The Younger Set by Robert W. Chambers

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_The_ YOUNGER SET

WORKS OF ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

THE YOUNGER SET
THE FIGHTING CHANCE
THE TREE OF HEAVEN
THE TRACER OF LOST PERSONS
THE RECKONING
IOLE
Cardigan
The Maid-at-Arms
Lorraine
Maids of Paradise
Ashes of Empire
The Red Republic
The King in Yellow
A Maker of Moons
A King and a Few Dukes
The Conspirators
The Cambric Mask
The Haunts of Men
Outsiders
A Young Man in a Hurry
The Mystery of Choice
In Search of the Unknown
In the Quarter

* * * * *

FOR CHILDREN

Garden-Land
Forest-Land
River-Land
Mountain-Land
Orchard-Land
Outdoorland

[Illustration: "Gave into his keeping soul and body."--Page 513]

_The_

YOUNGER SET

BY

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

AUTHOR OF

"THE FIGHTING CHANCE," ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

G.C. WILMSHURST

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

NEW YORK

_Published August, 1907_

TO

MY MOTHER

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE
I.--HIS OWN PEOPLE 1
II.--A DREAM ENDS 43
III.--UNDER THE ASHES 84
IV.--MID-LENT 119
V.--AFTERGLOW 161
VI.--THE UNEXPECTED 194
VII.--ERRANDS AND LETTERS 242
VIII.--SILVERSIDE 280
IX.--A NOVICE 324
X.--LEX NON SCRIPTA 384
XI.--HIS OWN WAY 420
XII.--HER WAY 460
ARS AMORIS 503

THE YOUNGER SET

* * * * *

CHAPTER I

HIS OWN PEOPLE

"You never met Selwyn, did you?"

"No, sir."

"Never heard anything definite about his trouble?" insisted Gerard.

"Oh, yes, sir!" replied young Erroll, "I've heard a good deal about it.
Everybody has, you know."

"Well, I _don't_ know," retorted Austin Gerard irritably, "what
'everybody' has heard, but I suppose it's the usual garbled version made
up of distorted fact and malicious gossip. That's why I sent for you.
Sit down."

Gerald Erroll seated himself on the edge of the big, polished table in
Austin's private office, one leg swinging, an unlighted cigarette
between his lips.

Austin Gerard, his late guardian, big, florid, with that peculiar blue
eye which seems to characterise hasty temper, stood by the window,
tossing up and catching the glittering gold piece--souvenir of the
directors' meeting which he had just left.

"What has happened," he said, "is this. Captain Selwyn is back in
town--sent up his card to me, but they told him I was attending a
directors' meeting. When the meeting was over I found his card and a
message scribbled, saying he'd recently landed and was going uptown to
call on Nina. She'll keep him there, of course, until I get home, so I
shall see him this evening. Now, before you meet him, I want you to
plainly understand the truth about this unfortunate affair; and that's
why I telephoned your gimlet-eyed friend Neergard just now to let you
come around here for half an hour."

The boy nodded and, drawing a gold matchbox from his waistcoat pocket,
lighted his cigarette.

"Why the devil don't you smoke cigars?" growled Austin, more to himself
than to Gerald; then, pocketing the gold piece, seated himself heavily
in his big leather desk-chair.

"In the first place," he said, "Captain Selwyn is my
brother-in-law--which wouldn't make an atom of difference to me in my
judgment of what has happened if he had been at fault. But the facts of
the case are these." He held up an impressive forefinger and laid it
flat across the large, ruddy palm of the other hand. "First of all, he
married a cat! C-a-t, cat. Is that clear, Gerald?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good! What sort of a dance she led him out there in Manila, I've heard.
Never mind that, now. What I want you to know is how he behaved--with
what quiet dignity, steady patience, and sweet temper under constant
provocation and mortification, he conducted himself. Then that fellow
Ruthven turned up--and--Selwyn is above that sort of suspicion. Besides,
his scouts took the field within a week."

He dropped a heavy, highly coloured fist on his desk with a bang.

"After that hike, Selwyn came back, to find that Alixe had sailed with
Jack Ruthven. And what did he do; take legal measures to free himself,
as you or I or anybody with an ounce of temper in 'em would have done?
No; he didn't. That infernal Selwyn conscience began to get busy, making
him believe that if a woman kicks over the traces it must be because of
some occult shortcoming on his part. In some way or other that man
persuaded himself of his responsibility for her misbehaviour. He knew
what it meant if he didn't ask the law to aid him to get rid of her; he
knew perfectly well that his silence meant acknowledgment of
culpability; that he couldn't remain in the service under such
suspicion.

