Complete weird tales of.., p.1344
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1344
“Why — why, I have no right to do such a thing unless you are informed—”
“You have no right to do it at all!”
“I know it — I know it,” he said, despairingly. “I’m a chump — an idiot — an ass—”
“You are not!” she cried.
“I am!”
“Then if you are, will you kindly tell me why you suppose me capable of — of c-caring for an idiot?”
“That’s the horrible part of it,” he said. “I know you — you couldn’t fall in love with an idiot.”
“How do you know? How do you know what sort of man I could care for? I am at liberty to care for whom I please. I am at liberty to care for an idiot if I choose to.”
“But you never would,” he said. And he went and sat down on a fallen tree and laid his head in his hands.
For ten minutes she said nothing. Neither did she go away. Finally he dropped his hands and looked up at her.
“I don’t know w-what I might do,” she said, “when I have time to think it over.”
She walked over to a tree and seemed to be examining the bark for borers. After a moment she rested one arm across the trunk, doubled back the elbow, and hid her face in it. She was crying when he came up. But she let her right hand remain in his, and did not flinch very much when he kissed it.
CARONDELET
ON THE OTHER side of Jasmine Inlet, out toward the flat-woods and the rougher “hammock,” beyond the outlet to the Gold Lagoon, stood Carondelet, home of the Carons, mother and daughter.
I say “stood”; perhaps “floated” better describes the house — if a converted barge might so be called. It had a roof, chimneys, dormers, gallery, and a semi-circle of pillars with Doric capitals for a porch. Porch and pillars had been built on shore.
A dry path through the saw-grass led to a bridge connecting with the porch: the back door opened upon the sunny waters of the Gold Lagoon.
As Tiger-foot said:
“Him a helluva house, heap dam fine!”
Carondelet was sometimes afloat; usually it rested in three feet of silt which covered the vast sheet of rock forming the bottom of the Gold Lagoon.
The late husband of Mrs. Caron had named his home Carondelet, partly from reasons not too subtle for any reader, partly in derisive compliment to a Federal gunboat of the same name, Carondelet, which craft had hurled a number of gigantic but ineffectual shells at his regiment during the late fraternal misunderstanding.
The circumstance of the barge and its conversion to a mansion was as follows: the fortunes of the Carons had vanished amid the smoke and flame of Northern victory; and, undaunted, the Colonel and his young wife had set their faces toward the wilderness where courage and faith led them to believe a place had been “prepared for them of God.”
There certainly seemed to be something in the idea; a record storm on the Atlantic scattered a string of transports and barges destined for the Federal guard fleet in the Gulf, piled the lagoons full of water, backing and heaping it up till every coast forest was afloat to the tree tops.
And into this driving deluge, across twelve miles of shoal, across beach, hammock, saw-grass, and lagoon, Providence had hurled a big, fat, empty barge on the crest of the tidal comber, and landed it in the Gold Lagoon.
Where it stuck when the deluge ebbed; and where Colonel Caron and his young wife found it very conveniently situated to command several acres of excellent hammock, a lagoon full of fish and wild-fowl, and a vast forest region where big game, welcome and unwelcome, roamed in fear only of the Seminoles.
And there they had lived and toiled and builded Carondelet, and cleared the hammock, and set orange groves, so that the wilderness blossomed like a garden.
Late in life to them came ease, prosperity, and surcease from troublous toil once more: also late in life came their child, Damaris, with hair as dark as the brown velvet of a great moth’s wing, and eyes to match the sapphire blue of the lagoon, and a skin like the lustrous and creamy petals of a magnolia blossom.
That occurred twenty years ago; and a year later the trumpeter wind in the saw-grass sounded a last “lights out” for Colonel Ashley Caron, C. S. A.
Damari s stood on the portico of Carondelet, fresh from her annual Northern sojourn, and gazed affectionately out over the broad acres of the paternal estate.
The wilderness bounded it; sunny fields and orange groves stretched away toward the blue palisades of woods; east, west, south, northward spread the Gold Lagoon, sapphire blue beyond the “leads” — broad lanes of water between the towering and terrible green walls of saw-grass.
She saw the high osprey circling; the sea-eagle towering higher still; she saw the blue heron in the sedge and the limpkin slipping along the shore.
It was a vast, silent, sunny world that lay so still under the crystal clearness of a sky as limpid as the water.
The path that her father had made through the saw-grass to the front porch was now a wide, smooth road made of shell and marl, and snowy white: and it ran straight away ahead of her down a vast avenue of water oaks to the forest, the unfading green ramparts of which bordered it like the evenly clipped hedges of some giant’s garden.
Maybe the girl was thinking of her Northern sojourn — thinking of New York in springtime, of Long Island, of Newport and Bar Harbor later: and of all the gallant men and pretty women that she had seen or met or known a little better than what is meant by “meeting” them.
It had been the usual happy journey through wonderland that she and her mother had taken every year since Damaris was twelve — memories of shop windows and glittering motor-cars on Fifth Avenue still slightly dazzled her; rocks, foam, brilliant gardens, palaces of grey or white stone, pleasure fleets and war fleets, and dancing everywhere — always dancing! — and a world full of sleek-headed young men and of perfectly gowned women — these were her souvenirs of Newport and the coast resorts.
