Complete weird tales of.., p.1212
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1212
She stepped back, making me a mocking reverence. Her eyes were bluer than the flowering flax behind her.
I had intended to send her a swift service, and I should have done so had I not noticed her eyes.
“Deuce,” I repeated, pausing to recover the composure necessary for good tennis. She made a gesture with her racquet. The service was a miserable failure. I drove the second ball into the net, and then, placing the butt of my racquet on the turf, sat down on the rim.
“Vantage out,” said I, gritting my teeth; “what were you laughing at, Ysonde?”
“Vantage out,” she repeated; “I am not laughing.”
“You were,” I said; “you are now.”
She went to the boxwood hedge, picked out one ball and sent it back; then she drove the other over the net and retired to her corner swinging her racquet. I did not move.
“You are spoiling your racquet,” she said.
I was sitting on it. I knew better.
“And your temper,” she said, sweetly.
“Vantage out,” I repeated, and raised my tennis-bat for a smashing service. The ball whistled close to the net, and the white dust flew from her court, but her racquet caught it fair and square and I heard the ring of the strings as the ball shot along my left alley and dropped exactly on the service line. How I got it I don’t know, but the next moment a puff of dust rose in her vantage court, there was a rustle of skirts, a twinkle of small tennis shoes, and the ball rocketed, higher, higher, into the misty sunshine.
“Oh,” gasped Ysonde, and bit her lip.
The ball began to come down. I had time to laugh before it struck, — to laugh quietly and twirl my short moustache.
“I shall place that ball,” said I, “where you will not find it easily”; and I did, deliberately.
For a second Ysonde was disappointed, I could see that, but I imagined there was the slightest tremour of relief in her voice when she said:
“Brute force is useless, Bobby; listen to the voice of the Prophetess.”
“I hear,” I said, “the echo of your voice in the throat of every bird.”
“Which is very pretty but unfair,” said Ysonde, looking at the snow-birds beside her. “It is unfair,” she repeated.
“Yes,” said I, “it is unfair; are you ready?”
“Let us finish the game this afternoon,” she suggested; “look at these snow-birds, Bobby; if I raise my racquet it will frighten them.”
“And you imagine,” said I, “that these snowbirds are going to interrupt the game — this game?”
“What a pity to frighten them; see — look how close they come to me? Do you think the little things are tamed by hunger?”
“Some creatures are not tamed by anything,” I said.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, innocently.
I was glad that I suppressed my anger.
“Ysonde,” I said, “you know what this game means to me — to us.”
“I know nothing about it,” she said, hastily, retreating to her corner; “play — it’s deuce you know.”
“I know,” I replied, and sent a merciless ball shooting across her deuce court.
“Vantage in,” I observed, trying not to smile.
A swift glance from her wide eyes, a perceptible tremble of the long lashes — that was all; but I knew what I knew, for I have hunted wild creatures.
The porcupine on the piazza rose, sniffed, blinked in the sunlight, and lumbered down the steps, every quill erect.
“Billy! Go back this minute!” said Ysonde.
The quills on Billy’s back flattened.
“Billy,” I repeated, “go and climb a tree.”
“If you speak to him he will bristle again,’, said Ysonde, walking over to the porcupine.
“Billy, my child, climb this pretty balsam tree for the gentleman; come — you are interrupting the game, and the gentleman is impatient.”
“The gentleman is very impatient, Billy,” I said.
I saw Ysonde colour — a soft faint tint, nothing more; I saw Billy receive a gentle impulse — oh, very gentle indeed, from the point of her slender tennis shoes. So the porcupine was hustled up the balsam-tree, where he lay like an old mat, untidy, mortified, nursing his wrath, while two blue-birds tittered among the branches above him.
Ysonde came back and stood in the game court.
“It is vantage, I believe,” she said, indifferently.
“Out,” said I, with significance. Ysonde looked at me.
“Out,” I repeated.
