Book: The Fighting Chance

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




“Don’t I? Very well. Only I inform you that I mean to be perfectly
happy! And that means that I’m going to do as I please! And that
means--oh, it may mean anything! What are you laughing at, Stephen? I
know I’m excited. I don’t care! What girl wouldn’t be? And I don’t know
what’s ahead of me at all; and I don’t want to know--I don’t care!”

Her reckless, little laugh rang sweetly in the old-fashioned, deserted
hall; her lovely, daring eyes met his undaunted.

“You won’t make love to me, will you, Stephen?”

“Will you promise me the same?”

“I don’t know, silly! How do I know what I might say to you, you big,
blundering boy, who can’t take care of himself? I don’t know at all; I
won’t promise. I’m likely to do anything to-night--even before Leila and
Mr. Plank--when you are with me. Shame on you for the shameless girl
you’ve educated!” Her voice fell, tremulously, and for an instant
standing there she remembered her education and his part in it.

The slow colour in his face reflected the pink confusion in hers.

“O tongue! tongue!” she stammered, “I can’t hold you in! I can’t curb
you, and I can’t make you say what you ought to be saying to that boy.
There’s trouble coming for somebody; there’s trouble here already! Call
me a cab, Stephen, or I’ll be dragging you into that big, old-fashioned
parlour and planting you on a chair and placing myself opposite, to moon
over you until somebody puts us out! There! Now will you call me a
hansom? … And I will be all ready at seven. … And don’t dare to keep me
waiting one second! … Come before seven. You don’t want to frighten me,
do you? Very well then, at a quarter to seven--so I shall not be
frightened. And, Stephen, Stephen, we’re doing exactly what we ought not
to do. You know it, don’t you? So do I. Nothing can stop us, can it?
Good-bye!”


CHAPTER XIV THE BARGAIN

If a man’s grief does not awaken his dignity, then he has none. In that
event, grief is not even respectable. And so it was with Leroy Mortimer
when Lydia at last turned on him. If you caress an Angora too long and
too persistently it runs away. And before it goes it scratches.

Under all the physical degeneration of mind and flesh there had still
remained in Mortimer the capacity for animal affection; and that does
not mean sensuality alone, but generosity and a sort of routine devotion
as characteristic components of a character which had now disintegrated
into the simplest and most primitive elements.

Lydia Vyse left Saratoga when the financial stringency began to make it
unpleasant for her to remain. She told Mortimer without the slightest
compunction that she was going.

He did not believe her and he gave her the new car--the big yellow-and-
black Serin-Chanteur. She sold it the same day to a bookmaker--an old
friend of hers; withdrew several jewels from limbo--gems which Mortimer
had given her--and gathered together everything for which, if he turned
ugly, she might not be criminally liable.

She had never liked him--she had long disliked him. Such women have an
instinct for their own kind, and no matter how low in the scale a man of
the other kind sinks he can never entirely supply the type of running
mate that such women require, understand, and usually conceive a passion
for.

Not liking him she had no hesitation in the matter; disliking him,
whatever unpleasant had occurred during their companionship remained as
an irritant to poison memory. She resented a thousand little incidents
that he scarcely knew had ever existed, but which she treasured without
wasting emotion until the sum total and the time coincided to retaliate.
Not that she would have cared to harm him seriously; she was willing
enough to disoblige him, however--decorate him, before she left him, with
one extra scratch for the sake of auld lang syne. So she wrote a note to
the governors of the Patroons Club, saying that both Quarrier and
Mortimer were aware that the guilt of her escapade could not be attached
to Siward; that she knew nothing of Siward, had accepted his wager
without meaning to attempt to win it, had never again seen him, and had,
on the impulse of the moment, made her entry in the wake of several men.
She added that when Quarrier, as governor, had concurred in Siward’s
expulsion he knew perfectly well that Siward was not guilty, because she
herself had so informed Quarrier. Since then she had also told Mortimer,
but he had taken no steps to do justice to Siward, although he,
Mortimer, was still a governor of the Patroons Club.

This being about all she could think of to make mischief for two men
whose recent companionship had nourished and irritated her, she shipped
her trunks by express, packed her jewel-case and valise, and met Desmond
at the station.

Desmond had business in Europe; Lydia had as much business there as
anywhere; and, although she had been faithless to Mortimer for a
comparatively short time, within that time Desmond already had sworn at
her and struck her. So she was quite ready to follow Desmond anywhere in
this world or the next. And that, too, had not made her the more
considerate toward Mortimer.

