
several bishops concerning a new chapel for that huge bastion of the
citadel of Faith looming above the metropolitan wilderness in the north.

So far, so good. If, as yet, he had not been permitted to go where he
wanted to go, he at least had been instructed where not to go and what
not to do; and he was as docile as he was dogged, understanding how much
longer it takes to shuffle in by way of the mews and the back door than
to sit on the front steps and wait politely for somebody to unchain the
front door.

Meanwhile he was doggedly docile; his huge house, facing the wintry park
midway between the squat palaces of the wealthy pioneers and the outer
hundreds, remained magnificently empty save for certain afternoon
conferences of very solemn men, fellow directors and associates in
business and financial matters--save for the periodical presence of the
Mortimers: a mansion immense and shadowy, haunted by relays of yawning,
livened servants, half stupefied under the vast silence of the twilit
splendour. He was patient, not only because he was told to be, but also
because he had nothing better to do. Society stared at him as blankly as
the Mountain confronted Mahomet. But the stubborn patience of the man
was itself a strain on the Mountain; he was aware of that, and he waited
for it to come to him. As yet, however, he could detect no symptoms of
mobility in the Mountain.

“Things are moving all the same,” said Mortimer, as he entered the
reading room of the Saddle Club. “Quarrier and Belwether have listened a
damned sight more respectfully to me since they read that column about
you and the bishops and that chapel business.”

Plank turned his heavy head with a disturbed glance around the room; for
he always dreaded Mortimer’s indiscretions of speech--was afraid of his
cynical frankness in the presence of others; even shrank from the brutal
bonhomie of the man when alone with him.

“Can’t you be careful?” he said; “there was a man here a moment ago.” He
picked up his unfinished letter, folded and pocketed it, touched an
electric bell, and when a servant came, “Take Mr. Mortimer’s order,” he
said, supporting his massive head on his huge hands and resting his
elbow on the writing-desk.

“I’ve got to cut out this morning bracer,” said Mortimer, eyeing the
servant with indecision; but he gave his order nevertheless, and later
accepted a cigar; and when the servant had returned and again retired,
he half emptied his tall glass, refilled it with mineral water, and,
settling back in the padded arm-chair, said: “If I manage this thing as
it ought to be managed, you’ll go through by April. What do you think of
that?”

Plank’s phlegmatic features flushed. “I’m more obliged to you than I can
say,” he began, but Mortimer silenced him with a gesture: “Don’t
interrupt. I’m going to put you through The Patroons Club by April.
That’s thirty yards through the centre; d’ye see, you dunderheaded
Dutchman? It’s solid gain, and it’s our ball. The Lenox will take
longer; they’re a ‘holier-than-thou’ bunch of nincompoops, and it always
horrifies them to have any man elected, no matter who he is. They’d
rather die of dry rot than elect anybody; it shocks them to think that
any man could have the presumption to be presented. They require the
spectacle of fasting and prayer--a view of a candidate seated in
sackcloth and ashes in outer darkness. You’ve got to wait for the Lenox,
Plank.”

“I am waiting,” said Plank, squaring his massive jaws.

“You’ve got to,” growled Mortimer, emptying his glass aggressively.

Plank looked out of the window, his shrewd blue eyes closing in
retrospection.

“Another thing,” continued Mortimer thickly; “the Kemp Ferralls are
disposed to be decent. I don’t mean in asking you to meet some
intellectual second-raters, but in doing it handsomely. I don’t know
whether it’s time yet,” he added, with a sidelong glance at Plank’s
stolid face; “I don’t want to push the mourners too hard … Well, I’ll
see about it … And if it’s the thing to do, and the time to do it”--he
turned on Plank with his boisterous and misleading laugh and clapped him
on the shoulder--“it will be done, as sure as snobs are snobs; and that’s
the surest thing you ever bet on. Here’s to them!” and he emptied his
glass and fell back into his chair, wheezing and sucking at his
unlighted cigar.

“I want to say,” began Plank, speaking the more slowly because he was
deeply in earnest, “that all this you are doing for me is very handsome
of you, Mortimer. I’d like to say--to convey to you something of how I
feel about the way you and Mrs. Mortimer--”

“Oh, Leila has done it all.”

“Mrs. Mortimer is very kind, and you have been so, too. I--I wish there
was something--some way to--to--”

“To what?” asked Mortimer so bluntly that Plank flushed up and
stammered:

“To be--to do a--to show my gratitude.”

“How? You’re scarcely in a position to do anything for us,” said
Mortimer, brutally staring him out of countenance.

“I know it,” said Plank, the painful flush deepening.

Mortimer, fussing and growling over his cigar, was nevertheless
stealthily intent on the game which had so long absorbed him. His wits,
clogged, dulled by excesses, were now aroused to a sort of gross
activity through the menace of necessity. At last Plank had given him an
opening. He recognised his chance.

“There’s one thing,” he said deliberately, “that I won’t stand for, and
that’s any vulgar misconception on your part of my friendship for you.
Do you follow me?”

“I don’t misunderstand it,” protested Plank, angry and astonished; “I
don’t--”

“--As though,” continued Mortimer menacingly, “I were one of those needy
social tipsters, one of those shabby, pandering touts who--”

“For Heaven’s sake, Mortimer, don’t talk like that! I had no intention--”

“--One of those contemptible, parasitic leeches,” persisted Mortimer,
getting redder and hoarser, “who live on men like you. Confound you,
Plank, what the devil do you mean by it?”

“Mortimer, are you crazy, to talk to me like that?”

“No, I’m not, but you must be! I’ve a mind to drop the whole cursed
business! I’ve every inclination to drop it! If you haven’t horse-sense
enough--if you haven’t innate delicacy sufficient to keep you from making
such a break--”

“I didn’t! It wasn’t a break, Mortimer. I wouldn’t have hurt you--”

“You did hurt me! How can I feel the same again? I never imagined you
thought I was that sort of a social mercenary. Why, so little did I
dream that you looked on our friendship in that light that I was--on my
word of honour!--I was just now on the point of asking you for three or
four thousand, to carry me to the month’s end and square my bridge
balance.”

“Mortimer, you must take it! You are a fool to think I meant anything by
saying I wanted to show my gratitude. Look here; be decent and fair with
me. I wouldn’t offer you an affront--would I?--even if I were a cad. I
wouldn’t do it now, just when you’re getting things into shape for me.
I’m not a fool, anyway. This is in deadly earnest, I tell you, Mortimer,
and I’m getting angry about it. You’ve got to show your confidence in
me; you’ve got to take what you want from me, as you would from any
friend. I resent your failure to do it now, as though you drew a line
between me and your intimates. If you’re really my friend, show it!”

There was a pause. A curious and unaccustomed sensation had silenced
Mortimer, something almost akin to shame. It astonished him a little. He
did not quite understand why, in the very moment of success over this
stolid, shrewd young man and his thrifty Dutch instincts, he should feel
uncomfortable. Were not his services worth something? Had he not earned
at least the right to borrow from this rich man who could afford to pay
for what was done for him? Why should he feel ashamed? He had not been
treacherous; he really liked the fellow. Why shouldn’t he take his
money?

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