Complete weird tales of.., p.282
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 282
So, was it wonderful that I, sitting there, should listen, smiling, for some sound above to warn me of her coming?
Never had sunshine on the gilded meadows lain so softly, never so pure and soft the aromatic air. And far afield I saw two figures moving, close together, often pausing to look upon the beauty of the sky and hills, then straying on like those who have found what they had sought for long ago — Jack Mount and Lyn Montour.
And, as I leaned there in the casement, following them with smiling eyes, a faint sound behind me made me turn, start to my feet with a cry.
All alone she stood there, pale and lovely, blue eyes fixed on mine; and, at my cry, she took a little step, and then another, flushing with shy pride.
“Carus! Sweetheart! Do you see?”
And at first she protested prettily as I caught her in my arms, lifting her in fear lest her knees give way, then smiled assent.
“Bear me, if you will,” she breathed, her white arms tightening about my neck; “carry me with all the burdens you have borne so long, my strong, tall lover! — lest I dash my foot against a stone, and fall at your feet to worship and adore! Here am I at last! Ah, what am I to say to you? The day? Truly, do you desire to wed me still? Then listen; bend your head, adored of men, and I will whisper to you what my heart and soul desire.”
THE END
Iole
CONTENTS
PREFACE
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
TO
GEORGE HORACE LORIMER
PREFACE
DOES ANYBODY REMEMBER the opera of The Inca, and that heartbreaking episode where the Court Undertaker, in a morbid desire to increase his professional skill, deliberately accomplishes the destruction of his middle-aged relatives in order to inter them for the sake of practise?
If I recollect, his dismal confession runs something like this:
“It was in a bleak November
When I slew them, I remember,
As I caught them unawares
Drinking tea in rocking-chairs.”
And so he talked them to death, the subject being “What Really is Art?” Afterward he was sorry —
“The squeak of a door,
The creak of the floor,
My horrors and fears enhance;
And I wake with a scream
As I hear in my dream
The shrieks of my maiden aunts!”
Now it is a very dreadful thing to suggest that those highly respectable pseudo-spinsters, the Sister Arts, supposedly cozily immune in their polygamous chastity (for every suitor for favor is popularly expected to be wedded to his particular art) — I repeat, it is very dreadful to suggest that these impeccable old ladies are in danger of being talked to death.
But the talkers are talking and Art Nouveau rockers are rocking, and the trousers of the prophet are patched with stained glass, and it is a day of dinkiness and of thumbs.
Let us find comfort in the ancient proverb: “Art talked to death shall rise again.” Let us also recollect that “Dinky is as dinky does”; that “All is not Shaw that Bernards”; that “Better Yeates than Clever”; that words are so inexpensive that there is no moral crime in robbing Henry to pay James.
Firmly believing all this, abjuring all atom-pickers, xiii slab furniture, and woodchuck literature — save only the immortal verse:
“And there the wooden-chuck doth tread;
While from the oak trees’ tops
The red, red squirrel on thy head
The frequent acorn drops.”
Abjuring, as I say, dinkiness in all its forms, we may still hope that those cleanly and respectable spinsters, the Sister Arts, will continue throughout the ages, rocking and drinking tea unterrified by the million-tongued clamor in the back yard and below stairs, where thumb and forefinger continue the question demanded by intellectual exhaustion: “L’arr! Kesker say l’arr?”
I
“I ain’t never knowed no one like him,” continued the station-agent reflectively. “He made us all look like monkeys, but he was good to us. Ever see a ginuine poet, sir?”
“Years ago one was pointed out to me,” replied Briggs.
“Was yours smooth shaved, with large, fat, white fingers?” inquired the station-agent.
“If I remember correctly, he was thin,” said Briggs, sitting down on his suit-case and gazing apprehensively around at the landscape. There was nothing to see but low, forbidding mountains, and forests, and a railroad track curving into a tunnel.