When the latter returned from the races to find her gone the last
riddled props to what passed for his manhood gave way and the rotten
fabric came crashing into the mud.

He had loved her as far as he had been capable of imitating that passion
on the transposed plane to which he had fallen; he was stupefied at
first, then grew violent with the furniture, then hysterically profane,
then pitiable in the abandoned degradation of his grief. And, suspecting
Desmond, he started to find him. They put him out of Desmond’s club-
house when he became noisy; they refused him admittance to several
similar resorts where his noise threatened to continue; his landlord
lost no time in interviewing him upon the subject of damage to furniture
from kicks and to the walls and carpets from the contents of smashed
bottles.

Creditors with sharp noses scented the whirlwind afar off and hemmed him
in with unsettled accounts, mostly hers. Somebody placed a lien on his
horses; a deputy sheriff began to follow him about; all credit ceased as
by magic, and men crossed the street to avoid meeting with an old
companion in direst need.

Still, alternately stupefied by his own grief and maddened into the
necessity for action, he packed a suitcase, crawled out of the rear
door, toiled across country and found a farmer to drive him twenty miles
over a sandy road to a local railroad crossing, where he managed to
board a train for Albany.

At Albany, as he stood panting and sweating on the long, concrete
platform which paralleled track No. 1, he saw a private car, switched
from a Boston and Albany train, shunted to the rear of the Merchants’
Express.

The private car was lettered in gold on the central panel, “Algonquin.”
He boarded the Pullman coupled to it forward, pushed through the
vestibule, shoved aside the Japanese steward and darky cook, forcing his
way straight into the private car. Quarrier, reading a magazine, looked
up at him in astonishment. For a full moment neither spoke. Then
Mortimer dropped his suit-case, sat down in an armchair opposite
Quarrier, and leisurely mopped his reeking face and neck.

“Scotch and lithia!” he said hoarsely; the Japanese steward looked at
Quarrier; then, at that gentleman’s almost imperceptible nod, went away
to execute the commission.

He executed a great many similar commissions during the trip to New
York. When they arrived there at five o’clock, Quarrier offered Mortimer
his hand, and held the trembling, puffy fingers as he leaned closer,
saying with cold precision and emotionless emphasis something that
appeared to require the full concentration of Mortimer’s half-drugged
faculties.

And when at length Mortimer drove away in a hansom, Quarrier’s Japanese
steward went with him--perhaps to carry his suit case--a courtesy that did
credit to Quarrier’s innate thoughtfulness and consideration for others.
He was very considerate; he even called Agatha up on the telephone and
talked with her for ten minutes. Then he telephoned to Plank’s office,
learned that Harrington was already there, telephoned the garage for a
Mercedes which he always kept ready in town, and presently went bowling
away to a conference on which the last few hours had put an entirely new
aspect.

It had taken Plank only a few minutes to perceive that something had
occurred to change a point of view which he had believed it impossible
for Quarrier to change. Something had gone wrong in his own careful
calculations; some cog had slipped, some rivet given way, some bed-plate
cracked. And Harrington evidently had not been aware of it; but Quarrier
knew it. There was something wrong.

It was too late now to go tinkering in the dark for trouble. Plank
understood that. Coolly, as though utterly unaware that the machinery
might not stand the strain, he started it full speed. And when he
stopped it at last Harrington’s grist had been ground to atoms, and
Quarrier had looked on without comment. There seemed to be little more
for them to do except to pay the miller.

“To-morrow,” said Quarrier, rising to go. It was on the edge of Plank’s
lips to say, “to-day!”--but he was silent, knowing that Harrington would
speak for him. And the old man did, without words, turning his iron
visage on Quarrier with the silent dignity of despair. But Quarrier
coldly demanded a day before they reckoned with Plank. And Plank,
profoundly disturbed, shrugged his massive shoulders in contemptuous
assent.

So Quarrier and Harrington went away--the younger partner taking leave of
the older with a sneer for an outworn prop which no man could ever again
have use for. Old and beaten--that was all Harrington now stood for in
Quarrier’s eyes. Never a thought of the past undaunted courage, never a
memory of the old victories which had made the Quarrier fortune possible
--only contempt for age, a sneer for the mind and body that had failed at
last. The old robber was done for, his armour rotten, his buckler
broken, his sword blade rusted to the core. The least of his victims
might now finish him with a club where he swayed in his loosened saddle,
or leave him to that horseman on the pale horse watching him yonder on
the horizon.

