Book: The Fighting Chance

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




The conversation veered toward the Sagamore pup. Marion explained that
Siward was too busy to do any Southern shooting, which was why he was
glad to have her polish Sagamore on Jersey woodcock.

“I thought it was not good for a dog to be used by anybody except his
master,” said Sylvia carelessly.

“Only second-raters suffer. Besides, I have shot enough, now, with Mr.
Siward to use his dog as he does.”

“He is an agreeable shooting companion, smiled Sylvia.

“He is perfect,” answered Marion coolly. “The only test for a
thoroughbred is the field. He rings true.”

They exchanged carefully impersonal views on Siward’s good qualities for
a moment or two; then Marion said bluntly: “Do you know anything in
particular about that Patroons Club affair?”

“No,” said Sylvia, “nothing in particular.”

“Neither do I; and I don’t care to; I mean, that I don’t care what he
did; and I wish that gossiping old Major would stop trying to hint it to
me.”

“My uncle!”

“Oh! I forgot. Beg your pardon, you know, but--”

“I’m not offended,” observed Sylvia, with a shrug of her pretty, bare
shoulders.

Marion laughed. “Such a gadabout! Besides, I’m no prude, but he and
Leroy Mortimer have no business to talk to unmarried women the way they
do. No matter how worldly wise we are, men have no right to suppose we
are.”

“Pooh!” shrugged Sylvia. “I have no patience to study out double-
entendre, so it never shocks me. Besides--”

She was going to add that she was not at all versed in doubtful worldly
wisdom, but decided not to, as it might seem to imply disapproval of
Marion’s learning. So she went on: “Besides, what have innuendoes to do
with Mr. Siward?”

“I don’t know whether I care to understand them. The Major hinted that
the woman--the one who figured in it--is--rather exclusively Mr. Siward’s
‘property.’”

“Exclusively?” repeated Sylvia curiously. “She’s a public actress, isn’t
she?”

“If you call the manoeuvres of a newly fledged chorus girl acting, yes,
she is. But I don’t believe Mr. Siward figures in that unfashionable
rôle. Why, there are too many women of his own sort ready for mischief.”
Marion turned to Sylvia, her eyes hard with a cynicism quite lost on the
other. “That sort of thing might suit Leroy Mortimer, but it doesn’t fit
Mr. Siward,” she concluded, rising as their hostess appeared from above
and the butler from below.

And all through dinner an indefinitely unpleasant remembrance of the
conversation lingered with Sylvia, and she sat silent for minutes at a
time, returning to actualities with a long, curious side-glance across
at Siward, and an uncomprehending smile of assent for whatever Quarrier
or Major Belwether had been saying to her.

Cards she managed to avoid after dinner, and stood by Quarrier’s chair
for half an hour, absently watching the relentless method and steady
adherence to rule which characterised his Bridge-playing, the eager,
unslaked brutality of Mortimer, the set, selfish face of his pretty
wife, the chilled intensity of Miss Caithness.

And Grace Ferrall’s phrase recurred to her, “Nobody ever has enough
money!”--not even these people, whose only worry was to find investment
for the surplus they were unable to spend. Something of the meanness of
it all penetrated her. Were these the real visages of these people,
whose faces otherwise seemed so smooth and human? Was Leila Mortimer
aware of the shrillness of her voice? Did Agatha Caithness realise how
pinched her mouth and nose had grown? Did even Leroy Mortimer dream how
swollen the pouches under his eyes were; how red and puffy his hands,
shuffling a new pack; how pendulous and dreadful his red under-lip when
absorbedly making up his cards?

Instinctively she moved a step forward for a glimpse of Quarrier’s face.
The face appeared to be a study in blankness. His natural visage was
emotionless and inexpressive enough, but this face, from which every
vestige of colour had fled, fascinated her with its dead whiteness; and
the hair brushed high, the long, black lashes, the silky beard, struck
her as absolutely ghastly, as though they had been glued to a face of
wax.

She turned on her heel, restless, depressed, inclined for companionship.
The Page boys had tempted Rena and Eileen to the billiard-room; Voucher,
Alderdene, and Major Belwether were huddled over a table, immersed in
Preference; Katharyn Tassel and Grace Ferrall sat together looking over
the announcements of Sylvia’s engagement in a batch of New York papers
just arrived; Ferrall was writing at a desk, and Siward and Marion were
occupied in the former’s sketch for an ideal shooting vehicle, to be
built on the buckboard principle, with a clever arrangement for dogs,
guns, ammunition, and provisions. Siward’s profile, as it bent in the
lamplight over the paper, was very engaging. The boyish note
predominated as he talked while he drew, his eyes now smiling, now
seriously intent on the sketch which was developing so swiftly under his
facile pencil.