The station-agent shoved his hairy hands into the pockets of his overalls, jingled an unseen bunch of keys, and chewed a dry grass stem, ruminating the while in an undertone:
“This poet come here five years ago with all them kids, an’ the fust thing he done was to dress up his girls in boys’ pants. Then he went an’ built a humpy sort o’ house out of stones and boulders. Then he went to work an’ wrote pieces for the papers about jay-birds an’ woodchucks an’ goddesses. He claimed the woods was full of goddesses. That was his way, sir.”
The agent contemplated the railroad track, running his eye along the perspective of polished rails:
“Yes, sir; his name was — and is — Clarence Guilford, an’ I fust seen it signed to a piece in the Uticy Star. An’ next I knowed, folks began to stop off here inquirin’ for Mr. Guilford. ‘Is this here where Guilford, the poet, lives?’ sez they; an’ they come thicker an’ thicker in warm weather. There wasn’t no wagon to take ’em up to Guilford’s, but they didn’t care, an’ they called it a lit’r’y shrine, an’ they hit the pike, women, children, men— ‘speshil the women, an’ I heard ’em tellin’ how Guilford dressed his kids in pants an’ how Guilford was a famous new lit’r’y poet, an’ they said he was fixin’ to lecture in Uticy.”
The agent gnawed off the chewed portion of the grass stem, readjusted it, and fixed his eyes on vacancy.
“Three year this went on. Mr. Guilford was makin’ his pile, I guess. He set up a shop an’ hired art bookbinders from York. Then he set up another shop an’ hired some of us ‘round here to go an’ make them big, slabby art-chairs. All his shops was called “At the sign of” somethin’ ‘r other. Bales of vellum arrived for to bind little dinky books; art rocking-chairs was shipped out o’ here by the carload. Meanwhile Guilford he done poetry on the side an’ run a magazine; an’ hearin’ the boys was makin’ big money up in that crank community, an’ that the town was boomin’, I was plum fool enough to drop my job here an’ be a art-worker up to Rose-Cross — that’s where the shops was; ‘bout three mile back of his house into the woods.”
The agent removed his hands from his overalls and folded his arms grimly.
“Well?” inquired Briggs, looking up from his perch on the suit-case.
“Well, sir,” continued the agent, “the hull thing bust. I guess the public kinder sickened o’ them art-rockers an’ dinky books without much printin’ into them. Guilford he stuck to it noble, but the shops closed one by one. My wages wasn’t paid for three months; the boys that remained got together that autumn an’ fixed it up to quit in a bunch.
“The poet was sad; he come out to the shops an’ he says, ‘Boys,’ sez he, ‘art is long an’ life is dam brief. I ain’t got the cash, but,’ sez he, ‘you can levy onto them art-rockers an’ the dinky vellum books in stock, an’,’ sez he, ‘you can take the hand-presses an’ the tools an’ bales o’ vellum, which is very precious, an’ all the wagons an’ hosses, an’ go sell ’em in that proud world that refuses to receive my message. The woodland fellowship is rent,’ sez he, wavin’ his plump fingers at us with the rings sparklin’ on ‘em.
“Then the boys looked glum, an’ they nudged me an’ kinder shoved me front. So, bein’ elected, I sez, ‘Friend,’ sez I, ‘art is on the bum. It ain’t your fault; the boys is sad an’ sorrerful, but they ain’t never knocked you to nobody, Mr. Guilford. You was good to us; you done your damdest. You made up pieces for the magazines an’ papers an’ you advertised how we was all cranks together here at Rose-Cross, a-lovin’ Nature an’ dicky-birds, an’ wanderin’ about half nood for art’s sake.
“‘Mr. Guilford,’ sez I, ‘that gilt brick went. But it has went as far as it can travel an’ is now reposin’ into the soup. Git wise or eat hay, sir. Art is on the blink.’”
The agent jingled his keys with a melancholy wink at Briggs.
