Produced by Jeffrey Kraus-yao
[Illustration: “She was standing beside the fire with Quarrier, one foot
on the fender.”]
The Fighting Chance
By Robert W. Chambers
Author of “Cardigan,” “The Maid at Arms,” “The Firing Line,” etc.
DEDICATED TO MY FATHER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. Acquaintance
II. Imprudence
III. Shotover
IV. The Season Opens
V. A Winning Loser
VI. Modus Vivendi
VII. Persuasion
VIII. Confidences
IX. Confessions
X. The Seamy Side
XI. The Call of the Rain
XII. The Asking Price
XIII. The Selling Price
XIV. The Bargain
XV. The Enemy Listens
THE FIGHTING CHANCE
CHAPTER I. ACQUAINTANCE
The speed of the train slackened; a broad tidal river flashed into sight
below the trestle, spreading away on either hand through yellowing level
meadows. And now, above the roaring undertone of the cars, from far
ahead floated back the treble bell-notes of the locomotive; there came
a gritting vibration of brakes; slowly, more slowly the cars glided to
a creaking standstill beside a sun-scorched platform gay with the bright
flutter of sunshades and summer gowns.
“Shotover! Shotover!” rang the far cry along the cars; and an
absent-minded young man in the Pullman pocketed the uncut magazine he
had been dreaming over and, picking up gun case and valise, followed a
line of fellow-passengers to the open air, where one by one they were
engulfed and lost to view amid the gay confusion on the platform.
The absent-minded young man, however, did not seem to know exactly where
he was bound for. He stood hesitating, leisurely inspecting the flashing
ranks of vehicles--depot wagons, omnibusses, and motor cars already
eddying around a dusty gravel drive centred by the conventional railroad
flower bed and fountain.
Sunshine blazed on foliage plants arranged geometrically, on scarlet
stars composed of geraniums, on thickets of tall flame-tinted cannas.
And around this triumph of landscape gardening, phaeton, Tilbury,
Mercedes, and Toledo backed, circled, tooted; gaily gowned women, whips
aslant, horses dancing, greeted expected guests; laughing young men
climbed into dog-carts and took the reins from nimble grooms; young
girls, extravagantly veiled, made room in comfortable touring-cars for
feminine guests whose extravagant veils were yet to be unpacked; slim
young men in leather trappings, caps adorned with elaborate masks or
goggles, manipulated rakish steering-gears; preoccupied machinists were
fussing with valve and radiator or were cranking up; and, through the
jolly tumult, the melancholy bell of the locomotive sounded, and the
long train moved out through the September sunshine amid clouds of snowy
steam.
And all this time the young man, gun case in one hand, suit case in
the other, looked about him in his good-humoured, leisurely manner
for anybody or any vehicle which might be waiting for him. His amiable
inspection presently brought a bustling baggage-master within range of
vision; and he spoke to this official, mentioning his host's name.
“Lookin' for Mr. Ferrall?” repeated the baggage-master, spinning a trunk
dexterously into rank with its fellows. “Say, one of Mr. Ferrall's
men was here just now--there he is, over there uncrating that there
bird-dog!”
The young man's eyes followed the direction indicated by the grimy
thumb; a red-faced groom in familiar livery was kneeling beside a dog's
travelling crate, attempting to unlock it, while behind the bars an
excited white setter whined and thrust forth first one silky paw then
the other.
The young man watched the scene for a moment, then:
“Are you one of Mr. Ferrall's men?” he asked in his agreeable voice.
The groom looked up, then stood up:
“Yis, Sorr.”
“Take these; I'm Mr. Siward--for Shotover House. I dare say you have
room for me and the dog, too.”
The groom opened his mouth to speak, but Siward took the crate key from
his fingers, knelt, and tried the lock. It resisted. From the depths of
the crate a beseeching paw fell upon his cuff.
“Certainly, old fellow,” he said soothingly, “I know how you feel
about it; I know you're in a hurry--and we'll have you out in a
second--steady, boy!--something's jammed, you see! Only one moment now!
There you are!”
The dog attempted to bolt as the crate door opened, but the young man
caught him by the leather collar and the groom snapped on a leash.
