Complete weird tales of.., p.1214
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1214
“Suppose,” said I, with something in my voice that silenced her, “suppose that you loved me, and that I had lost my eye. Would you still love me?”
“Yes,” said Ysonde, with an effort.
“And suppose,” I continued, “I had been born with an eye blind; could you have loved such a man?”
“I do not think I could,” she answered truthfully.
“Probably not,” I repeated, biting the stem of a wild strawberry. After a moment I looked up into the sky. The hawk was not there; but I was not looking for the hawk.
“Come,” said I, rising, “dinner must be ready and your aunt should not be kept waiting.”
I gathered up my sketching kit, tenderly perhaps, for I should never use it again, and whistled Billy to heel, — which he did when he chose.
Perhaps it was something in my face — I don’t know — but Ysonde suddenly came up to me and took both my hands.
“Are you going to be sensible, Bobby?” she asked. Her face was very serious.
“Yes, Ysonde,” I said.
But she did not seem satisfied — there came a faint glow on her face — it may have been a sunbeam — and she dropped my hands and whistled to Billy.
“Come!” she cried, with a tinge of anger in her voice that I had never before heard,—” heel, Billy!”
But as Billy lingered, sniffing and rooting among the ferns, she picked up a twig and struck Billy on the nose. The blow was gentle — it would not have hurt a mosquito — but I was astounded, for it was the first time I had ever seen her lift her hand in anger to any living creature. Perplexed and wondering I followed her through the forest, my locked colour-box creaking on my shoulder.
IV.
“To him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath not, shall be taken away even that which he hath,” said I, knocking my pipe against the verandah railing.
“Scripture,” said Blylock, approvingly.
“For this is the law and the prophets,” I continued, grateful that the Bible had received Boston’s approval.
“Scripture,” repeated Blylock, with the smile of a publisher mentioning the work of a very young author.
“Exactly,” I replied, “also the Koran; I forget whether Tupper mentions it.”
“Probably,” said Blylock seriously.
“Probably,” I repeated, inserting a straw in the stem of my pipe. Ysonde frowned at me.
“Blylock,” I continued, smiling at nothing, “have you read Emerson?”
“Heavens!” murmured Blylock under his breath.
I had aroused him. I made it a point to stir him up once every day, satisfied to allow him to relapse into his normal Beacon Street trance afterward.
“Your scriptural quotation,” said Ysonde, with a dangerous light in her eyes, “would indicate that you have suffered a loss.”
“From him that hath not, shall be taken away even that which he hath,” I repeated; “yes, having nothing, I have lost all I have, which,” I continued, “is of course nothing. But I am encroaching on Brook Farm, — and the Koran—”
“And on the patience of your friends,” said Ysonde; “don’t try to be epigrammatic, Bobby.” There was a glass of water standing on a table to my right. I did not see it, my right eye being sightless, and I knocked it over. I was confused and startled at this — it brought back to me my misfortune so cruelly that I apologized more than was necessary, and received a puzzled stare from Ysonde. I noted it and chafed helplessly. Lynda Sutherland came out on the porch, and I rose and brought her a chair.
“The moonlight reminds me of Venice,” said Lynda, turning her lovely face to the moon.
We all agreed with her, although we knew it was nonsense, for we all had lived in Venice. If she had said it reminded her of peach ice-cream, we would have agreed. She was too beautiful for one to analyze what she said — she was too beautiful to analyze it herself. I remembered with a shock that the late lamented had once referred to his wife’s being “d — nd ornamental,” and I was glad the panther had clawed his besotted soul from his body. But Sutherland had never said a truer thing in his life; drunkard that he was, he always spoke the truth.
“Lynda,” cooed Ysonde, “do you think that we might camp for a few days with Bobby and Mr. Blylock? They are going to the Black Water to-morrow and Mr. Blylock asked us.”
“We take two guides,” added Blylock, vaguely.
“We will only stay three days,” said I.
“We will have a trout supper,” suggested Blylock.
“And flap-jacks for breakfast,” said I.
“I should so like to go,” pleaded Ysonde.