But what slightly perplexed her almost to the verge of annoyance was the persistence of one perfectly negligible scene in her memory. Neither New York, nor Newport, nor, in fact, the entire kaleidoscopic recollections of the summer could entirely crowd out, smother, bury, or even dim the startling and photographic accuracy of this scene in her mind.
She had been following a drag-hunt in the Queens Landing country, Long Island, and her horse bolted, took a roadside wall, and in half a minute had kicked to pieces a very lovely, old-fashioned garden.
A young man in a very shabby coat had come out of the house, picked her up from a bed of crushed lilies, set her on her saddle, and dryly advised her not to ride such an animal until she had learned a little more about horsemanship.
This infuriated her; but the dreadful wreck of her insulter’s garden kept her resentment within control.
She said:
“Thank you so much. I shall notify the nearest florist to repair the damage. I am Damaris Caron, of Carondelet, Inca County, Florida, and I am quite capable of riding this horse.” A statement which, considering the condition of the garden and her own inglorious situation among the lilies, had been scarcely opportune.
Had the young man laughed she could have found it in her heart to slay him; but he didn’t. He merely opened the gate for her when she bit her lip, winked back the tears in her eyes, and swung her horse toward the open.
And then she had done a silly thing, childish, petty, unworthy, inexcusable: she had ignored the open gate and had lifted her horse over the wall.
That was the last she had seen of the man; the last he had ever seen of her.
A brief note to her at the Queens Landing Hunt Club informed her that he had already engaged a florist to repair damages and that he could not accept any reparation at her expense.
Except for a civilly expressed hope that she had not been hurt, the note contained nothing further than his name, “George Smith.”
She replied as briefly, expressing regret that he had refused the only reparation she could offer, said that she had not been hurt, and, for some reason unknown to herself, she repeated in ink the information she had so haughtily given him — to wit, the following subscription:
Damans Caron, Carondelet, Inca County, Florida.
There was, naturally, no reply to this. A reply would have been an impertinence. But for several weeks Damaris ran through her mail every day, scanning all the envelopes before opening them, as a woman does when she expects a letter in a handwriting which she is capable of recognizing.
Another thing — she rode past that wretched garden several times without looking at it or at the house — except sideways. But she had not seen him again.
And one other thing: she had, by careless and casual inquiry, learned that the man was an artist and that the house contained his studio. Otherwise, fashion and sport wotted not of George Smith.
She had visited several gay houses; had assisted at motor show and opera in town, before her mother and herself set their faces southward.
And now she was back again in the sun, the broad acres and the woods before her, the Gold Lagoon behind her, and a scented wind gently stirring her thick, dark hair.
For the last week she had played hard amid the dear, familiar scenes; she had fished for gar-pike and bass in the lagoon; she had knocked over snipe and limpkin in the saw-grass with her light fowling piece; she had rambled over every foot of the home acres, through orange grove, banana plantation, pineapple cover, through scrub palmetto glades, over shell mound and hammock, kicking happily at the brown litter under foot.
She had taken her auxiliary sailboat to the Inlet; she had roamed the fragrant dunes, picked up shells, made memoranda of bird life, watched her mother’s negro employees making new bridle paths, dragging marl from the wet pits, and dumping cartloads of snowy shells along main roads destined to be repaired.
Every day crates of grapefruit, oranges, tangerines, mandarins, and kumquats were shipped from their groves by water to the narrow-gauge, overgrown railroad. The perishable pines were for home consumption; the others for the Yankee. Also, the strawberries, tomatoes, and early green vegetables were for the snow-cursed, shivering North; and she saw them every day in transit from the home acres, northward bound. And once or twice she caught herself wondering whether, by any hazard, that man in the North might chance to regale himself on the fruits of Carondelet plantation.
And was sorry she even thought of it. Because that man had been rude — or stupid, or ungracious — whatever anybody chose to call his behaviour.
Sometimes she wondered exactly how his behaviour might be characterized. Being fairly fair-minded she admitted to herself it had not been rude. Even “ungracious” seemed rather a harsh term to apply to it. After all, maybe his insulting advice concerning her horsemanship had been kindly inspired. Doubtless he meant well.
But why hadn’t he been more civil, more sympathetic. Pretty girls don’t tumble into everybody’s gardens. He might have expressed alarm, displayed some human feeling of consternation — a great, big, broad-shouldered young man like that! Really, his dry survey of the situation and his drier advice to her disgusted her. Southern chivalry would have understood the episode better. Southern chivalry would have made it plain to her that misfortune, not fault, had involved her in that wretched garden.
She blushed, partly with exasperation, as she remembered looking up at him from a fragrant mass of crushed lilies, and how he had lifted her with prompt decision and set her firmly in her saddle.
How could a man do that, knowing the horse might presently break her neck? True, the miserable animal stood quietly eating up the remainder of the garden.
It was a perfectly negligible memory, but it was, apparently, a memory of which she could not rid herself.