“Beg pardon, Sorr,” began the groom, carried almost off his feet by the
frantic circling of the dog--“beg pardon, Sorr, but I'll be afther seem'
if anny of Mr. Ferrall's men drove over for you--”
“Oh! Are you not one of Mr. Ferrall's men?”
“Yis, Sorr, but I hadn't anny orders to meet anny wan--”
“Haven't you anything here to drive me in?”
“Yis, Sorr--I'll look to see--”
The raw groom, much embarrassed, and keeping his feet with difficulty
against the plunging dog, turned toward the gravel drive where now
only a steam motor and a depot-wagon remained. As they looked the motor
steamed out, honking hoarsely; the depot-wagon followed, leaving the
circle at the end of the station empty of vehicles.
“Didn't Mr. Ferrall expect me?” asked Siward.
“Aw, yis, Sorr; but the gintlemen for Shotover House does ginerally
allways coom by Black Fells, Sorr--”
“Oh, Lord!” said the young man, “I remember now. I should have gone on
to Black Fells Crossing; Mr. Ferrall wrote me!” Then, amused: “I suppose
you have only a baggage-wagon here?”
“No, Sorr--a phayton”--he hesitated.
“Well? Isn't a phaeton all right?”
“Yis, Sorr--if th' yoong lady says so--beg pardon, Sorr, Miss Landis is
driving.”
“Oh--h! I see. … Is Miss Landis a guest at Shotover House?”
“Yis, Sorr. An' if ye would joost ask her--the phayton do be coming now,
Sorr!”
The phaeton was coming; the horse, a showy animal, executed side-steps;
blue ribbons fluttered from the glittering head-stall; a young girl in
white was driving.
Siward advanced to the platform's edge as the phaeton drew up; the young
lady looked inquiringly at the groom, at the dog, and leisurely at him.
So he took off his hat, naming himself in that well-bred and agreeable
manner characteristic of men of his sort,--and even his smile appeared
to be part and parcel of a conventional ensemble so harmonious as to
remain inconspicuous.
“You should have gone on to Black Fells Crossing,” observed Miss Landis,
coolly controlling the nervous horse. “Didn't you know it?”
He said he remembered now that such were the directions given him.
The girl glanced at him incuriously, and with more curiosity at the dog.
“Is that the Sagamore pup, Flynn?” she asked.
“It is, Miss.”
“Can't you take him on the rumble with you?” And, to Siward: “There is
room for your gun and suit case.”
“And for me?” he asked, smiling.
“I think so. Be careful of that Sagamore pup, Flynn. Hold him between
your knees. Are you ready, Mr. Siward?”
So he climbed in; the groom hoisted the dog to the rumble and sprang up
behind; the horse danced and misbehaved, making a spectacle of himself
and an agreeable picture of his driver; then the pretty little phaeton
swung northward out of the gravel drive and went whirling along a road
all misty with puffs of yellow dust which the afternoon sun turned to
floating golden powder.
“Did you send my telegram, Flynn?” she asked without turning her head.
“I did, Miss.”
It being the most important telegram she had ever sent in all her life,
Miss Landis became preoccupied,--quite oblivious to extraneous details,
including Siward, until the horse began acting badly again. Her slightly
disdainful and perfect control of the reins interested the young man. He
might have said something civil and conventional about that, but did not
make the effort to invade a reserve which appeared to embarrass nobody.
A stacatto note from the dog, prolonged infinitely in hysterical
crescendo, demanded comment from somebody.
“What is the matter with him, Flynn?” she asked.
Siward said: “You should let him run, Miss Landis.”
She nodded, smiling, inattentive, absorbed in her own affairs, still
theorising concerning her telegram. She drove on for a while, and might
have forgotten the dog entirely had he not once more lifted his voice in
melancholy.
“You say he ought to run for a mile or two? Do you think he'll bolt, Mr.
Siward?”
“Is he a new dog?”
“Yes, fresh from the kennels; supposed to be house-and wagon-broken,
steady to shot and wing--” She shrugged her pretty shoulders. “You see
how he's acting already!”
“Do you mind if I try him?” suggested Siward.
“You mean that you are going to let him run?”
“I think so.”
“And if he bolts?”
“I'll take my chances.”
“Yes, but please consider my chances, Mr. Siward. The dog doesn't belong
to me.”
“But he ought to run--”
“But suppose he runs away? He's a horridly expensive creature--if you
care to take the risk.”