“So I come back here, an’ thankful to hold down this job. An’ five mile up the pike is that there noble poet an’ his kids a-makin’ up pieces for to sell to the papers, an’ a sorrerin’ over the cold world what refuses to buy his poems — an’ a mortgage onto his house an’ a threat to foreclose.”
“Indeed,” said Briggs dreamily, for it was his business to attend to the foreclosure of the mortgage on the poet’s house.
“Was you fixin’ to go up an’ see the place?” inquired the agent.
“Shall I be obliged to walk?”
“I guess you will if you can’t flutter,” replied the agent. “I ain’t got no wagon an’ no horse.”
“How far is it?”
“Five mile, sir.”
With a groan Mr. Briggs arose, lifted his suit-case, and, walking to the platform’s edge, cast an agitated glance up the dusty road.
Then he turned around and examined the single building in sight — station, water-tower, post-office and telegraph-office all in one, and incidentally the abode of the station-agent, whose duties included that of postmaster and operator.
“I’ll write a letter first,” said Briggs. And this is what he wrote:
Rose-Cross P.O.,
June 25, 1904.
Dear Wayne: Do you remember that tract of land, adjoining your preserve, which you attempted to buy four years ago? It was held by a crank community, and they refused to sell, and made trouble for your patrols by dumping dye-stuffs and sawdust into the Ashton Creek.
Well, the community has broken up, the shops are in ruins, and there is nobody there now except that bankrupt poet, Guilford. I bought the mortgage for you, foreseeing a slump in that sort of art, and I expect to begin foreclosure proceedings and buy in the tract, which, as you will recollect, includes some fine game cover and the Ashton stream, where you wanted to establish a hatchery. This is a God-forsaken spot. I’m on my way to the poet’s now. Shall I begin foreclosure proceedings and fire him? Wire me what to do.
Yours,
Briggs.
Wayne received this letter two days later. Preoccupied as he was in fitting out his yacht for commission, he wired briefly, “Fire poet,” and dismissed the matter from his mind.
The next day, grappling with the problem of Japanese stewards and the decadence of all sailormen, he received a telegram from Briggs:
“Can’t you manage to come up here?”
Irritated, he telegraphed back:
“Impossible. Why don’t you arrange to fire poet?” And Briggs replied: “Can’t fire poet. There are extenuating circumstances.”
“Did you say exterminating or extenuating?” wired Wayne. “I said extenuating,” replied Briggs.
Then the following telegrams were exchanged in order:
(1)
What are the extenuating circumstances?
Wayne.
(2)
Eight innocent children. Come up at once.
Briggs.
(3)
Boat in commission. Can’t go. Why don’t you fix things?
Wayne.
(4)
How?
Briggs.
(5)
(Dated New London.)
What on earth is the matter with you? Are you going to fix things and join me at Bar Harbor or are you not?
Wayne.
(6)
As I don’t know how you want me to fix things, I can not join you.
Briggs.
(7)
(Dated Portland, Maine.)
Stuyvesant Briggs, what the devil is the matter with you? It’s absolutely necessary that I have the Ashton stream for a hatchery, and you know it. What sort of a business man are you, anyhow? Of course I don’t propose to treat that poet inhumanly. Arrange to bid in the tract, run up the price against your own bidding, and let the poet have a few thousand if he is hard put. Don’t worry me any more; I’m busy with a fool crew, and you are spoiling my cruise by not joining me.
Wayne.
(8)
He won’t do it.
Briggs.
(9)
Who won’t do what?
Wayne.
(10)
Poet refuses to discuss the matter.
Briggs.
(11)
Fire that poet. You’ve spoiled my cruise with your telegrams.
Wayne.
(12)
(Marked “Collect.”)
Look here, George Wayne, don’t drive me to desperation. You ought to come up and face the situation yourself. I can’t fire a poet with eight helpless children, can I? And while I’m about it, let me inform you that every time you telegraph me it costs me five dollars for a carrier to bring the despatch over from the station; and every time I telegraph you I am obliged to walk five miles to send it and five miles back again. I’m mad all through, and my shoes are worn out, and I’m tired. Besides, I’m too busy to telegraph.