"And now, Gerald," continued Austin, striking his broad palm with
extended forefinger and leaning heavily forward, "I'll tell you what
sort of a man Philip Selwyn is. He permitted Alixe to sue him for
absolute divorce--and, to give her every chance to marry Ruthven, he
refused to defend the suit. That sort of chivalry is very picturesque,
no doubt, but it cost him his career--set him adrift at thirty-five, a
man branded as having been divorced from his wife for cause, with no
profession left him, no business, not much money--a man in the prime of
life and hope and ambition, clean in thought and deed; an upright, just,
generous, sensitive man, whose whole career has been blasted because he
was too merciful, too generous to throw the blame where it belonged. And
it belongs on the shoulders of that Mrs. Jack Ruthven--Alixe
Ruthven--whose name you may see in the columns of any paper that
truckles to the sort of society she figures in."

Austin stood up, thrust his big hands into his pockets, paced the room
for a few moments, and halted before Gerald.

"If any woman ever played me a dirty trick," he said, "I'd see that the
public made no mistake in placing the blame. I'm that sort"--he
shrugged--"Phil Selwyn isn't; that's the difference--and it may be in
his favour from an ethical and sentimental point of view. All right; let
it go at that. But all I meant you to understand is that he is every
inch a man; and when you have the honour to meet him, keep that fact in
the back of your head, among the few brains with which Providence has
equipped you."

"Thanks!" said Gerald, colouring up. He cast his cigarette into the
empty fireplace, slid off the edge of the table, and picked up his hat.
Austin eyed him without particular approval.

"You buy too many clothes," he observed. "That's a new suit, isn't it?"

"Certainly," said Gerald; "I needed it."

"Oh! if you can afford it, all right. . . . How's the nimble Mr.
Neergard?"

"Neergard is flourishing. We put through that Rose Valley deal. I tell
you what, Austin, I wish you could see your way clear to finance one or
two--"

Austin's frown cut him short.

"Oh, all right! You know your own business, of course," said the boy, a
little resentfully. "Only as Fane, Harmon & Co. have thought it worth
while--"

"I don't care what Fane, Harmon think," growled Austin, touching a
button over his desk. His stenographer entered; he nodded a curt
dismissal to Gerald, adding, as the boy reached the door:

"Your sister expects you to be on hand to-night--and so do we."

Gerald halted.

"I'd clean forgotten," he began; "I made another--a rather important
engagement--"

But Austin was not listening; in fact, he had already begun to dictate
to his demure stenographer, and Gerald stood a moment, hesitating, then
turned on his heel and went away down the resounding marble corridor.

"They never let me alone," he muttered; "they're always at me--following
me up as though I were a schoolboy. . . . Austin's the worst--never
satisfied. . . . What do I care for all these functions--sitting around
with the younger set and keeping the cradle of conversation rocking? I
won't go to that infernal baby-show!"

He entered the elevator and shot down to the great rotunda, still
scowling over his grievance. For he had made arrangements to join a
card-party at Julius Neergard's rooms that night, and he had no
intention of foregoing that pleasure just because his sister's first
grown-up dinner-party was fixed for the same date.

As for this man Selwyn, whom he had never met, he saw no reason why he
should drop business and scuttle uptown in order to welcome him. No
doubt he was a good fellow; no doubt he had behaved very decently in a
matter which, until a few moments before, he had heard little about. He
meant to be civil; he'd look up Selwyn when he had a chance, and ask him
to dine at the club. But this afternoon he couldn't do it; and, as for
the evening, he had made his arrangements, and he had no intention of
disturbing them on Austin's account.

When he reached his office he picked up the telephone and called up
Gerard's house; but neither his sister nor anybody else was there except
the children and servants, and Captain Selwyn had not yet called. So he
left no message, merely saying that he'd call up again. Which he forgot
to do.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Captain Selwyn was sauntering along Fifth Avenue under the
leafless trees, scanning the houses of the rich and great across the
way; and these new houses of the rich and great stared back at him out
of a thousand casements as polished and expressionless as the monocles
of the mighty.

And, strolling at leisure in the pleasant winter weather, he came
presently to a street, stretching eastward in all the cold
impressiveness of very new limestone and plate-glass.

Could this be the street where his sister now lived?

As usual when perplexed he slowly raised his hand to his moustache; and
his pleasant gray eyes, still slightly blood-shot from the glare of the
tropics, narrowed as he inspected this unfamiliar house.

The house was a big elaborate limestone affair, evidently new. Winter
sunshine sparkled on lace-hung casement, on glass marquise, and the
burnished bronze foliations of grille and door.