“I'll take the risk,” said Siward, smiling as she drew rein. “Now Flynn,
give me the leash. Quiet! Quiet, puppy! Everything is coming your way;
that's the beauty of patience; great thing, patience!” He took the
leader; the dog sprang from the rumble. “Now, my friend, look at me! No,
don't twist and squirm and scramble; look me square in the eye; so! …
Now we know each ether and we respect each other--because you are going
to be a good puppy … and obey … Down charge!”
The dog, trembling with eager comprehension, dropped like a shot, muzzle
laid flat between his paws. Siward unleashed him, looked down at him for
a second, stooped and caressed the silky head, then with a laugh swung
himself into the phaeton beside the driver, who, pretty head turned, had
been looking on intently.
“Your dog is yard-broken,” he said. “Look at him.”
“I see. Do you think he will follow us?”
“I think so.”
The horse started, Miss Landis looking back over her shoulder at the dog
who lay motionless, crouched flat in the road.
Then Siward turned. “Come on, Sagamore!” he said gaily; and the dog
sprang forward, circled about the moving phaeton, splitting the air with
yelps of ecstasy, then tore ahead, mad with the delight of stretching
cramped muscles amid the long rank grass and shrubbery of the roadside.
The girl watched him doubtfully; when he disappeared far away up the
road she turned the blue inquiry of her eyes on Siward.
“He'll be back,” said the young fellow, laughing; and presently the dog
reappeared on a tearing gallop, white flag tossing, glorious in his new
liberty, enchanted with the confidence this tall young man had reposed
in him--this adorable young man, this wonderful friend who had suddenly
appeared to release him from an undignified and abominable situation in
a crate.
“A good dog,” said Siward; and the girl looked around at him, partly
because his voice was pleasant, partly because a vague memory was
beginning to stir within her, coupling something unpleasant with the
name of Siward.
She had been conscious of it when he first named himself, but, absorbed
in the overwhelming importance of her telegram, had left the analysis of
the matter for the future.
She thought again of her telegram, theorised a little, came to no
conclusion except to let the matter rest for the present, and mentally
turned to the next and far less important problem--the question of this
rather attractive young man at her side, and why the name of Siward
should be linked in her mind with anything disagreeable.
Tentatively following the elusive mental dews that might awaken
something definite concerning her hazy impression of the man beside her,
she spoke pleasantly, conventionally, touching idly any topic that might
have a bearing; and, under a self-possession so detached as to give an
impression of indifference, eyes, ears, and intelligence admitted
that he was agreeable to look at, pleasant of voice, and difficult to
reconcile with anything unpleasant.
Which gradually aroused her interest--the incongruous usually
interesting girls of her age--for he had wit enough to amuse her,
sufficient inconsequence to please her, and something listless, at times
almost absent-minded, almost inattentive, that might have piqued her
had it not inoculated her, as it always does any woman, with the nascent
germ of curiosity. Besides, there was, in the hint of his momentary
preoccupation, a certain charm.
They discussed shooting and the opening of the season; dogs and the
training of dogs; and why some go gun-shy and why some ace blinkers.
From sport and its justification, they became inconsequential; and she
was beginning to enjoy the freshness of their chance acquaintance, his
nice attitude toward things, his irrelevancy, his gaiety.
Laughter thawed her; for notwithstanding the fearless confidence she had
been taught for men of her own kind, self-possession and reserve, if not
inherent, had also been drilled into her, and she required a great deal
in a man before she paid him the tribute of one of her pretty laughs.
Apparently they were advancing rather rapidly.
“Don't you think we ought to call the dog in, Mr. Siward?”
“Yes; he's had enough!”
She drew rein; he sprang out and whistled; and the Sagamore pup, dusty
and happy came romping back. Siward motioned him to the rumble, but the
dog leaped to the front.
“I don't mind,” said the girl. “Let him sit here between us. And you
might occupy yourself by pulling some of those burrs from his ears--if
you will?”
“Of course I will. Look up here, puppy! No! Don't try to lick my face,
for that is bad manners. Demonstrations are odious, as the poet says.”
“It's always bad manners, isn't it?” asked Miss Landis.
“What? Being affectionate?”
“Yes, and admitting it.”