Briggs.
(13)
Do you expect me to stop my cruise and travel up to that hole on account of eight extenuating kids?
Wayne.
(14)
I do.
Briggs.
(15)
Are you mad?
Wayne.
(16)
Thoroughly. And extremely busy.
Briggs.
(17)
For the last time, Stuyve Briggs, are you going to bounce one defaulting poet and progeny, arrange to have survey and warnings posted, order timber and troughs for hatchery, engage extra patrol — or are you not?
Wayne.
(18)
No.
Briggs.
(19)
(Received a day later by Mr. Wayne.)
Are you coming?
Briggs.
(20)
I’m coming to punch your head.
Wayne.
II
hen George Wayne arrived at Rose-Cross station, seaburnt, angry, and in excellent athletic condition, Briggs locked himself in the waiting-room and attempted to calm the newcomer from the window.
“If you’re going to pitch into me, George,” he said, “I’m hanged if I come out, and you can go to Guilford’s alone.”
“Come out of there,” said Wayne dangerously.
“It isn’t because I’m afraid of you,” explained Briggs, “but it’s merely that I don’t choose to present either you or myself to a lot of pretty girls with the marks of conflict all over our eyes and noses.”
At the words “pretty girls” Wayne’s battle-set features relaxed. He motioned to the Pullman porter to deposit his luggage on the empty platform; the melancholy bell-notes of the locomotive sounded, the train moved slowly forward.
“Pretty girls?” he repeated in a softer voice. “Where are they staying? Of course, under the circumstances a personal encounter is superfluous. Where are they staying?”
“At Guilford’s. I told you so in my telegrams, didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t. You spoke only of a poet and his eight helpless children.”
“Well, those girls are the eight children,” retorted Briggs sullenly, emerging from the station.
“Do you mean to tell me — —”
“Yes, I do. They’re his children, aren’t they — even if they are girls, and pretty.” He offered a mollifying hand; Wayne took it, shook it uncertainly, and fell into step beside his friend. “Eight pretty girls,” he repeated under his breath. “What did you do, Stuyve?”
“What was I to do?” inquired Briggs, nervously worrying his short blond mustache. “When I arrived here I had made up my mind to fire the poet and arrange for the hatchery and patrol. The farther I walked through the dust of this accursed road, lugging my suit-case as you are doing now, the surer I was that I’d get rid of the poet without mercy. But — —”
“Well?” inquired Wayne, astonished.
“But when I’d trudged some five miles up the stifling road I suddenly emerged into a wonderful mountain meadow. I tell you, George, it looked fresh and sweet as Heaven after that dusty, parching tramp — a mountain meadow deep with mint and juicy green grasses, and all cut up by little rushing streams as cold as ice. There were a lot of girls in pink sunbonnets picking wild strawberries in the middle distance,” he added thoughtfully. “It was picturesque, wasn’t it? Come, now, George, wouldn’t that give you pause? — eight girls in pink pajamas — —”
“What!!!”
“And sunbonnets — a sort of dress reform of the poet’s.”
“Well?” inquired Wayne coldly.
“And there was the ‘house beautiful,’ mercifully screened by woods,” continued Briggs. “He calls it the house beautiful, you know.”
“Why not the beautiful house?” asked Wayne, still more coldly.
“Oh, he gets everything upside down. Guilford is harmless, you’ll see.” He began to whistle Fatinitza softly. There was a silence; then Wayne said:
“You interrupted your narrative.”
“Where was I?”
“In the foreground with eight pink pajamas in the middle distance.”
“Oh, yes. So there I was, travel-worn, thirsty, weary, uncertain — —”
“Cut it,” observed Wayne.
“And a stranger,” continued Briggs with dignity, “in a strange country — —”
“Peculiarity of strangers.”
Briggs took no notice. “I drank from the cool springs; I lingered to pluck a delicious berry or two, I bathed my hot face, I — —”