For now, whether Harrington lived or died, he must be counted as nothing
in this new struggle darkly outlining its initial strategy in Quarrier’s
brain. What was coming was coming between himself and Plank alone; and
whatever the result--whether an armed truce leaving affairs indefinitely
in statu quo, or the other alternative, an alliance with Plank, leaving
Harrington like a king in his mail, propped upon his throne, dead eyes
doubly darkened under the closed helmet--the result must be attained
swiftly, with secrecy, and with the aid of no man. For he did not count
Mortimer a man.

So Quarrier’s thin lips twitched and the glimmer of teeth showed under
the silky beard as he listened without comment to the old man’s
hesitating words--a tremulous suggestion for a conference that
evening--and he said again, “to-morrow,” and left him there alone,
groping with uncertain hands toward the door of the hired coupé which
had brought him to the place of his earthly downfall; the place where he
had met his own weird face to face--the wraith that bore the mask of
Plank.

Quarrier, brooding sullenly in his Mercedes, was already far up town on
his way to Major Belwether’s house.

At the door, Sylvia’s maid received him smilingly, saying that her
mistress was not at home but that Mrs. Mortimer was--which saved Quarrier
the necessity of asking for the private conference with Leila which was
exactly what he had come for. But her first unguarded words on receiving
him as he rose at her entrance into the darkened drawing-room changed
that plan, too--changed it all so utterly, and so much for the better,
that he almost smiled to think of the crudity of human combinations and
inventions as compared to the masterly machinations of Fate. No need for
him to complicate matters when here were pawns enough to play the game
for him. No need for him to do anything except give them their initial
velocity and let them tumble into one another and totter or fall. Leila
said, laughingly: “Oh, you are too late, Howard. We are dining with Mr.
Plank at Riverside Inn. What in the world are you doing in town so
suddenly?”

“A business telegram. I might have come down with you and Sylvia if I
had known. … Is Plank dining with you alone?”

“I haven’t seen him,” smiled Leila evasively. “He will tell us his plans
of course when he comes.”

“Oh,” said Quarrier, dropping his eyes and glancing furtively toward the
curtained windows through which he could see the street and his Mercedes
waiting at the curb. At the same instant a hansom drove up; Sylvia
sprang out, ran lightly up the low steps, and the silent, shrouded house
rang with the clamour of the bell.

Leila looked curiously at Quarrier, who sat motionless, head partly
averted, as though listening to something heard by him alone. He
believed perhaps that he was listening to the voice of Fate again, and
it may have been so, for already, for the third time, all his plans were
changing to suit this new ally of his--this miraculous Fate which was
shaping matters for him as he waited. Sylvia had started up-stairs like
a fragrant whirlwind, but her flying feet halted at Leila’s constrained
voice from the drawing-room, and she spun around and came into the
darkened room like an April breeze.

“Leila! They’ll be here at a quarter to seven--”

Her breath seemed to leave her body as a shadowy figure rose in the
uncertain light and confronted her.

“You!”

He said: “Didn’t you recognise the Mercedes outside?”

She had not even seen it, so excited, so deeply engaged had she been
with the riotous tumult of her own thoughts. And still her hurt,
unbelieving gaze widened to dismay as she stood there halted on the
threshold; and still his eyes, narrowing, held her under their
expressionless inspection.

“When did you come? Why?” she asked in an altered voice.

“I came on business. Naturally, being here, I came to see you. I
understand you are dining out?”

“Yes, we are dining out.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t wire you because we might have dined together. I saw
Plank this afternoon. He did not say you were to dine with him. Shall I
see you later in the evening, Sylvia?”

“I--it will be too late--”

“Oh! To-morrow then. What train do you take?”

Sylvia did not answer; he picked up his hat, repeating the question
carelessly, and still she made no reply.

“Shall I see you to-morrow?” he asked, swinging on her rather suddenly.

“I think--not. I--there will be no time--”

He bowed quietly to Leila, offering his hand. “Who did you say was to
dine with you--besides Plank?”

Leila stood silent, then, withdrawing her fingers, walked to the window.

Quarrier, his hat in his gloved hands, looked from one to the other, his
inquiring eyes returning and focused on Sylvia.

“Who are you dining with?” he asked with authority.

“Mr. Plank and Mr. Siward.”

“Mr. Siward!” he repeated in surprised displeasure, as though he had not
already divined it.

“Yes. A man I like.”

“A man I dislike,” he rejoined with the slightest emphasis.

“I am sorry,” she said simply.