It was flood-tide along Fifth Avenue; motor, brougham, and victoria
swept by on the glittering current; pretty women glanced out from
limousine and tonneau; young men of his own type, silk-hatted,
frock-coated, the crooks of their walking sticks tucked up under their
left arms, passed on the Park side.

But the nods of recognition, lifted hats, the mellow warnings of motor
horns, clattering hoofs, the sun flashing on carriage wheels and
polished panels, on liveries, harness, on the satin coats of horses--a
gem like a spark of fire smothered by the sables at a woman's throat,
and the bright indifference of her beauty--all this had long since lost
any meaning for him. For him the pageant passed as the west wind passes
in Samar over the glimmering valley grasses; and he saw it through
sun-dazzled eyes--all this, and the leafless trees beyond against the
sky, and the trees mirrored in a little wintry lake as brown as the
brown of the eyes which were closed to him now forever.

As he stood there, again he seemed to hear the whistle signal, clear,
distant, rippling across the wind-blown grasses where the brown
constabulary lay firing in the sunshine; but the rifle shots were the
crack of whips, and it was only a fat policeman of the traffic squad
whistling to clear the swarming jungle trails of the great metropolis.

Again Selwyn turned to the house, hesitating, unreconciled. Every
sun-lit window stared back at him.

He had not been prepared for so much limestone and marquise magnificence
where there was more renaissance than architecture and more bay-window
than both; but the number was the number of his sister's house; and, as
the street and the avenue corroborated the numbered information, he
mounted the doorstep, rang, and leisurely examined four stiff box-trees
flanking the ornate portal--meagre vegetation compared to what he had
been accustomed to for so many years.

Nobody came; once or twice he fancied he heard sounds proceeding from
inside the house. He rang again and fumbled for his card case. Somebody
was coming.

The moment that the door opened he was aware of a distant and curious
uproar--far away echoes of cheering, and the faint barking of dogs.
These seemed to cease as the man in waiting admitted him; but before he
could make an inquiry or produce a card, bedlam itself apparently broke
loose somewhere in the immediate upper landing--noise in its crudest
elemental definition--through which the mortified man at the door
strove to make himself heard: "Beg pardon, sir, it's the children broke
loose an' runnin' wild-like--"

"The _what_?"

"Only the children, sir--fox-huntin' the cat, sir--"

His voice was lost in the yelling dissonance descending crescendo from
floor to floor. Then an avalanche of children and dogs poured down the
hall-stairs in pursuit of a rumpled and bored cat, tumbling with yelps
and cheers and thuds among the thick rugs on the floor.

Here the cat turned and soundly cuffed a pair of fat beagle puppies, who
shrieked and fled, burrowing for safety into the yelling heap of
children and dogs on the floor. Above this heap legs, arms, and the
tails of dogs waved wildly for a moment, then a small boy, blond hair in
disorder, staggered to his knees, and, setting hollowed hand to cheek,
shouted: "Hi! for'rard! Harkaway for'rard! Take him, Rags! Now, Tatters!
After him, Owney! Get on, there, Schnitzel! Worry him, Stinger!
Tally-ho-o!"

At which encouraging invitation the two fat beagle pups, a waddling
dachshund, a cocker, and an Irish terrier flew at Selwyn's nicely
creased trousers; and the small boy, rising to his feet, became aware of
that astonished gentleman for the first time.

"Steady, there!" exclaimed Selwyn, bringing his walking stick to a brisk
bayonet defence; "steady, men! Prepare to receive infantry--and doggery,
too!" he added, backing away. "No quarter! Remember the Alamo!"

The man at the door had been too horrified to speak, but he found his
voice now.

"Oh, you hush up, Dawson!" said the boy; and to Selwyn he added
tentatively, "Hello!"

"Hello yourself," replied Selwyn, keeping off the circling pups with the
point of his stick. "What is this, anyway--a Walpurgis hunt?--or Eliza
and the bloodhounds?"

Several children, disentangling themselves from the heap, rose to
confront the visitor; the shocked man, Dawson, attempted to speak again,
but Selwyn's raised hand quieted him.

The small boy with the blond hair stepped forward and dragged several
dogs from the vicinity of Selwyn's shins.

"This is the Shallowbrook hunt," he explained; "I am Master of Hounds;
my sister Drina, there, is one of the whips. Part of the game is to all
fall down together and pretend we've come croppers. You see, don't you?"

"I see," nodded Selwyn; "it's a pretty stiff hunting country, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. There's wire, you know," volunteered the girl, Drina,
rubbing the bruises on her plump shins.

"Exactly," agreed Selwyn; "bad thing, wire. Your whips should warn you."

The big black cat, horribly bored by the proceedings, had settled down
on a hall seat, keeping one disdainful yellow eye on the dogs.