“Play,” she said, desperately.
“No,” I replied, sitting down upon the edge of my racquet again — I knew better— “let us clearly understand the consequences first.”
She swung her racquet and looked me full in the eyes.
“What consequences?” she said.
“The consequences incident upon my winning this set.”
“What consequences?” she insisted, defiantly.
“The forfeit,” said I.
“When you win the set we will discuss that,” she said. “Do you imagine you will win?”
She was a better player than I; she could give me thirty on each game.
“Yes,” I said, and I believe the misery in my voice would have moved a tigress to pity.
Now perhaps it was because there is nothing of the tigress about Ysonde, perhaps because I showed my fear of her — I don’t know which — but I saw her scarlet lips press one upon the other, and I saw her eyes darken like violet velvet at night.
“Play,” she said; “lam ready.”
The first ball struck the net; the racquet turned in my nerveless hand, and she smiled.
“Play!” I cried, and the second ball bit the lime dust at her feet. I saw the flash of her racquet, I saw a streak of gray lightning, and I lifted my racquet, but something struck me in the face, — the tennis-balls were heavy and wet, — and I staggered about blindly, faint with pain.
“Oh, Bobby!” cried Ysonde, and stood quite still.
“I’m a duffer, I muttered, trying to open my eye, but the pain sickened me. I placed my hand over it and looked out upon the world with one eye. The drab-coloured cow was watching me; she was chewing her cud; the porcupine had one sardonic eye fixed upon me; the robin, balanced on the tip of the balsam, mocked me. It was plain that the creatures were all on her side. The wild snow-birds scarcely moved as Ysonde hastened across the court to my side. I heard the blue-birds tittering over head, but I did not care; I had heard the tones of Ysonde’s voice, and I was glad that I had been banged in the eye. It was true she had only said, “Oh, Bobby!”
“Is it very painful?” she asked, standing close beside me.
“Yes,” I replied, seriously.
“Let me look,” she said, laying one hand on the sleeve of my cricket shirt.
“Billy will rejoice at this,” said I, removing my handkerchief so she could see the eyes. The pain was becoming intense. With my uninjured eye I could see how white her hand was.
She stood still a moment; my arm grew warm beneath her hand.
“It will cheer Billy,” I suggested; “did I tell you that he bit me yesterday and I whacked him? No? Well, he did, and I did.”
“How can you!” she murmured; “how can you speak of that ridiculous Billy when you may have — have to be blind?”
“Nonsense,” I said, with a shiver.
She crossed the turf to the spring and brought her handkerchief back soaking and cold as ice. I felt her palm on my cheek as she adjusted it. It was smooth, like an apricot.
“Hold it there,” I said, bribing my conscience; “it is very pleasant.” She thought I meant the wet handkerchief.
“If — if I have ruined your sight”: she began.
Now it was on the tip of my tongue to add— “and yet you are going to ruin my life by beating me at tennis,” but my conscience revolted.
“Do you think it is serious?” she asked, in a voice so low that I bent my head involuntarily. She mistook the gesture for one of silent acquiescence. A tear — a large warm one — fell on my wrist; I thought it was a drop of water from the handkerchief at first. Then I opened my uninjured eye and saw her mistake.
“You misunderstood,” I said, wearily. “I don’t believe what the oculist told me; the eye will be all right.”
“But he warned you that a sudden blow would—”
“Might—”
“Oh — did he say might?”
“Yes — but it won’t. I’m all right — don’t take away your hand; are you tired?”
“No, no,” she said, “shall I get some fresh water?”
“Not yet — don’t go. The game was at deuce, wasn’t it?”
Ysonde was silent.
“Was it deuce? Does that point count against me?” I insisted.
“How can you think of the game now?” said Ysonde, in a queer voice — like the note of a very young bird.
I sat down on the turf, and the handkerchief fell from my eye. Ysonde hastened to the spring and returned carrying the heavy stone jar full of water. It must have strained her delicate wrist — she said it did not; and, kneeling beside me, she placed the cold bit of cambric over my eye.