“So am I, Sylvia. And I am going to ask you to make him an excuse. Any
excuse will do.”

“Excuse? What do you mean, Howard?”

“I mean that I do not care to have you seen with Mr. Siward. Have I ever
demanded very much of you, Sylvia? Very well; I demand this of you now.”

And still she stood there, her eyes wide, her colour gone, repeating:
“Excuse? What excuse? What do you mean by ‘excuse,’ Howard?”

“I have told you. You know my wishes. If he has a telephone you can
communicate with him--”

“And say that I--that you forbid me--”

“If you choose. Yes; say that I object to him. Is there anything
extraordinary in a man objecting to his future wife dining in the
country at a common inn with a notorious outcast from every decent club
and circle in New York?”

“What!” she whispered, white as death. “What did you say?”

“Shall I repeat what everybody except you seems to be aware of? Do you
care to have me explain to you exactly why decent people have ostracised
this man with whom you are proposing to figure in a public resort?”

He turned to Leila, who stood at the window, her back turned toward
them: “Mrs. Mortimer, when Mr. Plank arrives, you will be kind enough to
explain why Sylvia is unable to accompany you.”

If Leila heard she neither turned nor made sign of comprehension.

“We will dine at the Santa Regina,” he said to Sylvia. “Agatha is there
and I’ll find somebody at the club to--”

“Why bother to find anybody?” said Leila, wheeling on him, exasperated.
“Why not dine there with Agatha alone? It will not be the first time I
fancy!”

“What do you mean?” he said fiercely, under his breath. The colour had
left his face, too, and in his eyes Leila saw for the first time an
expression that she had never before surprised in any eyes except her
husband’s. It was the expression of fright; she recognised it. But
Sylvia stared, unenlightened, at an altered visage she scarcely knew for
Quarrier’s.

“What do I mean?” repeated Leila; “I mean what I say; and if you don’t
understand it you can find the key to it, I fancy. Nor shall I answer to
you for my guests. I invite whom I choose. Mr. Siward is one, Mr. Plank
is another. Sylvia, if you care to come I shall be delighted.”

“I do care to come,” said Sylvia. Her heart was beating violently, her
eyes were on Quarrier.

“If you go,” said Quarrier, showing the glimmering edge of teeth under
his beard, “you will answer to me for it.”

“I will answer you now, Howard; I am going with Mrs. Mortimer. What have
you to say?”

“I’ll say it to-morrow,” he replied, contemplating her in a dull,
impassive manner as though absorbed in other things.

“Say what there is to be said now!” she insisted, the hot colour
staining her cheeks again. “Do you desire me to free you? Is that all? I
will if you wish.”

“No. And I shall not free you, Sylvia. This--all this can be adjusted in
time.”

“As you please,” she said slowly.

“In time,” he repeated, his passionless voice now under perfect control.
He turned and looked at Leila; all the wickedness of his anger was
concentrated in his gaze. Then he took his leave of them as formally, as
precisely as though he had forgotten the whole scene; and a minute later
the big Mercedes ran out into a half-circle, backed, wheeled, and rolled
away through the thickening dusk, the glare of the acetylenes sweeping
the deserted street.

Into the twilight sped Quarrier, head bent, but his soft, dark-lashed
eyes of a woman fixed steadily ahead. Every energy, every thought was
now bent to this newest phase of the same question which he and Fate
were finding simpler to solve every minute. Of all the luxuries he
permitted himself openly or furtively, one--the rarest of them all--his
self-denial had practically eliminated from the list: the luxury of
punishing where no end was served save that of mere personal
satisfaction. The temptation of this luxury now presented itself; and
the means of gratification were so simple, so secret, so easy to
command, that the temptation became almost a duty.

Siward he had not turned out of his way to injure; Siward had been in
the way, that was all, and his ruin was to have been merely an agreeable
coincidence with the purposed ruin of Amalgamated Electric before Inter-
County absorbed the fragments. But here was a new phase; Mrs. Mortimer,
whom he had expected to use, and if necessary sacrifice, had suddenly
turned vicious. And he now hated her as coldly as he hated Major
Belwether for betraying suspicions of a similar nature. As for Plank,
fear and hatred of him was becoming hatred and contempt. He had the
means of checking Plank if Mortimer did not drop dead before midnight.
There remained Sylvia, whom he had selected as the fittest object
attainable to transmit his name. Long ago, whatever of liking, of
affection, of passion he had ever entertained for her had quieted to
indifference and the unemotional contemplation of a future methodically
arranged for. Now of a sudden, this young girl he had bought--he knowing
what she sold and what he was paying for--had become exposed to the
infection of a suspicion concerning himself and another woman; a woman
unmarried, and of his own caste, and numbered among her own friends.