"All the same, we had a pretty good run," said Drina, taking the cat
into her arms and seating herself on the cushions; "didn't we, Kit-Ki?"
And, turning to Selwyn, "Kit-Ki makes a pretty good fox--only she isn't
enough afraid of us to run away very fast. Won't you sit down? Our
mother is not at home, but we are."

"Would you really like to have me stay?" asked Selwyn.

"Well," admitted Drina frankly, "of course we can't tell yet how
interesting you are because we don't know you. We are trying to be
polite--" and, in a fierce whisper, turning on the smaller of the
boys--"Winthrop! take your finger out of your mouth and stop staring at
guests! Billy, you make him behave himself."

The blond-haired M.F.H. reached for his younger brother; the infant
culprit avoided him and sullenly withdrew the sucked finger but not his
fascinated gaze.

"I want to know who he ith," he lisped in a loud aside.

"So do I," admitted a tiny maid in stickout skirts.

Drina dropped the cat, swept the curly hair from her eyes, and stood up
very straight in her kilts and bare knees.

"They don't really mean to be rude," she explained; "they're only
children." Then, detecting the glimmering smile in Selwyn's eyes, "But
perhaps you wouldn't mind telling us who you are because we all would
like to know, but we are not going to be ill-bred enough to ask."

Their direct expectant gaze slightly embarrassed him; he laughed a
little, but there was no response from them.

"Well," he said, "as a matter of fact and record, I am a sort of
relative of yours--a species of avuncular relation."

"What is that?" asked Drina coldly.

"That," said Selwyn, "means that I'm more or less of an uncle to you.
Hope you don't mind. You don't have to entertain me, you know."

"An uncle!" repeated Drina.

"Our uncle?" echoed Billy. "You are not our soldier uncle, are you? You
are not our Uncle Philip, are you?"

"It amounts to that," admitted Selwyn. "Is it all right?"

There was a dead silence, broken abruptly by Billy; "Where is your
sword, then?"

"At the hotel. Would you like to see it, Billy?"

The five children drew a step nearer, inspecting him with merciless
candour.

"Is it all right?" asked Selwyn again, smilingly uneasy under the
concentrated scrutiny. "How about it, Drina? Shall we shake hands?"

Drina spoke at last: "Ye-es," she said slowly, "I think it is all right
to shake hands." She took a step forward, stretching out her hand.

Selwyn stooped; she laid her right hand across his, hesitated, looked up
fearlessly, and then, raising herself on tiptoe, placed both arms upon
his shoulders, offering her lips.

One by one the other children came forward to greet this promising new
uncle whom the younger among them had never before seen, and whom Drina,
the oldest, had forgotten except as that fabled warrior of legendary
exploits whose name and fame had become cherished classics of their
nursery.

And now children and dogs clustered amicably around him; under foot
tails wagged, noses sniffed; playful puppy teeth tweaked at his
coat-skirts; and in front and at either hand eager flushed little faces
were upturned to his, shy hands sought his and nestled confidently into
the hollow of his palms or took firm proprietary hold of sleeve and
coat.

"I infer," observed Selwyn blandly, "that your father and mother are not
at home. Perhaps I'd better stop in later."

"But you are going to stay here, aren't you?" exclaimed Drina in dismay.
"Don't you expect to tell us stories? Don't you expect to stay here and
live with us and put on your uniform for us and show us your swords and
pistols? _Don't_ you?"

"We have waited such a very long time for you to do this," added Billy.

"If you'll come up to the nursery we'll have a drag-hunt for you,"
pleaded Drina. "Everybody is out of the house and we can make as much
noise as we please! Will you?"

"Haven't you any governesses or nurses or something?" asked Selwyn,
finding himself already on the stairway, and still being dragged upward.

"Our governess is away," said Billy triumphantly, "and our nurses can do
nothing with us."

"I don't doubt it," murmured Selwyn; "but where are they?"

"Somebody must have locked them in the schoolroom," observed Billy
carelessly. "Come on, Uncle Philip; we'll have a first-class drag-hunt
before we unlock the schoolroom and let them out."

"Anyway, they can brew tea there if they are lonely," added Drina,
ushering Selwyn into the big sunny nursery, where he stood, irresolute,
looking about him, aware that he was conniving at open mutiny. From
somewhere on the floor above persistent hammering and muffled appeals
satisfied him as to the location and indignation of the schoolroom
prisoners.

"You ought to let them out," he said. "You'll surely be punished."

"We will let them out after we've made noise enough," said Billy calmly.
"We'll probably be punished anyway, so we may as well make a noise."