Blylock examined the moon, and I saw Lynda look at him.
“Is there any danger?” she asked.
I was discreetly silent; the question was not addressed to me.
“I think not,” said Blylock turning around, “I carry a rifle.”
“Threecheers for Bunker Hill,” I said, “there is nothing to shoot—”
“Except — panthers,” observed Blylock dryly.
At this tactless remark I expected to hear Lynda refuse to go. She did not, although she looked at Blylock a little reproachfully. He, serenely unconscious, examined his seal ring in silence. Possibly Lynda did not believe that panthers ranged so near the Inn, perhaps she was not ungrateful to the last one that had patted her late lamented into a better land.
“There are,” said I, truthfully, “a few panthers ranging between the Gilded Dome and Crested Hawk. Sometimes they get as far as Noon Peak and the White Lady, sometimes even as far as Lynx Peak, but I never heard of anything bigger than a lynx being seen near the Black Water.”
“I have been in these forests every summer and autumn for twenty years,” said Blylock, “and I never saw either panther or lynx; have you?” he ended, turning toward me. Then, recollecting that I had witnessed the mauling of the late lamented, he turned rosy, and I was pleased to see that he was capable of experiencing two whole emotions in one evening.
I did not answer — it was not necessary, of course. I could show him the panther skin in my studio some day when I wanted to take a rise out of him. It measured nine feet from tip to tip — it might have measured more had the panther had time to nourish himself with Sutherland.
Now Ysonde must have read what was passing in my mind, for she looked shocked and nestled closer to Lynda.
“What is a lynx,” demanded Lynda, shivering.
“There are two species found here,” replied Blylock, glad to change the subject, “one the big grey Canada lynx, the other the short-tailed American lynx—”
“Otherwise Bob-cat, Lucivee, and wild-cat,” I interposed; “they make a horrid noise in the woods and are harmless.”
“If you let them alone,” added Blylock, conscientious to the end.
“Which we will,” said Ysonde, gaily, “we are going, are we not, Lynda?”
“No,” said Lynda, firmly.
But the next morning when the first sunbeams scattered the mist which clung to copse and meadow, and sent it rolling up the flanks of the Gilded Dome, Lynda said, “Yes,” and possibly her pretty mountain costume tipped the balance in Ysonde’s favour, for Lynda looked like a fin-de-siècle Diana in that frock and she knew it, bless her fair face!
The guides, Jimmy Ellis and Buck Hanson, were tightening straps and rolling blankets on the lawn outside.
“Buck,” said I, “how many pounds do you take in?”
“Fifty, sir,” drawled Buck, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.
“And you, Jimmy?” I asked.
“About forty, sir,” replied Ellis, seriously.
“I cal’late,” added Buck, “the ladies will want extry blankets.”
“They will,” I replied, “the wind is hauling around to the northwest.” Then I took a step nearer and dropped my voice.
“Any panthers seen lately, Jimmy?”
“I hain’t seed none,” replied Ellis.
“What was it killed the white heifer two weeks ago?”
“Waal,” replied Jimmy reflecting a little, “I cal’late t ‘war a cat.”
“It maught be a b’ar,” said Buck, “I seed one daown to Drake’s clearin’ last week come Sabbath.”
“Sho!” drawled Ellis, returning to his blankets.
“I understand,” said I, “that Ezra Field found a thirty-pound trap missing last week.”
“Whar?” asked Hanson.
“Back of the gum-camp on Swift River,” I replied.
Ellis looked cynical and Hanson laughed, the silent confiding laughter of the honest.
“Ezry was scairt haf tu deth by a Bob-cat, onct, into Swift River Forks,” said Ellis; “he sees things whar there hain’t nawthin’.”
“Do you think,” said I, after a long pull at my pipe, “that panthers ever attack? I mean, when you let their cubs alone.”
“Hain’t never seed no panther,” replied Buck. “You saw Mr. Sutherland when he was brought in three years ago.”
“Yes sir — you and Cy Holman toted him in.”
“Well, you saw the panther we brought in also, didn’t you?”