“I believe it is. Do you hear that--Sagamore? But never mind; I'll break
the rules some day when we're alone.”
The dog laid one paw on Siward's knee, looking him wistfully in the
eyes.
“More demonstrations,” observed the girl. “Mr. Siward! You are hugging
him! This amounts to a dual conspiracy in bad manners.”
“Awfully glad to admit you to the conspiracy,” he said. “There's one
vacancy--if you are eligible.”
“I am; I was discovered recently kissing my saddle-mare.”
“That settles it! Sagamore, give the young lady the grip.”
Sylvia Landis glanced at the dog, then impulsively shifting the whip
to her left hand, held out the right. And very gravely the Sagamore pup
laid one paw in her dainty white gloved palm.
“You darling!” murmured the girl, resuming her whip.
“I notice,” observed Siward, “that you are perfectly qualified for
membership in our association for the promotion of bad manners. In fact
I should suggest you for the presidency--”
“I suppose you think all sorts of things because I gushed over that
dog.”
“Of course I do.”
“Well you need not,” she rejoined, delicate nose up-tilted. “I never
kissed a baby in all my life--and never mean to. Which is probably more
than you can say.”
“Yes, its more than I can say.
“That admission elects you president,” she concluded. But after
a moment's silent driving she turned partly toward him with mock
seriousness: “Is it not horridly unnatural in me to feel that way about
babies? And about people, too; I simply cannot endure demonstrations.
As for dogs and horses--well, I've admitted how I behave; and, being so
shamelessly affectionate by disposition, why can't I be nice to babies?
I've a hazy but dreadful notion that there's something wrong about me,
Mr. Siward.”
He scrutinised the pretty features, anxiously; “I can't see it,” he
said.
“But I mean it--almost seriously. I don't want to be so aloof, but--I
don't like to touch other people. It is rather horrid of me I suppose to
be like those silky, plumy, luxurious Angora cats who never are civil to
you and who always jump out of your arms at the first opportunity.”
He laughed--and there was malice in his eyes, but he did not know her
well enough to pursue the subject through so easy an opening.
It had occurred to her, too, that her simile might invite elaboration,
and she sensed the laugh in his silence, and liked him for remaining
silent where he might easily have been wittily otherwise.
This set her so much at ease, left her so confident, that they were on
terms of gayest understanding presently, she gossiping about the guests
at Shotover House, outlining the diversions planned for the two weeks
before them.
“But we shall see little of one another; you will be shooting most
of the time,” she said--with the very faintest hint of challenge--too
delicate, too impersonal to savour of coquetry. But the germ of it was
there.
“Do you shoot?”
“Yes; why?”
“I am reconciled to the shooting, then.”
“Oh, that is awfully civil of you. Sometimes I'd rather play Bridge.”
“So should I--sometimes.”
“I'll remember that, Mr. Siward; and when all the men are waiting for
you to start out after grouse perhaps I may take that moment to whisper:
'May I play?'”
He laughed.
“You mean that you really would stay and play double dummy when every
other living man will be off to the coverts? Double dummy--to improve my
game?”
“Certainly! I need improvement.”
“Then there is something wrong with you, too, Mr. Siward.”
She laughed and started to flick her whip, but at her first motion the
horse gave trouble.
“The bit doesn't fit,” observed Siward.
“You are perfectly right,” she returned, surprised. “I ought to have
remembered; it is shameful to drive a horse improperly bitted.” And,
after a moment: “You are considerate toward animals; it is good in a
man.”
“Oh, it's no merit. When animals are uncomfortable it worries me. It's
one sort of selfishness, you see.”
“What nonsense,” she said; and her smile was very friendly. “Why doesn't
a nice man ever admit he's nice when told so?”
It seems they had advanced that far. For she was beginning to find this
young man not only safe but promising; she had met nobody recently half
as amusing, and the outlook at Shotover House had been unpromising
with only the overgrateful Page twins to practise on--the other men
collectively and individually boring her. And suddenly, welcome as
manna from the sky, behold this highly agreeable boy to play with--until
Quarrier arrived. Her telegram had been addressed to Mr. Quarrier.
“What was it you were saying about selfishness?” she asked. “Oh, I
remember. It was nonsense.”
“Certainly.”
She laughed, adding: “Selfishness is so simply defined you know.”