She didn’t like it; she evoked it frequently nevertheless. And every time she evoked it the recollection hurt her pride till her cheeks grew slightly warm, and she vowed she’d never think of it more.
Also, every time she thought of it, she wished that she might prove to that cool, superior, and condescending young man that she could ride anything that ever cut up on four legs.
That morning she took a canoe and paddled up the lagoon, rifle across her knees, hoping to get a shot at a wildcat — a large and enterprising animal that had calmly emerged from the woods and had slain a dozen of her own bronze turkeys.
But all she saw was a fat moccasin asleep, and after shooting his villainous head off she turned the canoe homeward.
The canoe of Tiger-tail, Miami Seminole, and generally reticent except to her mother and herself, came by along the edge of the saw-grass, poled by Tiger-tail himself, and laden with crayfish which he had been spearing at the Inlet.
“How?” said the Indian politely.
“Tiger-tail, a big cat took my turkeys last night,” said the girl, “and I’ve been looking for him.”
“No good hunt’um: got no dog,” remarked the Seminole.
“If I get the hounds out this week will you come?” asked Damaris.
“When?”
“Any time. I’ll make ring-smoke on Palmetto Island so you can see the signal.”
“Me hurry. Goo’bye,” said the Indian briefly, and sent his canoe gliding north.
“I’ve a beautiful new red turban for you! I bought it in New York!” called the girl after him.
“Make ring-smoke! Me come!” he answered promptly. Which settled it. No Seminole ever lies.
So Damaris, pondering annihilation for his predatory catship, paddled slowly homeward.
Her mother met her on the veranda:
“There is a Mr. Smith here,” she said.
“What!” exclaimed the girl, flushing scarlet.
“A Mr. George Smith,” repeated her mother mildly. “He came in a canoe from the Inlet.”
The girl stood silent, the high colour pulsating in her cheeks.
Her mother said:
“He brought a letter from the Winthrops. I asked him to remain with us at Carondelet while his shooting trip lasted.”
“Where is he?” asked Damaris in an odd voice.
“In his room.... Damaris, had you met him before he came here?”
“I — no.... That is, I think I saw him once — met him — at Queens Landing — if he is the same man.”
Her mother said:
“He is a painter. Are there any reasons you know of why we should not entertain him?”
“No-no — Oh, not at all! He — as I remember — he seemed to be a — a very agreeable man — not in any way remarkable — just nice — presentable—”
“Perhaps,” said her mother, “this is not the same young man — because he is rather remarkable for his good looks and his very delightful manners.... And, from her letter, I should imagine that Clarissa Winthrop is quite crazy about him.”
“Probably,” said her daughter coldly, “he is not the George Smith I — met — at Queens Landing.”
Nevertheless, Damaris went straight to her room and summoned her maid. When she entered her boudoir there seemed to be nothing the matter with her personal appearance, but it was a full hour before her mirror and her maid consented to let her go.
He was in white serge when she came out on the veranda. She had never realized that he was so good-looking.
As she made not the slightest reference to any previous meeting, he also ignored that fact.
A little later he took her mother in to luncheon in a manner that slightly troubled her, because it was so formally, so charmingly, so subtly Southern. And she conceded him good manners, and a tact verging on cleverness. Her mother had already capitulated.
“That young man,” thought Damaris to herself, “is entirely too adroit. I am sure that we are not going to get on together.”
Such an attitude does not make for any very cordial understanding. And it took Damaris only a little while to discover how to relieve him of some of his superfluous self-possession and ease.
For example, intuition taught her that he didn’t want to talk about himself or his art; and she made him do both.
Encouraged by his reticence and modesty on such matters, she extracted from him the unwilling admission that he had exhibited frequently in the Salon, had received medals of silver and gold, was hors-concours, and that the French Government had acquired from him a picture which now hung in the Luxembourg.
Men of attainment are shy and chary of self-exploitation. Damaris knew it, and deliberately made him suffer, sticking to her questions until even her mother became vaguely conscious of some intent and glanced at her animated daughter in perplexity and disapproval.
Which recalled Damaris within bounds, and the punishment of Smith was temporarily suspended.
The next day Damaris took him snipe shooting in her canoe. He made a fist at it, and she very seriously but kindly advised him to take a course at trap shooting; but reddened to her hair when he looked at her coolly, and accepted her suggestion with a smile that bordered too closely on a grin.
On the way home she said abruptly:
“Of course you remember me perfectly well!”
“Not unless you desire it,” he replied very gravely. “Desire it! How can I help your recollecting me?”
“Merely by not wishing me to.”
“But you do! What difference do my wishes make! Besides, you asked Clarissa Winthrop for that letter. Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That shows that you recollected me, doesn’t it?”
“No, it shows that I had planned a shooting trip to the Gold Lagoon.”
“You could have camped.”
“Too many mosquitoes,” he said solemnly.
“That is where you are mistaken, Mr. Smith. There are no mosquitoes at Carondelet.”
He smiled, politely incredulous.
“It’s quite true,” she said. “There is no stagnant water here; no place for them to breed. This region is free from them. So you could have camped had you cared to.”
“Cornered!” he admitted cheerfully.
“Certainly you are cornered. Why did you ask for that letter?”