“Yes sir, — but that was a daid panther,” replied Buck, prosaically.
I laughed and walked toward the piazza.
“All I want to know is whether you fellows have heard that these creatures are bothering honest people who mind their business,” I said over my shoulder; and both the big guides laughed, and answered “No fear o’ that sir!” Half an hour later we were on the trail to the Black Water.
The morning was perfect, the air keen as September breezes on the moors, and the mottled sunlight spotted our broad trail which twisted and curved through the tangled underbrush along the bank of a mountain stream.
Blylock and Ysonde were well ahead, the latter swinging a light steelshod mountain stick; next came Lynda, beautiful and serene, approving the beauty of the forest in pleased little platitudes. I followed close behind, silent, spellbound by the splendour of the forest, charmed by the soft notes of the nesting thrushes and the softer babble of Lynda and the brook.
Broad dewy leaves slapped our faces, filmy floating spiders’ meshes crossed our chins and cheeks and tickled Ysonde’s pretty nose.”
“You may walk ahead,” she said to Blylock, “and break the spiders’ webs for me.”
“With pleasure,” said Blylock, seriously, and I saw him take the lead, his single eyeglass gleaming in the sunshine.
“It is written,” said I, flippantly, “that the first shall be last, and the last shall be first; — I believe that I should take the lead.”
“Please do,” said Ysonde, coolly, “it is your proper place.”
Now Ysonde had never before said anything to me quite as sharp as that, although doubtless I had often invited it.
“Do you want me to go?” I asked inanely.
“If you care to clear the path, I would not object,” said Ysonde.
“For you and Lynda,” said I, feeling that I was speaking regardless of either sound or sense.
“ — And for Mr. Blylock,” added Ysonde, quietly.
“With pleasure,” said I, vaguely wishing my tongue might stop wagging before I said something hopelessly foolish, “I shall clear the way for you — and Mr. Blylock.”
I had said it; even Lynda raised her lovely eyes to me in disapproval. As for Ysonde, her face wore that pained expression that I dreaded to see — I had never seen it before but once — in the glade — and I felt that my proper place was among the wits of a country store. A boor in the kitchen of the Rosebud Inn would have had more instinctive tact — unless he was jealous! — that is the word! — I was jealous — vulgarly jealous of Blylock. Perhaps Ysonde read the shame in my face, perhaps she had divined my thoughts as she did when she chose, but she saw I was miserable, disgusted with myself, and she raised me to her own level with a smile so sweet and chivalrous that I felt there was manhood left in me yet.
“Bobby,” she said, “you promised to show me how to blaze a trail. Have you forgotten?”
I dropped out of the path to the right, she to the left; Lynda passed us to join Blylock who was waiting, the two big guides tramped by, their boots creaking on the trodden leaves. I drew the light hatchet from my belt, removed the leather blade-cover, and started on.
“This is all it is,” I said, and struck a light shaving from the bark of a hemlock, cutting it at the base with the next stroke so that the bit of bark fell, leaving a white scar on the tree trunk.
“Always on both sides,” said I, repeating the stroke on the other side of the tree. “Will you try it, Ysonde?”
She took the hatchet in her small gloved hand, and the chips flew along the trail until I begged her to spare the forest.
“But the trees don’t die!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Bobby, you’re joking; am I overdoing it?”
“A little,” said I, “a blind man could follow this forest boulevard.”
“You are blind,” she said, calmly.
“Blind?” I cried with a start.
“ — To your own interests, Bobby. Aunt Lynda likes you, but she doesn’t like to hear you speak flippantly. If you destroy her trust in you, she will not let us walk together when we please.” We moved on in silence for a while, until Ysonde, tired of blazing, handed me the hatchet.
“Yes,” said I, “I am blind — I cannot lead you — on any trail.”
“Nor I you,” she said simply.
I did not reply, for who but I should know that through the fragrant forest, bathed in sun and dew, the blind led on the blind.
“You have formed a habit,” said Ysonde, “of muttering to yourself. Are you afraid to have me know your thoughts?”
“Yes,” said I, turning, “I am afraid.”