“Thank you,” I said; “will you sit beside me on the turf?” Both of my eyes were aching and closed, but I heard her skirts rustle and felt the momentary pressure of her palm on my cheek.
“Are you seated?” I asked.
“Yes, Bobby.”
“Then tell me whether I lost that point.”
“How can I tell,” she answered; “I would willingly concede it if it were not—”
“For the forfeit,” I added; “then you think I did lose the point?”
“Does your eye pain very much?” she asked.
“Yes,” said I, truthfully. Perhaps it was ungenerous, but I dared not reject such an ally as truth. I opened one eye and looked at Ysonde. She was examining a buttercup.
“All buttercups look as though they had been carefully varnished,” said she, touching one with the tip of her middle finger.
“Did I win the set?” I began again.
“Oh — no — not the set!” she protested.
“Then I lost that point?”
“Oh! why will you dwell upon tennis at such a moment!”
“Because,” said I, “it means so much to me.” I suppose there was something in my voice that frightened her.
“Forgive me,” I said, bitterly ashamed, for I had broken our compact, not directly, but in substance. “Forgive me, Ysonde,” I said, looking at the porcupine with my left eye.
“Ridiculous Billy,” for that was his name, stared at me with the insolence born of safety, and his white whiskers twitched in derision.
“You old devil,” I thought, remembering the scar on my ankle.
“Where did he bite you?” asked Ysonde unconsciously reading my thoughts. It was a trick of hers.
“In the ankle, — it was nothing. I would rather have him bite the other ankle than get any more of his quills into me!” I replied. “See how the snow-birds have followed you. They are there among the wild strawberries.”
She turned her head.
“Hush!” she whispered, raising one palm. It was pinker than the unripe berries. There was an ache in my heart as well as in my eyes, so I said something silly; “There was an old man who said, Hush! I perceive a young bird in this bush—”
“When they said, Is it small? he replied, Not at all! It is four times as big as the bush!” repeated Ysonde, solemnly. We both laughed, but I read a gratitude in her eyes which annoyed me.
“We digress,” I said, “speaking of the game—”
“Oh, but we were not speaking of the game!” she said, half-alarmed, half-smiling; “there! I thought you were going to be sensible, Bobby.”
“I am. I only wish to know whether I lost that game.”
“You know the rules,” she said.
“Yes — I know the rules.”
“If it were not for the forfeit, I should not insist,” she continued, returning to her buttercup. “It seems unfair to take the point; — does the eye pain, Bobby?”
“Not so much,” I replied, sticking to the truth to the bitter end. My ally was becoming a nuisance.
“Let me see it,” she said, gently removing the handkerchief. The eye must have looked bad, for her face changed.
“Oh, you poor fellow,” she said, and I fairly revelled in the delight of my own misery.
“Then I lost that point,” said I, stifling conscience.
She replaced the handkerchief. Her hand had become suddenly steady.
“No,” she said, “you did not lose the point, — I concede it.”
I wondered whether my ears were tricking me.
“Then — if I won the point — I won the set,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And the forfeit—”
“The forfeit was that I should kiss you,” said Ysonde, gravely.
“That was not all—”
“No, — you are to be allowed to tell me that you love me,” continued Ysonde in calm, even tones.
“Then,” said I, flushing uncomfortably, “when will you pay the forfeit?”
“Now, if you wish it. Shall I kiss you?”
She leaned on the turf, one hand hidden by the buttercups. She had dropped the handkerchief, and I picked it up and held it to my eye with my left hand. Then, with my right hand, I took her right hand, listlessly drooping beside her, and I looked her full in the eyes.
“When we made the wager,” I said, “we were boy and girl. That was almost twenty-four hours ago. You need not kiss me, Ysonde.”
“A kiss means more at our age,” she said.
“We were very silly,” said I.