“Is it? How.”
“A refusal to renounce. That covers everything,” she concluded.
“Sometimes renunciation is weakness--isn't it?” he suggested.
“In what case for example?”
“Well, suppose we take love.”
“Very well, you may take it if you like it.”
“Suppose you loved a man!” he insisted.
“Let him beware! What then?”
“--And, suppose it would distress your family if you married him?”
“I'd give him up.”
“If you loved him?”
“Love? That is the poorest excuse for selfishness, Mr. Siward.”
“So you would ruin your happiness and his--”
“A girl ought to find more happiness in renouncing a selfish love than
in love itself,” announced Miss Landis with that serious conviction
characteristic of her years.
“Of course,” assented Siward with a touch of malice, “if you really do
find more happiness in renouncing love than in love itself, it would be
foolish not to do it--”
“Mr. Siward! You are derisive. Besides, you are not acute. A woman is
always an opportunist. When the event takes place I shall know what to
do.”
“You mean when you want to marry the man you mustn't?
“Exactly. I probably shall.”
“Marry him?
“Wish to!”
“I see. But you won't, of course.”
She drew rein, bringing the horse to a walk at the foot of a long hill.
“We are going much too fast,” said Miss Landis, smiling.
“Driving too fast for--”
“No, not driving, going--you and I.”
“Oh, you mean--”
“Yes I do. We are on all sorts of terms, already.”
“In the country, you know, people--”
“Yes I know all about it, and what old and valued friends one makes at a
week's end. But it has been a matter of half-hours with us, Mr. Siward.”
“Let us sit very still and think it over,” he suggested. And they both
laughed.
It was perhaps the reaction of her gaiety that recalled to her mind her
telegram. The telegram had been her promised answer after she had had
time to consider a suggestion made to her by a Mr. Howard Quarrier. The
last week at Shotover permitted reflection; and while her telegram was
no complete answer to the suggestion he had made, it contained material
of interest in the eight words: “I will consider your request when you
arrive.
“I wonder if you know Howard Quarrier?” she said.
After a second's hesitation he replied: “Yes--a little. Everybody does.”
“You do know him?”
“Only at--the club.”
“Oh, the Lenox?”
“The Lenox--and the Patroons.”
Preoccupied, driving with careless, almost inattentive perfection, she
thought idly of her twenty-three years, wondering how life could have
passed so quickly leaving her already stranded on the shoals of an
engagement to marry Howard Quarrier. Then her thoughts, errant, wandered
half the world over before they returned to Siward; and when at length
they did, and meaning to be civil, she spoke again of his acquaintance
with Quarrier at the Patroons Club--the club itself being sufficient to
settle Siward's status in every community.
“I'm trying to remember what it is I have heard about you,” she
continued amiably; “you are--”
An odd expression in his eyes arrested her--long enough to note their
colour and expression--and she continued, pleasantly; “--you are Stephen
Siward, are you not? You see I know your name perfectly well--” Her
straight brows contracted a trifle; she drove on, lips compressed,
following an elusive train of thought which vaguely, persistently,
coupled his name with something indefinitely unpleasant. And she could
not reconcile this with his appearance. However, the train of unlinked
ideas which she pursued began to form the semblance of a chain. Coupling
his name with Quarrier's, and with a club, aroused memory; vague
uneasiness stirred her to a glimmering comprehension. Siward? Stephen
Siward? One of the New York Siwards then;--one of that race--
Suddenly the truth flashed upon her,--the crude truth lacking definite
detail, lacking circumstance and colour and atmosphere,--merely the raw
and ugly truth.
Had he looked at her--and he did, once--he could have seen only the
unruffled and very sweet profile of a young girl. Composure was one of
the masks she had learned to wear--when she chose.
And she was thinking very hard all the while; “So this is the man? I
might have known his name. Where were my five wits? Siward!--Stephen
Siward! … He is very young, too … much too young to be so horrid. …
Yet--it wasn't so dreadful, after all; only the publicity! Dear me! I
knew we were going too fast.”
“Miss Landis,” he said.
“Mr. Siward?”--very gently. It was her way to be gentle when generous.
“I think,” he said, “that you are beginning to remember where you may
have heard my name.”
