The Firing Line by Robert W. Chambers

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"You sweet, cunning thing," she said, "I do like you. You are perfectly
adorable, for one reason; for the other, there is something--a nameless
something about you--"

"Quite--nameless," said the girl under her breath.

A little flash of mist confused Miss Palliser's eyesight for a moment;
her senses warned her, but her heart was calling.

"Dear," she said, "I could love you very easily."

Shiela looked her straight in the eyes.

"What you give I can return; no more, no less--"

But already Constance Palliser had lifted the girl's smooth hand to her
lips, murmuring: "Pride! pride! It is the last refuge for social
failures, Shiela. And you are too wise to enter there, too sweet and
wholesome to remain. Leave us our obsolete pride, child; God knows we
need something in compensation for all that you possess."

Later they sipped their tea together. "I always wanted you to like me,"
said the girl. Her glance wandered toward Hamil so unconsciously that
Constance caught her breath. But the spell was on her still; she, too,
looked at Hamil; admonition, prejudice, inculcated precept, wavered
hazily.

"Because I care so much for Mr. Hamil," continued the girl innocently.

For one instant, in her inmost intelligence, Miss Palliser fiercely
questioned that innocence; then, convinced, looked questioningly at the
girl beside her. So questioningly that Shiela answered:

"What?"--as though the elder woman had spoken.

"I don't know, dear.... Is there anything you--you cared to ask me?--say
to me?--tell me?--perhaps--"

"About what?"

So fearless and sweet and true the gaze that met her own that Constance
hesitated.

"About Mr. Hamil?"

The girl looked at her; understood her; and the colour mounted to her
temples.

"No," she said slowly, "there is nothing to tell anybody.... There never
will be."

"I wish there were, child." Certainly Constance must have gone quite mad
under the spell, for she had Shiela's soft hands in hers again, and was
pressing them close between her palms, repeating: "I am sorry; I am,
indeed. The boy certainly cares for you; he has told me so a thousand
times without uttering a word. I have known it for weeks--feared it.
_Now_ I wish it. I am sorry."

"Mr. Hamil--understands--" faltered Shiela; "I--I care so much for
him--so much more than for any other man; but not in the way you--you
are kind enough to--wish--"

"_Does_ he understand?"

"Y-yes. I think so. I think we understand each other--thoroughly.
But"--she blushed vividly--"I--did not dream that _you_ supposed--"

Miss Palliser looked at her searchingly.

"--But--it has made me very happy to believe that you consider
me--acceptable."

"Dearest child, it is evident that _we_ are the unacceptable ones--"

"Please don't say that--or think it. It is absurd--in one sense.... Are
we to be friends in town? Is that what you mean?"

"Indeed we are, if you will."

Miss Cardross nodded and withdrew her hands as Virginia and Malcourt
came into view across the lawn.

Constance, following her glance, saw, and signalled silent invitation;
Malcourt sauntered up, paid his respects airily, and joined Hamil and
Wayward; Virginia spoke in a low voice to Constance, then, leaning on
the back of her chair, looked at Shiela as inoffensively as she knew
how. She said:

"I am very sorry for my rudeness to you. Can you forgive me, Miss
Cardross?"

"Yes.... Won't you have some tea?"

Her direct simplicity left Virginia rather taken aback. Perhaps she
expected some lack of composure in the girl, perhaps a more prolix
acceptance of honourable amends; but this terse and serene amiability
almost suggested indifference; and Virginia seated herself, not quite
knowing how she liked it.

Afterward she said to Miss Palliser:

"Did you ever see such self-possession, my dear? You know I might pardon
my maid in exactly the same tone and manner."

"But you wouldn't ask your maid to tea, would you?" said Constance,
gently amused.

"I might, if I could afford to," she nodded listlessly. "I believe that
girl could do it without disturbing her Own self-respect or losing caste
below stairs or above. As for the Van Dieman--just common cat,
Constance."

Miss Palliser laughed. "Shiela Cardross refused the Van Dieman son and
heir--if you think that might be an explanation of the cattishness."

"Really?" asked Virginia, without interest. "Where did you hear that
gossip?"

"From our vixenish tabby herself. The thin and vindictive are usually
without a real sense of humour. I rather suspected young Jan Van
Dieman's discomfiture. He left, you know, just after Garret arrived,"
she added demurely.

Virginia raised her eyes at the complacent inference; but even curiosity
seemed to have died out in her, and she only said, languidly:

"You think she cares for Garret? And you approve?"

"I think I'd approve if she did. Does that astonish you?"

"Not very much."