Marion’s clean-cut blond head was close to his, her supple body twisted
in her seat, one bare arm hanging over the back of the chair. Something
in her attitude seemed to exclude intrusion; her voice, too, was hushed
in comment, though his was pitched in his naturally agreeable key.

Sylvia had taken a hesitating step toward them, but halted, turning
irresolutely; and suddenly over her crept a sensation of
isolation--something of that feeling which had roused her at midnight
from her bed and driven her to Grace Ferrall for a refuge from she knew
not what.

The rustle of her silken dinner gown was scarcely perceptible as she
turned. Siward, moving his head slightly, glanced up, then brought his
sketch to a brilliant finish.

“Don’t you think something of this sort is practicable?” he asked
pleasantly, including Mrs. Ferrall and Katharyn Tassel in a general
appeal which brought them into the circle of two. Grace Ferrall leaned
forward, looking over Marion’s shoulder, and Siward rose and stepped
back, with a quick glance into the hall--in time to catch a glimmer of
pale blue and lace on the stairs.

“I suppose my cigarettes are in my room as usual,” he said aloud to
himself, wheeling so that he could not have time to see Marion’s offer
of her little gold-encrusted case, or notice her quickly raised eyes,
bright with suspicion and vexation. For she, too, had observed Sylvia’s
distant entrance, had been perfectly aware of Siward’s cognizance of
Sylvia’s retreat; and when Siward went on sketching she had been
content. Now she could not tell whether he had deliberately and
skillfully taken his congé to follow Sylvia, or whether, in his quest
for his cigarettes, chance might meddle, as usual. Even if he returned,
she could not know with certainty how much of a part hazard had played
on the landing above, where she already heard the distant sounds of
Sylvia’s voice mingling with Siward’s, then a light footfall or two, and
silence.


He had greeted her in his usual careless, happy fashion, just as she had
reached her chamber door; and she turned at the sound of his voice,
confused, unsmiling, a little pale.

“Is it headache, or are you too in quest of cigarettes?” he asked, as he
stopped in passing her where she stood, one slender hand on the knob of
her door.

“I don’t smoke, you know,” she said, looking up at him with a cool
little laugh. “It isn’t headache either. I was--boring myself, Mr.
Siward.”

“Is there any virtue in me as a remedy?”

“Oh, I have no doubt you have lots of virtues. … Perhaps you might do as
a temporary remedy--first aid to the injured.” She laughed again,
uncertainly. “But you are on a quest for cigarettes.”

“And you?”

“A rendezvous--with the Sand-Man. … Good night.”

“Good night … if you must say it.”

“It’s polite to say something … isn’t it?”

“It would be polite to say, ‘With pleasure, Mr. Siward!’”

“But you haven’t invited me to do anything--not even to accept a
cigarette. Besides, you didn’t expect to meet me up here?”

The trailing accent made it near enough a question for him to say, “Yes,
I did.”

“How could you?”

“I saw you leave the room.”

“You were sketching for Marion Page. Do you wish me to believe that you
noticed me--”

“--And followed you? Yes, I did follow you.” She looked at him, then past
him toward a corner of the wide hall where a maid in cap and apron sat
pretending to be sewing. “Careful!” she motioned with smiling lips,
“servants gossip. … Good night, again.”

“Won’t you--”

“Oh, dear! you mustn’t speak so loud,” she motioned, with her fresh,
sweet lips curving on the edge of that adorable smile once more.

“Couldn’t we have a moment--”

“No--”

“One minute--”

“Hush! I must open my door”--lingering. “I might come out again, if you
have anything particularly important to communicate to me.”

“I have. There’s a big bay-window at the end of the other corridor. Will
you come?”

But she opened her door, with a light laugh, saying “good night” again,
and closed it noiselessly behind her.

He walked on, turning into his corridor, but kept straight ahead,
passing his own door, on to the window at the end of the hall, then
north along a wide passageway which terminated in a bay-window
overlooking the roof of the indoor swimming tank.

Rain rattled heavily, against the panes and on the lighted roof of
opalescent glass below, through which he could make out the shadowy
fronds of palms.

It appeared that he had cigarettes enough, for he lighted one presently,
and, leaving his chair, curled up in the cushioned and pillowed window-
seat, gathering his knees together under his arm.