"Yes," added Drina, "we are going to make all the noise we can while we
have the opportunity. Billy, is everything ready?"

And before Selwyn understood precisely what was happening, he found
himself the centre of a circle of madly racing children and dogs. Round
and round him they tore. Billy yelled for the hurdles and Josephine
knocked over some chairs and dragged them across the course of the
route; and over them leaped and scrambled children and puppies,
splitting the air with that same quality of din which had greeted him
upon his entrance to his sister's house.

When there was no more breath left in the children, and when the dogs
lay about, grinning and lolling, Drina approached him, bland and
dishevelled.

"That circus," she explained, "was for your entertainment. Now will you
please do something for ours?"

"Certainly," said Selwyn, looking about him vaguely; "shall
we--er--build blocks, or shall I read to you--er--out of that big
picture-book--"

"_Picture_-book!" repeated Billy with scorn; "that's good enough for
nurses to read. You're a soldier, you know. Soldiers have real stories
to tell."

"I see," he said meekly. "What am I to tell you about--our missionaries
in Sulu?"

"In the first place," began Drina, "you are to lie down flat on the
floor and creep about and show us how the Moros wriggle through the
grass to bolo our sentinels."

"Why, it's--it's this way," began Selwyn, leaning back in his
rocking-chair and comfortably crossing one knee over the other; "for
instance, suppose--"

"Oh, but you must _show_ us!" interrupted Billy. "Get down on the floor
please, uncle."

"I can tell it better!" protested Selwyn; "I can show you just the--"

"Please lie down and show us how they wriggle?" begged Drina.

"I don't want to get down on the floor," he said feebly; "is it
necessary?"

But they had already discovered that he could be bullied, and they had
it their own way; and presently Selwyn lay prone upon the nursery floor,
impersonating a ladrone while pleasant shivers chased themselves over
Drina, whom he was stalking.

And it was while all were passionately intent upon the pleasing and
snake-like progress of their uncle that a young girl in furs, ascending
the stairs two at a time, peeped perfunctorily into the nursery as she
passed the hallway--and halted amazed.

Selwyn, sitting up rumpled and cross-legged on the floor, after having
boloed Drina to everybody's exquisite satisfaction, looked around at the
sudden rustle of skirts to catch a glimpse of a vanishing figure--a
glimmer of ruddy hair and the white curve of a youthful face,
half-buried in a muff.

Mortified, he got to his feet, glanced out into the hallway, and began
adjusting his attire.

"No, you don't!" he said mildly, "I decline to perform again. If you
want any more wriggling you must accomplish it yourselves. Drina, has
your governess--by any unfortunate chance--er--red hair?"

"No," said the child; "and won't you _please_ crawl across the floor and
bolo me--just _once_ more?"

"Bolo me!" insisted Billy. "I haven't been mangled yet!"

"Let Billy assassinate somebody himself. And, by the way, Drina, are
there any maids or nurses or servants in this remarkable house who
occasionally wear copper-tinted hair and black fox furs?"

"No. Eileen does. Won't you please wriggle--"

"Who is Eileen?"

"Eileen? Why--don't you know who Eileen is?"

"No, I don't," began Captain Selwyn, when a delighted shout from the
children swung him toward the door again. His sister, Mrs. Gerard, stood
there in carriage gown and sables, radiant with surprise.

"Phil! _You!_ Exactly like you, Philip, to come strolling in from the
antipodes--dear fellow!" recovering from the fraternal embrace and
holding both lapels of his coat in her gloved hands. "Six years!" she
said again and again, tenderly reproachful; "Alexandrine was a baby of
six--Drina, child, do you remember my brother--do you remember your
Uncle Philip? She doesn't remember; you can't expect her to recollect;
she is only twelve, Phil--"

"I remember _one_ thing," observed Drina serenely.

Brother and sister turned toward her in pride and delight; and the child
went on: "My Aunt Alixe; I remember her. She was _so_ pretty," concluded
Drina, nodding thoughtfully in the effort to remember more; "Uncle
Philip, where is she now?"

But her uncle seemed to have lost his voice as well as his colour, and
Mrs. Gerard's gloved fingers tightened on the lapels of his coat.

"Drina--child--" she faltered; but Drina, immersed in reflection, smiled
dreamily; "So pretty," she murmured; "I remember my Aunt Alixe--"

"Drina!" repeated her mother sharply, "go and find Bridget this minute!"

Selwyn's hesitating hand sought his moustache; he lifted his eyes--the
steady gray eyes, slightly bloodshot--to his sister's distressed face.

"I never dreamed--" she began--"the child has never spoken of--of her
from that time to this! I never dreamed she could remember--"

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