Virginia seemed to have lost all spirit. She laughed rarely, nowadays.
She was paler, too, than usual--paler than was ornamental; and pallor
suited her rather fragile features, too. Also she had become curiously
considerate of other people's feelings--rather subdued; less ready in
her criticisms; gentler in judgments. All of which symptoms Constance
had already noted with incredulity and alarm.

"Where did you and Louis Malcourt go this afternoon?" she asked,
unpegging her hair.

"Out to the beach. There was nothing there except sky and water, and a
filthy eagle dining on a dead fish."

Miss Palliser waited, sitting before her dresser; but as Virginia
offered no further information she shook out the splendid masses of her
chestnut hair and, leaning forward, examined her features in the mirror
with minute attention.

"It's strange," she murmured, half to herself, "how ill Jim Wayward has
been looking recently. I can't account for it."

"I can, dear," said Virginia gently.

Constance turned in surprise.

"How?"

"Mr. Malcourt says that he is practising self-denial. It hurts, you
know."

"What!" exclaimed Constance, flushing up.

"I said that it hurts."

"Such a slur as that harms Louis Malcourt--not Mr. Wayward!" returned
Constance hotly.

Virginia repeated: "It hurts--to kill desire. It hurts even before habit
is acquired ... they say. Louis Malcourt says so. And if that is
true--can you wonder that poor Mr. Wayward looks like death? I speak in
all sympathy and kindness--as did Mr. Malcourt."

So _that_ was it! Constance stared at her own fair face in the mirror,
and deep into the pained brown eyes reflected there. The eyes suddenly
dimmed and the parted mouth quivered.

So that was the dreadful trouble!--the explanation of the recent change
in him--the deep lines of pain from the wing of the pinched nostril--the
haunted gaze, the long, restless silences, the forced humour and its
bitter flavour tainting voice and word!

And she had believed--feared with a certainty almost hopeless--that it
was his old vice, slowly, inexorably transforming what was left of the
man she had known so long and cared for so loyally through all these
strange, confusing years.

From the mirror the oval of her own fresh unravaged face, framed in the
burnished brown of her hair, confronted her like a wraith of the past;
and, dreaming there, wide-eyed, expressionless, she seemed to see again
the old-time parlour set with rosewood; and the faded roses in the
carpet; and, through the half-drawn curtains, spring sunlight falling on
a boy and a little girl.

Virginia, partly dressed for dinner, rose and went to the window, frail
restless hands clasped behind her back, and stood there gazing out at
the fading daylight. Perhaps the close of day made her melancholy; for
there were traces of tears on her lashes; perhaps it suggested the
approaching end of a dream so bright and strange that, at times, a dull
pang of dread stilled her heart--checking for a moment its heavy
beating.

Light died in the room; the panes turned silvery, then darker as the
swift Southern night fell over sea, lagoon, and forest.

Far away in the wastes of dune and jungle the sweet flute-like tremolo
of an owl broke out, prolonged infinitely. From the dark garden below, a
widow-bird called breathlessly, its ghostly cry, now a far whisper in
the night, now close at hand, husky, hurried, startling amid the
shadows. And, whir! whir-r-r! thud! came the great soft night-moths
against the window screens where sprays of silvery jasmine clung,
perfuming all the night.

Still Constance sat before the mirror which was now invisible in the
dusk, bare elbows on the dresser's edge, face framed in her hands over
which the thick hair rippled. And, in the darkness, her brown eyes
closed--perhaps that they might behold more clearly the phantoms of the
past together there in an old-time parlour, where the golden radiance
of suns long dead still lingered, warming the faded roses on the floor.

And after a long while her maid came with a card; and she straightened
up in her chair, gathered the filmy robe of lace, and, rising, pressed
the electric switch. But Virginia had returned to her own room to bathe
her eyelids and pace the floor until she cared to face the outer world
once more and, for another hour or two, deceive it.

CHAPTER XV

UNDER FIRE

Meanwhile Constance dressed hastily, abetted by the clever maid; for
Wayward was below, invited to dine with them. Malcourt also was due for
dinner, and, as usual, late.

In fact, he was at that moment leisurely tying his white neckwear in his
bed-chamber at Villa Cardross. And sometimes he whistled, tentatively,
as though absorbed in mentally following an elusive air; sometimes he
resumed a lighted cigarette which lay across the gilded stomach of a
Chinese joss, sending a thin, high thread of smoke to the ceiling. He
had begun his collection with one small idol; there were now nineteen,
and all hideous.