The cigarette he had lighted went out. He had bitten into it and twisted
it so roughly that it presently crumbled; and he threw the rags of it
into a metal bowl, locking his jaws in silence. For the night threatened
to be a bad one for him. A heavy fragrance from his neighbour’s wine-
glass at dinner had stirred up what had for a time lain dormant; and, by
accident, something--some sweetmeat he had tasted--was saturated in
brandy.

Now, his restlessness at the prospect of a blank night had quickened to
uneasiness, with a hint of fever tinting his skin, but, as yet, the dull
ache in his body was scarcely more than a premonition.

He had his own devices for tiding him over such periods--reading,
tobacco, and the long, blind, dogged tramps he took in town. But here,
to-night, in the rain, one stood every chance of walking off the cliffs;
and he was sick of reading himself sightless over the sort of books sent
wholesale to Shotover; and he was already too ill at ease, physically,
to make smoking endurable.

Were it not for a half-defiant, half-sullen dread of the coming night,
he might have put it from his mind in spite of the slowly increasing
nervous tension and the steady dull consciousness of desire. He drew
another Sirdar from his case and sat staring at the rain-smeared night,
twisting the frail fragrant cigarette to bits between his fingers.

After a while he began to walk monotonously to and fro the length of the
corridor, like a man timing his steps to the heavy ache of body or mind.
Once he went as far as his own door, entered, and stepping to the wash-
basin, let the icy water run over hands and wrists. This sometimes
helped to stimulate and soothe him; it did now, for a while--long enough
to change the current of his thoughts to the girl he had hoped might
have the imprudence to return for a tryst, innocent enough in itself,
yet unconventional and unreasonable enough to prove attractive to them
both.

Probably she wouldn’t come; she had kept her fluffy skirts clear of him
since Cup Day--which simply corroborated his vague estimate of her. Had
she done the contrary, his estimate would have been the same; for,
unconsciously but naturally, he had prejudged her. A girl who could
capture Quarrier at full noontide, and in the face of all Manhattan, was
a girl equipped for anything she dared--though she was probably too
clever to dare too much; a girl to be interested in, to amuse and be
amused by; a girl to be reckoned with. His restlessness and his fever
subdued by the icy water, he stood drying his hands, thinking, coolly,
how close he had come to being seriously in love with this young girl,
whose attitude was always a curious temptation, whose smile was a
charming provocation, whose youth and beauty were to him a perpetual
challenge. He admitted to himself, calmly, that he had never seen a
woman he cared as much for; that for the brief moment of his declaration
he had known an utterly new emotion, which inevitably must have become
the love he had so quietly declared it to be. He had never before felt
as he felt then, cared as he cared then. Anything had been possible for
him at that time--any degree of love, any devotion, any generous
renunciation. Clear-sighted, master of himself, he saw love before him,
and knew it when he saw it; recognised it, was ready for it, offered it,
emboldened by her soft hands so eloquent in his.

And in his arms he held it for an instant, he thought, spite of the
sudden inertia, spite of the according of cold lips and hands still
colder, relaxed, inert; held it until he doubted. That was all; he had
been wise to doubt such sudden miracles as that. She, consummate and
charming, had soon set him right. And, after all, she liked him; and she
had been sure enough of herself to permit the impulse of a moment to
carry her with him--a little way, a very little way--merely to the formal
symbol of a passion the germ of which she recognised in him.

Then she had become intelligent again, with a little laughter, a little
malice, a becoming tint of hesitation and confusion; all the sense, all
the arts, all the friendly sweetness of a woman thorough in training,
schooled in self-possession, clear enough to be audacious and perverse
without danger to herself, to the man, or to the main chance.

Standing there alone in his lighted room, he wondered whether, had her
trained and inbred policy been less precise, less worldly, she might
have responded to such a man as he. Perfectly conscious that he had been
capable of loving her; aware, too, that his experience had left him on
that borderland only through his cool refusal to cross it and face a
hopeless battle already lost, he leisurely and mentally took the measure
of his own state of mind, and found all well, all intact; found himself
still master of his affections, and probably clear-minded enough to
remain so under the circumstances.

To such a man as he, impulse to love, capacity to love, did not mean
instant capsizing with a flop into sentimental tempests, where swamped,
ardent and callow youth raises a hysterically selfish clamour for
reciprocity or death. His nature partly, partly his character, accounted
for this balance; and, in part, a rather wide experience with women of
various degrees counted more.