And he knew enough of Sylvia to know that if anybody could once arouse
her suspicion nothing on earth could induce her to look into his face
again. Suppose Leila should do so this evening?

Certainly Quarrier had several matters to ponder over and provide for;
and first and foremost of all to provide for his own security and the
vital necessity of preserving his name and his character untainted. In
this he had to deal with that miserable judge who had betrayed him; with
Mortimer, who had once black-mailed him and who now was temporarily in
his service; with Mrs. Mortimer, who--God knew how, when, or where--had
become suspicious of Agatha and himself; with Major Belwether, who had
deserted him before he could sacrifice the major, and whom he now hated
and feared for having stumbled over suspicions similar to Mrs.
Mortimer’s. He had to deal with Sylvia herself, and with Siward--reckon
with Siward’s knowledge of matters which it were best that Sylvia should
not know.

But first of all, and most important of all, he had to deal with Beverly
Plank. And he was going to do it in a manner that Plank could not have
foreseen; he was going to stop Plank where he stood, and to do this he
was deliberately using his knowledge of the man and paying Plank the
compliment of counting on his sense of honour to defeat him.

For he had suddenly found the opportunity to defend himself; he had
discovered the joint in Plank’s old-fashioned armour--the armour of the
old paladins--who placed a woman’s honour before all else in the world.
Now, through his creature, Mortimer, he could menace Plank with a threat
to involve him and Leila in a vile publicity; now he was in a position
to demand a hearing and a compromise through his new ambassador,
Mortimer, knowing that he could at last halt Plank by threatening Leila
with this shameful danger. Plank must sign the truce or face with Leila
an action for damages and divorce.

First of all he went to the Lenox Club and dressed. Then he dined
sparingly and alone. The Mercedes was waiting when he came out ready to
run down to the great Hotel Corona, whither the Japanese steward had
conducted Mortimer. Mortimer had dined heavily, but his disorganised
physical condition was such that it had scarcely affected him at all.

Again Quarrier went over patiently and carefully the very simple part he
had reserved for Mortimer that evening, explaining exactly what to say
to Leila and what to say to Plank in case of insolent interruption. Then
he told Mortimer to be ready at nine o’clock, turned on his heel with a
curt word to the Japanese, descended to the street, entered his motor-
car again, and sped away to the Hotel Santa Regina.

Miss Caithness was at home, came the message in exchange for his cards
for Agatha and Mrs. Vendenning. He entered the gilded elevator, stepped
out on the sixth floor into a tiny, rococo, public reception-room.
Nobody was there besides himself; Agatha’s maid came presently, and he
turned and followed her into the large and very handsome parlour
belonging to the suite which Agatha was occupying with Mrs. Vendenning
for the few days that they were to stop in town.

“Hello,” she said serenely, sauntering in, her long, pale hands
bracketed on her narrow hips, her lips disclosing her teeth in a smile
so like that nervous muscular recession which passed for a smile on
Quarrier’s visage that for one moment he recognised it and thought she
was mocking him. But she strolled up to him, meeting his eye calmly, and
lifted her slim neck, lips passive under his impetuous kiss.

“Is Mrs. Vendenning out?” he asked, laying his hands on the bare
shoulders of the tall, pallid girl--tall as he, and as pallid.

“No, Mrs. Ven. is in, Howard.”

“Now? You mean she is coming in to interrupt--”

“Oh no; she isn’t fond of you, Howard.”

“You said--” he began almost angrily, but she laid her fingers across his
lips.

“I said a very foolish thing, Howard. I said that I’d manage to dispense
with Mrs. Ven. this evening.”

“You mean that you couldn’t manage it?”

“Not at all; I could easily have managed it. But--I didn’t care to.”

She looked at him calmly at close range as he held her embraced, lifted
her arms and, with slender, white fingers patted her hair into place
where his arm around her head had disarranged it, watching him all the
while out of her pale, haunted eyes.

“You promised me,” he said, “that you--”

“Oh Howard! Do men still believe in promises?”

Quarrier’s face had colour enough now; his voice, too, had lost its
passionless, monotonous precision. Whatever was in the man of emotion
was astir; his impatient voice, his lack of poise, the almost human lack
of caution in his speech betrayed him in a new and interesting light.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.