"The deuce! the deuce!" he murmured, rejecting the tie and trying
another one; "and all the things I've got to do this blessed night!...
Console the afflicted--three of them; dine with one, get to "The
Breakers" and spoon with another--get to the Club and sup with
another!--the deuce! the deuce! the--"

He hummed a bar or two of a new waltz, took a puff at his cigarette,
winked affably at the idol, put on his coat, and without a second glance
at the glass went out whistling a lively tune.

Hamil, dressed for dinner, but looking rather worn and fatigued, passed
him in the hall.

"You've evidently had a hard day," said Malcourt; "you resemble the last
run of sea-weed. Is everybody dining at this hour?"

"I dined early with Mrs. Cardross. Mrs. Carrick has taken Shiela and
Cecile to that dinner dance at the O'Haras'. It's the last of the
season. I thought you might be going later."

"Are you?"

"No; I'm rather tired."

"I'm tired, too. Hang it! I'm always tired--but only of Bibi. Quand
meme! Good night.... I'll probably reappear with the dicky-birds. Leave
your key under that yellow rose-bush, will you? I can't stop to hunt up
mine. And tell them not to bar and chain the door; that's a good
fellow."

Hamil nodded and resumed his journey to his bedroom. There he
transferred a disorderly heap of letters, plans, contracts, and
blue-prints from his bed to a table, threw a travelling rug over the
bed, lay down on it, and lighted a cigar, closing his eyes for a moment.
Then he opened them wearily.

He did not intend to sleep; there was work waiting for him; that was why
he left the electric bulbs burning as safeguard against slumber.

For a while he smoked, flat on his back; his cigar went out twice and he
relighted it. The third time he was deciding whether or not to set fire
to it again--he remembered that--and remembered nothing more, except the
haunted dreams in which he followed _her_, through sad and endless
forests, gray in deepening twilight, where he could neither see her face
nor reach her side, nor utter the cry which strained in his throat....
On, on, endlessly struggling onward in the thickening darkness, year
after year, the sky a lowering horror, the forest, no longer silent, a
twisting, stupefying confusion of sound, growing, increasing, breaking
into a hellish clamour!--

Upright on his bed he realised that somebody was knocking; and he slid
to the floor, still stupid and scarcely convinced.

"Mrs. Carrick's compliments, and is Mr. Hamil quite well bein' as the
lights is burnin' an' past two o'clock, sir?" said the maid at the door.

"Past _two_! O Lord! Please thank Mrs. Carrick, and say that I am going
to do a little work, and that I am perfectly well."

He closed the door and looked around him in despair: "All that stuff to
verify and O.K.! What an infernal ass I am! By the nineteen little
josses in Malcourt's bedroom I'm so many kinds of a fool that I hate to
count up beyond the dozen!"

Stretching and yawning alternately he eyed the mass of papers with
increasing repugnance; but later a cold sponge across his eyes revived
him sufficiently to sit down and inspect the first document. Then he
opened the ink-well, picked up a pen, and began.

For half an hour he sat there, now refreshed and keenly absorbed in his
work. Once the stairs outside creaked, and he raised his head, listening
absently, then returned to the task before him with a sigh.

All his windows were open; the warm night air was saturated with the
odour of Bermuda lilies. Once or twice he laid down his pen and stared
out into the darkness as a subtler perfume grew on the breeze--the far
fragrance of china-berry in bloom; Calypso's breath!

Then, in the silence, the heavy throb of his heart unnerved his hand,
rendering his pen unsteady as he signed each rendered bill: "O.K. for
$----," and affixed his signature, "John Garret Hamil, Architect."

The aroma of the lilies hung heavy in the room, penetrating as the scent
of Malcourt's spiced Chinese gums afire and bubbling. And he thought
again of Malcourt's nineteen little josses which he lugged about with
him everywhere from some occult whim, and in whose gilt-bronze laps he
sometimes burned cigarettes, sometimes a tiny globule of aromatic gum,
pretending it propitiated the malice-brooding gods.

And, thinking of Malcourt, suddenly he remembered the door-key. Malcourt
could not get in without it. And the doors were barred and chained.

Slipping the key into his pocket he opened his door, and, treading
quietly through the silent house, descended to the great hall. With
infinite precaution he fumbled for the chains; they were dangling loose.
Somebody, too, had drawn the heavy bars, but the door itself was locked.

So he cautiously unlocked it, and holding the key in his hand, let
himself out on the terrace.

And at the same moment a shadowy figure turned in the starlight to
confront him.

"Shiela!"

"Is that you, Mr. Hamil?"

"Yes. What on earth are you--"

"Hush! What are _you_ doing down here?"

