Complete weird tales of.., p.1227
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1227
“Student of diamonds?”
I smiled. “Oh, I see you know who my great-aunt was,” I said.
“I know her,” he said.
“Ah, — perhaps you are unaware that my great-aunt is not now living—”
“I know her,” he repeated, obstinately.
I bowed. What a crank he was!
“What do you study? You don’t fiddle away all your time, do you?” he asked.
Now that was just what I did, but I was not pleased to have Miss Wyeth know it. Although my time was chiefly spent in shooting and fishing, I had once, in a fit of energy, succeeded in stuffing and mounting a woodcock, so I evaded a humiliating confession by saying that I had done a little work in ornithology.
“Good!” cried the Professor, beaming all over. “I knew you were a fellow scientist. Possibly you are a brother member of the Boston Dodo Society of Pythagorean Research. Are you a Dodo?”
I shook my head. “No, I am not a Dodo.”
“Only a jay?”
“A — what?” I said, angrily.
“A jay. We call the members of the Junior Ornithological Jay Society of New York, jays, just as we refer to ourselves as Dodos. Are you not even a jay?”
“I am not,” I said, watching him suspiciously.
“I must convert you, I see,” said the Professor, smiling.
“I’m afraid I do not approve of Pythagorean research,” I began, but the beautiful Miss Wyeth turned to me very seriously, and looking me frankly in the eyes, said:
“I trust you will be open to conviction.”
“Good Lord!” I thought, “can she be another crank.” I looked at her steadily. What a little beauty she was. She also then belonged to the Pythagoreans — a sect I despised. Everybody knows all about the Pythagorean craze, its rise in Boston, its rapid spread, and its subsequent consolidation with Theosophy, Hypnotism, the Salvation Army, the Shakers, the Dunkards, and the Mind Cure Cult, upon a business basis. I had hitherto regarded all Pythagoreans with the same scornful indifference which I accorded to the Faith Curists; being a member of the Catholic Church I was scarcely prepared to take any of them seriously. Least of all did I approve of the “business basis,” and I looked very much askance indeed at the “Scientific and Religious Trust Company,” duly incorporated and generally known as the Pythagorean Trust, which, consolidating with Mind Curists, Faith Curists, and other flourishing Salvation Syndicates, actually claimed a place among ordinary Trusts, and at the same time pretended to a control over man’s future life. No, I could never listen — I was ashamed of even entertaining the notion, and I shook my head.
“No, Miss Wyeth, I am afraid I do not care to listen to any reasoning on this subject.”
“Don’t you believe in Pythagoras?” demanded the Professor, subduing his excitement with difficulty, and adding another knot to his coat-tails.
“No,” I said, “I do not.”
“How do you know you don’t?” enquired the Professor.
“Because,” I said, firmly, “it is nonsense to say that the soul of a human being can inhabit a hen!”
“Put it in a more simplified form!” insisted the Professor; “do you believe that the soul of a hen can inhabit a human being?”
“No, I don’t!”
“Did you ever hear of a hen-pecked man?” cried the Professor, his voice ending in a shout.
I nodded, intensely annoyed.
“Will you listen to reason, then?” he continued, eagerly.
“No,” I began, but I caught Miss Wyeth’s blue eyes fixed on mine with an expression so sad, so sweetly appealing, that I faltered.
“Yes, I will listen,” I said, faintly.
“Will you become my pupil?” insisted the Professor.
I was shocked to find myself wavering, but my eyes were looking into hers, and I could not disobey what I read there. The longer I looked the greater inclination I felt to waver. I saw that I was going to give in, and, strangest of all, my conscience did not trouble me. I felt it coming — a sort of mild exhilaration took possession of me. For the first time in my life I became reckless — I even gloried in my recklessness.