So, by instinct and experience, normally temperate, only what was
abnormal and inherited might work a mischief in this man. His
listlessness, his easy acquiescence, were but consequent upon the self-
knowledge of self-control. But mastery of the master-vice required
something different; he was sick of a sickness; and because, in this
sickness, will, mind, and body are tainted too, reason and logic lack
clarity; and, to the signals of danger his reply had always been either
overconfident or weak--and it had been always the same reply: “Not yet.
There is time.” And now, this last week, it had come upon him that the
time was now; the skirmish was already on; and it had alarmed him
suddenly to find that the skirmish was already a battle, and a rough
one.


As he stood there he heard voices on the stairs. People had already
begun to retire, because late cards and point-shooting at dawn do not
agree. And a point-shooting picnic in snugly elaborate blinds was
popular with women--or was supposed to be.

He could distinguish by their voices, by their laughter and step, the
people who were mounting the stairway and lingering for gossip or
passing through the various corridors to court the sleep denied him; he
heard Mortimer’s heavy tread and the soft shuffling step of Major
Belwether as they left the elevator; and the patter of his hostess’s
satin slippers, and her gay “good night” on the stairs.

Little by little the tumult died away. Quarrier’s measured step came,
passed; Marion Page’s cool, crisp voice and walk, and the giggle and
amble of the twins, and Rena and Eileen,--the last laggards, with
Ferrall’s brisk, decisive tones and stride to close the procession.

He turned and looked grimly at his bed, then, shutting off the lights,
he opened his door and went out into the deserted corridor, where the
elevator shaft was dark and only the dim night-lights burned at angles
in the passageways.

He had his rain-coat and cap with him, not being certain of what he
might be driven to; but for the present he found the bay-window
overlooking the swimming tank sufficient to begin the vigil.

Secure from intrusion, as there were no bedrooms on that corridor, he
tossed coat and cap into the window-seat, walked to and fro for a while
listening to the rain, then sat down, his well-shaped head between his
hands. And in silence he faced the Enemy.

How long he had sat there he did not know. When he raised his face, all
gray and drawn with the tension of conflict, his eyes were not very
clear, nor did the figure standing there in the dim light from the hall
mean anything for a moment.

“Mr. Siward?” in an uncertain voice, almost a whisper.

He stood up mechanically, and she saw his face.

“Are you ill? What is it?”

“Ill? No.” He passed his hand over his eyes. “I fancy I was close to the
edge of sleep.” Some colour came back into his face; he stood smiling
now, the significance of her presence dawning on him.

“Did you really come?” he asked. “This isn’t a very lovely but
impalpable astral vision, is it?”

“It’s horridly imprudent, isn’t it?” she murmured, still considering the
rather drawn and pallid face of the man before her. “I came out of pure
curiosity, Mr. Siward.”

She glanced about her. He moved a big bunch of hothouse roses so she
could pass, and she settled down lightly on the edge of the window-seat.
When he had piled some big downy cushions behind her back, she made a
quick gesture of invitation.

“I have only a moment,” she said, as he seated himself beside her. “Part
of my curiosity is satisfied in finding you here; I didn’t suppose you
so faithful.”

“I can be fairly faithful. What else are you curious about?”

“You said you had something important--”

“--To tell you? So I did. That was bribery, perjury, false pretences,
robbery under arms, anything you will! I only wanted you to come.”

“That is a shameful confession!” she said; but her smile was gay enough,
and she noiselessly shook out her fluffy skirts and settled herself a
trifle more deeply among the pillows.

“Of course,” she observed absently, “you are dreadfully mortified at
yourself.”

“Naturally,” he admitted.

The patter of the rain attracted her attention; she peered out through
the blurred casements into the blackness. Then, picking up his cap and
indicating his raincoat, “Why?” she asked.

“Oh--in case you hadn’t come--”

“A walk? By yourself? A night like this on the cliffs! You are not
perfectly mad, are you?”

“Not perfectly.”

Her face grew serious and beautiful.

“What is the matter, Mr. Siward?”

“Things.”

“Do you care to be more explicit?”

“Well,” he said, with a humourous glance at her, “I haven’t seen you for
ages. That’s not wholesome for me, you know.”

“But you see me now; and it does not seem to benefit you.”

“I feel much better,” he insisted, laughing; and her blue eyes grew very
lovely as the smile broke from them in uncertain response.

“So you had nothing really important to tell me, Mr. Siward?”

“Only that I wanted you.”

“Oh! … I said important.”

But he did not argue the question; and she leaned forward, broke a rose
from its stem, then sank back a little way among the cushions, looking
at him, idly inhaling the hothouse perfume.

“Why have you so ostentatiously avoided me, Mr. Siward?” she asked
languidly.

“Well, upon my word!” he said, with a touch of irritation.