“Yes--a little--” She looked at him with the direct gaze of a child, but
the lovely eyes were troubled. His smile was not very genuine, but he
met her gaze steadily enough.
“It was rather nice of Mrs. Ferrall to ask me,” he said, “after the mess
I made of things last spring.”
“Grace Ferrall is a dear,” she replied.
After a moment he ventured: “I suppose you saw it in the papers.”
“I think so; I had completely forgotten it; your name seemed to--”
“I see.” Then, listlessly: “I couldn't have ventured to remind you
that--that perhaps you might not care to be so amiable--”
“Mr. Siward,” she said impulsively, “you are nice to me! Why shouldn't
I be amiable? It was--it was--I've forgotten just how dreadfully you did
behave--”
“Pretty badly.”
“Very?”
“They say so.”
“And what is your opinion Mr. Siward?”
“Oh, I ought to have known better.” Something about him reminded her of
a bad small boy; and suddenly in spite of her better sense, in spite
of her instinctive caution, she found herself on the very verge
of laughter. What was it in the man that disarmed and invited a
confidence--scarcely justified it appeared? What was it now that moved
her to overlook what few overlook--not the fault, but its publicity? Was
it his agreeable bearing, his pleasant badinage, his amiably listless
moments of preoccupation, his youth that appealed to her--aroused her
charity, her generosity, her curiosity?
And had other people continued to accept him, too? What would Quarrier
think of his presence at Shotover? She began to realise that she was
a little afraid of Quarrier's opinions. And his opinions were always
judgments. However Grace Ferrall had thought it proper to ask him, and
that meant social absolution. As far as that went she also was perfectly
ready to absolve him if he needed it. But perhaps he didn't care!--She
looked at him, furtively. He seemed to be tranquil enough in his
abstraction. Trouble appeared to slide very easily from his broad
young shoulders. Perhaps he was already taking much for granted in
her gentleness with him. And gradually speculation became interest and
interest a young girl's innocent curiosity to learn something of a
man whose record it seemed almost impossible to reconcile with his
personality.
“I was wondering,” he said looking up to encounter her clear eyes,
“whose house that is over there?”
“Beverly Plank's shooting-box; Black Fells,” she replied nodding toward
the vast pile of blackish rocks against the sky, upon which sprawled a
heavy stone house infested with chimneys.
“Plank? Oh yes.”
He smiled to remember the battering blows rained upon the ramparts of
society by the master of Black Fells.
But the smile faded; and, glancing at him, the girl was surprised to
see the subtle change in his face--the white worn look, then the old
listless apathy which, all at once to her, hinted of something graver
than preoccupation.
“Are we near the sea?” he asked.
“Very near. Only a moment to the top of this hill. … Now look!”
There lay the sea--the same grey-blue crawling void that had ever
fascinated and repelled him--always wrinkled, always in flat monotonous
motion, spreading away, away to the sad world's ends.
“Full of menace--always,” he said, unconscious that he had spoken aloud.
“The sea!”
He spoke without turning: “The sea is a relentless thing for a man to
fight. … There are other tides more persistent than the sea, but like
it--like it in its menace.”
His face seemed thinner, older; she noticed his cheek bones for the
first time. Then, meeting her eyes, youth returned with a laugh and a
touch of colour; and, without understanding exactly how, she was aware,
presently, that they had insensibly slipped back to their light badinage
and gay inconsequences--back to a footing which, strangely, seemed to be
already an old footing, familiar, pleasant, and natural to return to.
“Is that Shotover House?” he asked as they came to the crest of the last
hillock between them and the sea.
“At last, Mr. Siward,” she said mockingly; “and now your troubles are
nearly ended.”
“And yours, Miss Landis?”
“I don't know,” she murmured to herself, thinking of the telegram with
the faintest misgiving.
For she was very young, and she had not had half enough out of life as
yet; and besides, her theories and preconceived plans for the safe
and sound ordering of her life appeared to lack weight--nay, they were
dwindling already into insignificance.
Theory had almost decided her to answer Mr. Quarrier's suggestion with a
'Yes.' However, he was coming from the Lakes in a day or two. She could
decide definitely when she had discussed the matter with him.
“I wish that I owned this dog,” observed Siward, as the phaeton entered
the macadamised drive.
“I wish so, too,” she said, “but he belongs to Mr. Quarrier.”