“Yes, yes,” I cried, leaning eagerly across the table, “I shall be glad — delighted! Will you take me as your pupil?” My single eye-glass fell from its position unheeded. “Take me! Oh, will you take me?” I cried. Instead of answering, the Professor blinked rapidly at me for a moment. I imagined his eyes had grown bigger, and were assuming a greenish tinge. The corners of his mouth began to quiver, emitting queer, caressing little noises, and he rapidly added knot after knot to his twitching coat-tails. Suddenly he bent forward across the table until his nose almost touched mine. The pupils of his eyes expanded, the iris assuming a beautiful changing golden-green tinge, and his coat-tails switched violently. Then he began to mew.
I strove to rouse myself from my paralysis — I tried to shrink back, for I felt the end of his cold nose touch mine. I could not move. The cry of terror died in my straining throat, my hands tightened convulsively; I was incapable of speech or motion. At the same time my brain became wonderfully clear. I began to remember everything that had ever happened to me — everything that I had ever done or said. I even remembered things that I had neither done nor said, I recalled distinctly much that had never happened. How fresh and strong my memory! The past was like a mirror, crystal clear, and there, in glorious tints and hues, the scenes of my childhood grew and glowed and faded, and gave place to newer and more splendid scenes. For a moment the episode of the cat at the Hotel St. Antoine flashed across my mind. When it vanished, a chilly stupor slowly clouded my brain; the scenes, the memories, the brilliant colours, faded, leaving me enveloped in a grey vapour, through which the two great eyes of the Professor twinkled with a murky light. A peculiar longing stirred me, — a strange yearning for something — I knew not what — but, oh! how I longed and yearned for it! Slowly this indefinite, incomprehensible longing became a living pain. Ah, how I suffered! — and how the vapours seemed to crowd around me. Then, as at a great distance, I heard her voice, sweet, imperative:
“Mew!” she said.
For a moment I seemed to see the interior of my own skull, lighted as by a flash of fire; the rolling eye-balls, veined in scarlet, the glistening muscles quivering along the jaw, the humid masses of the convoluted brain, — then awful darkness — a darkness almost tangible — an utter blackness, through which now seemed to creep a thin silver thread, like a river crawling across a world — like a thought gliding to the brain — like a song, a thin, sharp song which some distant voice was singing — which I was singing.
And I knew that I was mewing!
I threw myself back in my chair and mewed with all my heart. Oh, that heavy load which was lifted from my breast! How good, how satisfying it was to mew! And how I did mew!
I gave myself up to it, heart and soul; my whole being thrilled with the passionate outpourings of a spirit freed. My voice trembled in the upper bars of a feline love song, quavered, descended, swelling again into an intimation that I brooked no rival, and ended with a magnificent crescendo.
I finished, somewhat abashed, and glanced askance at the Professor and his daughter, but the one sat nonchalantly disentangling his coattails, and the other was apparently absorbed in the distant landscape. Evidently they did not consider me ridiculous. Flushing painfully, I turned in my chair to see how my gruesome solo had affected the people on the terrace. Nobody even looked at me. This, however, gave me little comfort, for, as I began to realize what I had done, my mortification and rage knew no bounds. I was ready to die of shame. What on earth had induced me to mew? I looked wildly about for escape — I would leap up — rush home to bury my burning face in my pillows, and later in the friendly cabin of a homeward-bound steamer. I would fly — fly at once! Woe to the man who blocked my way! I started to my feet, but at that moment I caught Miss Wyeth’s eyes fixed on mine.
“Don’t go,” she said.
What in Heaven’s name lay in those blue eyes! I slowly sank back into my chair.
Then the Professor spoke. “Elsie, I have just received a dispatch.”
“Where from, Papa?”
“From India. I’m going at once.”
She nodded her head, without turning her eyes from the sea. “Is it important, papa?”
“I should say so. The cashier of the Trust has eloped with an Astral body, and has taken all our funds, including a lot of first mortgages on Nirvana. I suppose he’s been dabbling in futures, and was short in his accounts. I shan’t be gone long.”
“Then good-night, papa,” she said, kissing him, “ try to be back by eleven.” I sat stupidly staring at them.
“Oh, it’s only to Bombay — I shan’t go to Thibet to-night, — good-night, my dear,” said the Professor.