“Oh, you are so dreadfully literal!” she shrugged, brushing her
straight, sensitive nose with the pink blossom; “I only said it to give
you a chance. … If you are going to be stupid, good night!” But she made
no movement to go. … “Yes, then; I have avoided you. And it doesn’t
become you to ask why.”

“Because I kissed you?”

“You hint at the true reason so chivalrously, so delicately,” she said,
“that I scarcely recognise it.” The cool mockery of her voice and the
warm, quick colour tinting neck and face were incongruous. He thought
with slow surprise that she was not yet letter-perfect in her rôle of
the material triumphant over the spiritual. A trifle ashamed, too, he
sat silent, watching the silken petals fall one by one as she slowly
detached them with delicate, restless lips.

“I am sorry I came,” she said reflectively. “You don’t know why I came,
do you? Sheer loneliness, Mr. Siward; there is something of the child in
me still, you see. I am not yet sufficiently resourceful to take it out
in a quietly tearful obligato; I never learned how to produce tears. …
So I came to you.” She had stripped the petals from the rose, and now,
tossing the crushed branch from her, she leaned forward and broke from
its stem a heavy, perfumed bud, half unfolded.

“It seems my fate to pass my life in bidding you good night,” she said,
straightening up and turning to him with the careless laughter touching
mouth and eyes again. Then, resting her weight on one hand, her smooth,
white shoulder rounded beside her cheek, she looked at him out of
humourous eyes:

“What is it that women find so attractive in you? The man’s experienced
insouciance? The boy’s unconscious cynicism? The mystery of your self-
sufficiency? The faulty humanity in you? The youth in you already
showing traces of wear that hint of future scars? What will you be at
thirty-five? At forty? … Ah,” she added softly, “what are you now? For I
don’t know, and you cannot tell me if you would. … Out of these little
windows called eyes we look at one another, and study surfaces, and try
to peep into neighbours’ windows. But all is dark behind the
windows--always dark, in there where they tell us souls hide.”

She laid the shell-pink bud against her cheek that matched it, smiling
with wise sweetness to herself.

“What counts with you?” he asked after a moment.

“Counts? How?”

“In your affections. What prepossesses you?”

She laughed audaciously: “Your traits--some of them--all of them that you
reveal. You must be aware of that much already, considering everything--”

“Then, what is it I lack? Where do I fail?”

“But you don’t lack--you don’t fail! I ask nothing more of you, Mr.
Siward.”

“A man from whom a woman desires nothing is already convicted of
insufficiency. … You would recognise this very quickly if I made love to
you.”

“Is that the only way I am to discover your insufficiency, Mr. Siward?”

“Or my sufficiency. … Have you enough curiosity to try?”

“Oh! I thought you were to try.” Then, quickly: “But I think you have
already experimented; and I did not notice your shortcomings. So there
is no use in pursuing that line of investigation any farther--is there?”

And always with her the mischief lay in the trailing upward inflection;
in the confused sweetness of her eyes, and their lovely uncertainty.

One slim white hand held the rose against her cheek; the other lay idly
on her knee, fresh and delicate as a fallen petal; and he laid both
hands over it and lifted it between them.

“Mr. Siward, I am afraid this is becoming a habit with you.” The gay
mockery was not quite genuine; the curve of lips too sensitive for a
voice so lightly cynical.

He smiled, bending there, considering her hand between his; and after a
moment her muscles relaxed, and bare round arm and hand lay abandoned to
him.

“Quite flawless--perfect,” he said aloud to himself.

“Do you--read hands?”

“Vaguely.” He touched the smooth palm: “Long life, clear mind, and”--he
laughed--“heart supreme over reason! There is written a white lie--but a
pretty one.”

“It is no lie.”

He laughed again, unconvinced.

“It is the truth,” she said, seriously insisting and bending sideways
above her own hand where it lay in his. “It is a miserable confession to
admit it, but I’m afraid intelligence would fight a losing battle with
heart if the conflict ever came. You see, I know, having nobody to study
except myself all these years. … There is the proof of it--that selfish,
smooth contour, where there should be generosity. Then, look at the
tendency of imagination toward mischief!” She laid her right forefinger
on the palm of the left hand which he held, and traced the developments
arising in the Mount of Hermes. “Is it not a horrid hand, Mr. Siward? I
don’t know how much you know about palms, but--” She suddenly flushed,
and attempted to close her hand, doubling the thumb over. There was a
little half-hearted struggle, freeing one of his arms, which fell,
settling about her slender waist; a silence, a breathless moment, and he
had kissed her. Her lips were warm, this time.

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