"Louis Malcourt is out. I forgot to leave a key for him under the yellow
rose--"

"Under the rose--and yellow at that! The mysteries of the Rosicrucians
pale into insignificance beside the lurid rites of Mr. Malcourt and Mr.
Hamil--under the yellow rose! Proceed, my fearsome adept, and perform
the occult deed!"

Hamil descended the terrace to the new garden, hung the key to a brier
under the fragrant mass of flowers, and glanced up at Shiela, who, arms
on the balustrade above him, was looking down at the proceedings.

"Is the dread deed done?" she whispered.

"If you don't believe it come down and see."

"I? Come down? At _two_ in the morning?"

"It's half-past two."

"Oh," she said, "if it's half-past two I might think of coming down for
a moment--to look at my roses.... Thank you, Mr. Hamil, I can see my way
very clearly. I can usually see my own way clearly--without the aid of
your too readily offered hand.... Did you ever dream of such an
exquisitely hot night! That means rain, doesn't it?--with so many
fragrances mingling? The odour of lilies predominates, and I think some
jasmine is in the inland wind, but my roses are very sweet if you only
bend down to them. A rose is always worth stooping for."

She leaned over the yellow blossoms, slender, spirit-white in the
starlight, and brushed her fresh young face with the silken petals.

"So sweet," she said; "lean down and worship my young roses, you
unappreciative man!"

For a few minutes she strolled along the paths of the new garden he had
built, bending capriciously here and there to savour some perfect
blossom. The night was growing warmer; the sea breeze had died out, and
a hot wind blew languidly from the west.

"You know," she said, looking back at him over her shoulder, "I don't
want to go to bed."

"Neither do I, and I'm not going."

"But I'm going.... I wonder why I don't want to? Listen! Once--after I
was a protoplasm and a micro-organism, and a mollusc, and other things,
I probably was a predatory animal--nice and sleek with velvet feet and
shining incandescent eyes--and very, very predatory.... That's doubtless
why I often feel so deliciously awake at night--with a tameless longing
to prowl under the moon.... And I think I'd better go in, now."

"Nonsense," he said, "I'm not going to bed yet."

"Oh! And what difference might that make to me? You are horridly
conceited; do you know it?"

"Please stay, Calypso. It's too hot to sleep."

"No; star-prowling is contrary to civilized custom."

"But every soul in the house is sound asleep--"

"I should hope so! And you and I have no business to be out here."

"Do little observances of that sort count with you and me?"

"They don't," she said, shaking her head, "but they ought to. I _want_
to stay. There is no real reason why I shouldn't--except the absurd fear
of being caught unawares. Perhaps, perhaps I might stay for ten more
minutes.... Oh, the divine beauty of it all! How hot it is!--the splash
of the fountains seems to cool things a little--and those jagged,
silvery reflections of the stars, deep, deep in the pool there.... Did
you see that fish swirl to the surface? Hark! What was that queer
sound?"

"Some night bird crying in the marshes. It will rain to-morrow; the wind
is blowing from the hammock; that's why it's hot to-night; can you
detect the odour of wild sweet-bay?"

"Yes--at moments. And I can just hear the surf--calling, calling
'Calypso!' as you called me once.... I _must_ go, now."

"To the sea or the house?" he asked, laughing.

She walked a few paces toward the house, halted, and looked back
audaciously.

"I'd go to the sea--only I'm afraid I'd be found out.... Isn't it all
too stupid! Where convention is needless and one's wish is so harmless
why should a girl turn coward at the fear of somebody discovering how
innocently happy she is trying to be with a man!... It makes me very
impatient at times." ... She turned, hesitated, stepped nearer and
looked him in the face, daringly perverse.

"I want to go with you!... Have we not passed through enough together to
deserve this little unconventional happiness?" She was breathing more
quickly. "I _will_ go with you if you wish."

"To the sea?"

"Yes. It is only a half mile by the hammock path. The servants are awake
at six. Really, the night is too superb to waste--alone. But we must get
back in time, if I go with you."

"Have you a key?"

"Yes, here in my gloves"--stripping them from her bare arms. "Can you
put them into your pocket with the key?... And I'll pin up my skirt to
get it out of the way.... What? Do you think it's a pretty gown? I did
not think you noticed it. I've danced it to rags.... And will you take
this fan, please? No, I'll wear the wrap--it's only cobweb weight."

She had now pinned up her gown to walking-skirt length; her slim feet
were sheathed in silken dancing gear; and she bent over to survey them,
then glanced doubtfully at Hamil, who shook his head.

"Never mind," she said resolutely; "only we can't walk far on the beach;
I could never keep them on in the dune sands. Are you ready, O my
tempter?"