Then a singular thing occurred. The Professor had at last succeeded in disentangling his coat tails, and now, jamming his hat over his ears, and waving his arms with a bat-like motion, he climbed upon the seat of his chair, and ejaculated the word “Presto!” Then I found my voice.
“Stop him!” I cried, in terror.
“Presto! Presto!” shouted the Professor, balancing himself on the edge of his chair and waving his arms majestically, as if preparing for a sudden flight across the Scheldt; and, firmly convinced that he not only meditated it but was perfectly capable of attempting it, I covered my eyes with my hands.
“Are you ill, Mr. Kensett?” said the girl, quietly.
I raised my head indignantly. “Not at all, Miss Wyeth, only I’ll bid you good-evening, for this is the 19th century, and I’m a Christian.”
“So am I,” she said. “So is my father.”
“The devil he is,” I thought.
Her next words made me jump.
“Please do not be profane, Mr. Kensett.”
How did she know I was profane? I had not spoken a word! Could it be possible she was able to read my thoughts? This was too much, and I rose and bowed stiffly.
“I have the honour to bid you good-evening,” I began, and reluctantly turned to include the Professor, expecting to see that gentleman balancing himself on his chair. The Professor’s chair was empty.
“Oh,” said the girl, faintly, “my father has gone.”
“Gone! Where?”
“To — to India, I believe.”
I sank helplessly into my own chair.
“I do not think he will stay very long — he promised to return by eleven,” she said, timidly.
I tried to realize the purport of it all. “Gone to India? Gone! How? On a broomstick? Good Heavens!” I murmured, “am I sane?”
“Perfectly,” she said, “and I am tired; you may take me back to the hotel.”
I scarcely heard her; I was feebly attempting to gather up my numbed wits. Slowly I began to comprehend the situation, to review the startling and humiliating events of the day. At noon, in the court of the Hotel St. Antoine, I had been annoyed by a man and a cat. I had retired to my own room and had slept until dinner. In the evening I met two tourists on the sea-wall promenade. I had been beguiled into conversation — yes, into intimacy with these two tourists! I had had the intention of embracing the faith of Pythagoras! Then I had mewed like a cat with all the strength of my lungs. Then the male tourist vanishes — and leaves me in charge of the female tourist, alone and at night in a strange city! And now the female tourist proposes that I take her home!
With a remnant of self-possession I groped for my eye-glass, seized it, screwed it firmly into my eye, and looked long and earnestly at the girl. As I looked, my eyes softened, my monocle dropped, and I forgot everything in the beauty and purity of the face before me. My heart began to beat against my stiff white waistcoat. Had I dared — yes, dared to think of this wondrous little beauty, as a female tourist? Her pale sweet face, turned toward the sea, seemed to cast a spell upon the night. How loud my heart was beating. The yellow moon floated, half dipping in the sea, flooding land and water with enchanted lights. Wind and wave seemed to feel the spell of her eyes, for the breeze died away, the heaving Scheldt tossed noiselessly, and the dark Dutch luggers swung idly on the tide with every sail adroop.
A sudden hush fell over land and water, the voices on the promenade were stilled; little by little the shadowy throng, the terrace, the sea itself vanished, and I only saw her face, shadowed against the moon.
It seemed as if I had drifted miles above the earth, through all space and eternity, and there was nought between me and high Heaven but that white face. Ah, how I loved her! I knew it — I never doubted it. Could years of passionate adoration touch her heart — her little heart, now beating so calmly with no thought of love to startle it from its quiet and send it fluttering against the gentle breast? In her lap her clasped hands tightened, — her eyelids drooped as though some pleasant thought was passing. I saw the colour dye her temples, I saw the blue eyes turn, half frightened to my own, I saw — and I knew she had read my thoughts. Then we both rose, side by side, and she was weeping softly, yet for my life I dared not speak. She turned away, touching her eyes with a bit of lace, and I sprang to her side and offered her my arm.
“You cannot go back alone,” I said.
She did not take my arm.
“Do you hate me, Miss Wyeth?”
“I am very tired,” she said, “I must go home.”
“You cannot go alone.”
“I do not care to accept your escort.”
“Then — you send me away?”