“It should mean love,” she said, faintly.
“Indeed it should,” I said.
Ysonde sat straight up among the field flowers.
“I do not love,” she said.
“I know it,” I replied gaily, and I let the bandage drop from my eye. “The pain is all gone, “ I said, closing my left eye to see whether my vision was impaired.
I was totally blind in my right eye.
For an instant the shock staggered me. I don’t know how long I sat, mouth open, staring at the sun with one sound, one sightless eye. Ysonde, her chin on her hands, lay with her face turned toward the White Lady, a towering peak in the east.
“Come,” I said, rising, “your aunt will be impatient; dinner has been served this half hour.”
She sprang to her feet, — she had been in a reverie, — and gave me a long look which I could not define.
“And your eye doesn’t pain?” she asked, after a moment.
“No,” I said, for the pain had disappeared with the sight; “I am all right except a headache.”
“And you can see perfectly well?”
“Perfectly.”
It was at this point that truth and I parted; for what was a lost eye that it should cause her a moment’s regret?
II.
IT was about this time that the oculist came to Holderness and visited me at the Rosebud Inn. I was in a dark room; Ysonde thought it better, believing darkness a cure for headache.
When the oculist walked in — his name was Keen, — he said, “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I am blind in one eye — will it be noticeable?” I asked.
“Banged in the eye?” he enquired, opening the shutters.
“Banged in the eye,” I repeated, as he bent over me.
His examination lasted scarcely ten seconds. After a moment he rose and closed the shutters, and I stood up in the darkness.
“Will it disfigure me?” I asked again.
“No, — an oculist could tell the difference perhaps. You may go out in three weeks.”
“Blind?”
“Nonsense,” growled Keen, “you have another eye yet.”
“But I am an artist,” I said in a low voice, “is there hope?”
I heard Keen sit down in the room, and his rocking-chair squeaked through five minutes of the bitterest darkness I ever knew. I could stand it no longer, so I rose and felt my way towards the rocking-chair, — I wanted to touch him — I was terrified. Well, it only lasted a few moments — most men pass through crises — I was glad he did not attempt to pity me.
“It was Miss—” he began.
“Hush!” I whispered. “Who told you, Keen?”
“She did,” he replied. “Of course, she need never know you are—”
“Blind,” I said,— “No, she need not know it.”
I heard him feeling for the door.
“Turn your back,” he said.
I did so.
“Three weeks?” I enquired over my shoulder.
“Yes — don’ t smoke.”
“What the devil shall I do?” I said, savagely.
“Think on your sins, old chap,” — we had studied together in the Latin Quarter— “think of Pépita—”
“I won’t,” I cried. Keen hummed in a mischievous voice,
“Quand le sommeil sur ta famille
Autour de toi s’est repondu,
O Pépita, charmante fille,
Mon amour, à quoi penses-tu?”
“Keen,” I said, “I’ll break your head, if I am one-eyed.”
“I’m a married man,” he replied, “and I refuse your offer; that’s better, I like to hear the old ring in your voice, Bobby — keep a stiff upper lip. Surgery and painting are not the only things we learned in the Quarter.”
I heard the door close behind him, then turned and groped my way toward the bed.
* * * * * *
How I ever lived through those three weeks! — Well, I did, and every fresh pipe of Bird’s-eye tasted sweeter for my disobedience.
“Write him,” I dictated through the closed door to Ysonde,—” write him that I am smoking six pipes a day as he directed.” After all, if I was going to be blind in one eye, I did not care whether tobacco hastened the blow, and I was glad to poke a little fun at Keen.
Ysonde could not imagine why the doctor had recommended smoking — she had heard that it weakened the sight, but she wrote as I directed, merely expressing her distrust in Keen, which amused me, for he is now one of the most famous oculists in the world.
“Yes,” said I, through the key-hole, “Keen is young, and has much to learn, but I dare not disobey orders. How is your aunt?”