Like a pair of guilty ghosts they crossed the shadowy garden, skirted
the dark orange groves, and instead of entering the broad palm-lined way
that led straight east for two miles to the sea, they turned into the
sinuous hammock path which, curving south, cut off nearly a mile and a
half.

"It's rather dark," she said.

They walked for a few minutes in silence; and, at first, she could not
understand why he insisted on leading, because the path was wide enough
for both.

"I _will_ not proceed in this absurd manner," she said at last--"like an
Indian and his faithful squaw. Why on earth do you--"

And it flashed across her at the same instant.

"Is _that_ why?"--imperiously abrupt.

"What?" he asked, halting.

She passed her arm through his, not gently, but her laughing voice was
very friendly:

"If we jump a snake in the dark, my friend, we jump him _together_! It's
like you, but your friend Shiela won't permit it."

"Oh, it's only a conventional precaution--"

"Yes? Well, we'll take chances together.... Suppose--by the wildest and
weirdest stretch of a highly coloured imagination you jumped a rattler?"

"Nonsense--"

"_Suppose_ you did?"

He said, sobered: "It would be horribly awkward for you to explain. I
forgot about--"

[Illustration: "She walked a few paces toward the house, halted, and
looked back audaciously."]

"Do you think I meant _that_! Do you think I'd care what people might
say about our being here together? I--I'd _want_ them to know it!
What would I care--about--anything--then!"

Through the scorn in her voice he detected the awakened emotion; and,
responsive, his pulse quickened, beating hard and heavy in throat and
breast.

"I had almost forgotten," he said, "that we might dare look at things
that way.... It all has been so--hopeless--lately--"

"What?... Yes, I understand."

"Do you?--my trying to let you alone--trying to think differently--to
ignore all that has been said?"

"Yes.... This is no time to bring up such things." Her uneven breathing
was perceptible to him as she moved by his side through the darkness,
her arm resting on his.

No, this was no time to bring up such things. They knew it. And she, who
in the confidence of her youth had dared to trust her unknown self,
listened now to the startled beating of her heart at the first hint of
peril.

"I wish I had not come," she said.

He did not ask her why.

"You are very silent--you have been so for days," she added; then, too
late, knew that once more her tongue had betrayed her. "Don't answer
me," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because what I say is folly.... I--I must ask you to release my
hands.... You know it is only because I think it safer for--us; don't
you?"

"What threatens _you_. Calypso?"

"Nothing.... I told you once that I am afraid--even in daylight. Ask
yourself what I fear here under the stars with you."

"You fear _me_?"--managing to laugh.

"No; I dread your ally--my unknown self--in arms eternally to fight for
you," she answered with forced gaiety. "Shall we kill her to-night? She
deserves no consideration at our hands."

"Dear--"

"Hush! That is not the countersign on the firing line. Besides it is
treachery, because to say that word is aiding, abetting, and giving
information and comfort to our enemies. Our enemies, remember, are our
other and stealthy selves." Her voice broke unsteadily. "I am trying so
hard," she breathed, "but I cannot think clearly unless you help me.
There is mutiny threatening somewhere."

"I have tried, too," he said.

"I know you have. Do you suppose I have been untouched by your
consideration for me all these long days--your quiet cheerfulness--your
dear unselfishness--the forbidden word!--but what synonym am I to
use?... Oh, I know, I know what you are doing, thinking,
feeling--believe me--believe me, I know! And--it is what you must do, of
course. But--if you only did not show it so plainly--the effort--the
strain--the hurt--"

"Do I show it?" he asked, chagrined. "I did not know that."

"Only to me--because I know. And I remember how young you were--that
first day. Your whole expression has changed.... And I know why.... At
times it scarcely seems that I can bear it--when I see your mouth
laughing at the world and your eyes without mirth--dead--and the youth
in you so altered, so quenched, so--forgive me!--so useless--"

"To what better use could I devote it, Shiela?"

"Oh, you don't know!--you don't know!--You are free; there are other
women, other hopes--try to understand what freedom means!"

"It means--_you,_, Shiela."

She fell silent; then:

"Wherever I turn, whatever I say--all paths and words lead back again to
you and me. I should not have come."

The hard, hammering pulse in his throat made it difficult for him to
speak; but he managed to force an unsteady laugh; "Shiela, there is only
one way for me, now--to fire and fall back. I've got to go up to
Portlaw's camp anyhow--"

"And after that?"

"Mrs. Ascott wants a miniature Versailles. I'll show you the rough
sketches--"

"And after that?"

"I've one or two promises--"

"And afterward?"

"Nothing."

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