“No,” she said, in a hard voice. “You can come if you like.” So I humbly attended her to the Hotel St. Antoine.
III.
AS we reached the Place Verte and turned into the court of the hotel, the sound of the midnight bells swept over the city, and a horse-car jingled slowly by on its last trip to the railroad station.
We passed the fountain, bubbling and splashing in the moonlit court, and, crossing the square, entered the southern wing of the hotel. At the foot of the stairway she leaned for an instant against the banisters.
“I am afraid we have walked too fast,” I said. She turned to me coldly. “No, — conventionalities must be observed. You were quite right in escaping as soon as possible.”
“But,” I protested, “I assure you—”
She gave a little movement of impatience. “Don’t,” she said, “you tire me — conventionalities tire me. Be satisfied, — nobody has seen you.”
“You are cruel,” I said, in a low voice—” what do you think I care for conventionalities—”
“You care everything, — you care what people think, and you try to do what they say is good form. You never did such an original thing in your life as you have just done.”
“You read my thoughts,” I exclaimed, bitterly— “it is not fair—”
“Fair or not, I know what you consider me, — ill-bred, common, pleased with any sort of attention. Oh! Why should I waste one word — one thought on you!”
“Miss Wyeth,—” I began, but she interrupted me.
“Would you dare tell me what you think of me? — Would you dare tell me what you think of my father?”
I was silent. She turned and mounted two steps of the stairway, then faced me again.
“Do you think it was for my own pleasure that I permitted myself to be left alone with you? Do you imagine that I am flattered by your attention — do you venture to think I ever could be? How dared you think what you did think there on the sea-wall?”
“I cannot help my thoughts!” I replied. “You turned on me like a tiger when you awoke from your trance. Do you really suppose that you mewed? Are you not aware that my father hypnotized you?”
“No — I did not know it,” I said. The hot blood tingled in my finger tips, and I looked angrily at her.
“Why do you imagine that I waste my time on you?” she said. “Your vanity has answered that question, — now let your intelligence answer it. I am a Pythagorean; I have been chosen to bring in a convert, and you were the convert selected for me by the Mahatmas of the Consolidated Trust Company. I have followed you from New York to Antwerp, as I was bidden, but now my courage fails, and I shrink from fulfilling my mission, knowing you to be the type of man you are. If I could give it up — if I could only go away, — never, never again to see you! Ah, I fear they will not permit it! — until my mission is accomplished. Why was I chosen, — I, with a woman’s heart and a woman’s pride. I — I hate you!”
“I love you,” I said, slowly.
She paled and looked away.
“Answer me,” I said.
Her wide blue eyes turned back again, and I held them with mine. At last she slowly drew a long-stemmed rose from the bunch at her belt, turned, and mounted the shadowy staircase. For a moment I thought I saw her pause on the landing above, but the moonlight was uncertain. After waiting for a long time in vain, I moved away, and in going raised my hand to my face, but I stopped short, and my heart stopped too, for a moment. In my hand I held a long-stemmed rose.
With my brain in a whirl I crept across the court and mounted the stairs to my room. Hour after hour I walked the floor, slowly at first, then more rapidly, but it brought no calm to the fierce tumult of my thoughts, and at last I dropped into a chair before the empty fireplace, burying my head in my hands.
Uncertain, shocked, and deadly weary, I tried to think, — I strove to bring order out of the chaos in my brain, but I only sat staring at the longstemmed rose. Slowly I began to take a vague pleasure in its heavy perfume, and once I crushed a leaf between my palms, and, bending over, drank in the fragrance.
Twice my lamp flickered and went out, and twice, treading softly, I crossed the room to relight it. Twice I threw open the door, thinking that I heard some sound without. How close the air was, — how heavy and hot! And what was that strange, subtle odour which had insensibly filled the room? It grew stronger and more penetrating, and I began to dislike it, and to escape it I buried my nose in the half-opened rose. Horror! The odour came from the rose, — and the rose itself was no longer a rose — not even a flower now, — it was only a bunch of catnip; and I dashed it to the floor and ground it under my heel.