She did not answer, but I saw her colour deepen, and I feared that I had spoken bitterly.
“I was thinking that I had forgotten my flask,” I continued gaily.
“Mr. Blylock has your flask — you were not thinking of that,” said Ysonde.
“Well,” said I, “then tell me of what I was thinking; you know you can read my thoughts — when you take the trouble,” I added prudently.
“Bobby,” said Ysonde, “I would take more trouble for your sake than you dream of.”
I stopped short in the trail and faced her, but she passed me impatiently. I saw her bite her lips as she always did when annoyed.
The chestnut, oak, and dappled beech-woods were giving place to pines and hemlocks as we wheeled from the Gilded Dome trail into the narrower trail that leads over the long divide to the Black Water. Along the rushing stream alder and hazel waved, silver birches gleamed deep-set in tangled depths, and poplars rose along the water’s edge, quivering as the breezes freshened, every glistening leaf a-tremble.
Under foot, brown pine-needles spread a polished matting over the forest mould, for we had entered the pine belt and the long trail had just begun.
The breeze in the pines! it will always make me think of Ysonde. Wild wind-swept harmonies swelling from the windy ridge, the whisper and sigh and rush of water, the grey ledges, the deep sweep of precipices where lonely rivers glimmer, lost in the sea of trees, — these I remember as I think of Ysonde, these and more too, — the dome of green, the fragments of sky between mixed branches, the silence, broken by a single birdnote.
* * * * * *
The trail crossed a sunny glade, mossy and moist, bordered by black birch thickets and carpeted with winter-green. Ysonde leaned upon her steel-shod staff and looked at her own reflection in the placid spring pool, shining among the ferns.
“I am very much tanned,” she said.
“Are you thirsty,” I asked.
“There is a little freckle beside my nose,” observed Ysonde.
“It is becoming,” I said truthfully.
“Yes, I am thirsty,” said Ysonde, “ — what do you know about freckles?”
I handed her a cup of water; she drank a little, looked over the rim of the cup reflectively, drank a little more, sighed, smiled, and poured what was left of the water upon the moss.
“A libation to the gods,” she explained.
“To which?” I asked.
“Ah, she said; I had not thought of that. Well, then, to — to—”
I looked at her and she tossed the cup to me saying, “I shall not tell you. I am getting into the habit of telling you everything.”
“But — but the gentleman’s name?” I urged. “No, no! Goodness! may I not have a secret, all my own?”
“Very well,” said I, “you pour out libations to a gentleman god and I shall even up matters. Here’s to the lady!”
“Minerva, of course. You are so wise,” suggested Ysonde.
“It’s neither to Minerva nor to the owl,” said I, “it’s to the Lady Aphrodite.”
“Pooh!” said Ysonde, “you are not clever; Hermes might —— —”
“Might what?”
“Be careful, Bobby, your sleeve is getting wet—”
“Might what?”
“Now how should I know,” exclaimed Ysonde, “mercy, I’m not a little Greek maiden!”
I strapped the cup to my belt, tightened the buckle of my rod-case, lighted my pipe, and sat down on a log.
“Well, Master Bobby,” said Ysonde in that bantering voice which she used when perfectly happy.
“Well, Mistress Ysonde,” said I.
“Are you going to lose the others?”
I pointed to the foot of the long slope, where, among the tree trunks, something blue fluttered.
“It’s Lynda’s veil,” said Ysonde, “and there is Mr. Blylock, also; they are sitting down.”
“True,” said I, “let us rest also. We have been hours on the trail. Here is a dry spot on this log.”
Ysonde sat down. Now whenever Ysonde seated herself there was something in the pose of her figure that made me think of courts and kings and coronations. The little ceremony of seating herself ended, I resumed my seat also, feeling it a privilege accorded only to the very great. I told her this and she pretended to agree with me.
“You must be something at court,” she said, “ you cannot be an earl, for earls are blond and slender; you cannot be a count, for counts are dark and dapper; nor a duke, for dukes are big and always red in the face; you might be a baron — no, they are fierce and merciless—”
